At Risk (30 page)

A low groan of anguish escaped his throat. If there were remains, the boys must have discovered his little tramp. There could be nothing left of the others but fragments of bare bone. She’d been a mistake from the moment he allowed her into his car. He’d known it then, but he hadn’t followed his instincts and thrown her out along the road.

One small deviation from his game plan . . . This was bad karma, brought on by breaking his own rules.

The Game Master scrambled for the paper, spread it on the table, and read line by line.
Discovery
.
Investigation
.
Autopsy.
The words knifed through his gut with the force of steel needles driven into his flesh by a nail gun.
Information officer
. . .
Unable to determine the sex . . . Shocked . . .

Were they imbeciles? How could they hold a woman’s bones in their hands and not know they were female? Even the rotting bones and hair of a woman’s corpse smelled of female.

The Game Master was shattered. Near tears. What kind of God would permit such injustice under heaven? And if one crab pot had been found, would they dredge up others? Would they rob him of everything he had worked for? What could he do to prevent an even greater loss? Should he retrieve what remained in his scattered traps? Or would attempting to salvage his prizes put him at risk?

He felt as though he would vomit.

He had to calm himself, to think clearly. The game was what was important, not the loss of offal as insignificant as the remains of the little tramp. Nothing must prevent the professor’s harvest. She was his, and he had waited too long to finish it.

The throbbing behind his eyes had returned with even greater intensity. He lowered his head and clasped it between his hands as lights pinwheeled and a myriad of accusing voices chanted, “Stupid piss pants, stupid, stupid.”

“I’m not,” he protested.

“Bad, stupid boy!” they howled. “You pissed the bed!”

“No! I’m not stupid. I’m not a boy.” He groaned, and his voice thundered out of his chest. “I’m the Game Master! And I always win!”

Cameron Whitaker folded his newspaper and dropped it into the oversized trash container at the back of the Better Burger parking lot along with his empty soda container, chicken tenders wrapper, and fries bag. He’d noticed a pay phone at the side of the restaurant, but he didn’t want to park next to it.

His fingers were sticky with chicken sauce, but washing them would mean returning to the restroom inside. A friendly Hispanic clerk had been scrubbing the stall floors with a mop, and if he went back, the man might remember him and initiate another conversation. Cameron wished he hadn’t finished all his Diet Coke. He could have used the liquid to remove the residue. Now the soiled napkin would have to suffice.

He wondered if he should have worn gloves. But if anyone did see him using the phone, they’d wonder why someone would be wearing gloves in late May. He thought about using what was left of the napkin, but decided instead on his handkerchief.

Strolling casually to the telephone, he dropped two quarters into the slot. Covering his index finger with a corner of the cotton handkerchief, he punched in 911. On the fourth ring, a snotty-voiced woman demanded to know if he had an emergency.

“
Sí
,” he answered, covering his mouth with the wadded-up material.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Es poleese matter,” he said, trying to mimic the sing-song accent of the custodian. “Por favor. Must speek to estada poleese.”

“I’ll connect you.”

“Sergeant Andruskie. Delaware State Police. Troop Three.”

“Jack Rafferty,” Cameron said, failing in his attempt to sound Hispanic.

“Yes, Mr. Rafferty,” the sergeant said. “How can I help you?”

“No. Yo no . . . No ees me.”

“Excuse me, sir, could you speak louder?”

“Bones. Newspaper. Een craba trap. Hombre you vema . . . look. Jack Rafferty.”

“Could you give me your name and address, sir?”

“
No hablo inglés
.”

“Sir? Are you referring to the discovery of the human bones in today’s paper?”

“
Sí
. Capitano catch
pescado
. How you say? Fisherman. Hombre es Jack Rafferty. Ask heem about bones.”

“Sir? We—”

Smiling, Cameron hung up and walked away. That should fix the bitch. Given half a chance, the authorities would lock that redneck lover of hers back in Smyrna prison and throw the key away. Cameron crossed the street, lingered in the shadows for a few minutes while he watched to see if any police cars approached. When nothing out of the ordinary occurred, he returned to his car and drove back to his apartment by a roundabout route.

He wished he could be at the docks to see the surprise on Rafferty’s face when they came to arrest him. Maybe Professor Elizabeth Clarke would be with him. That would look good in the papers, too. But . . . Cameron grimaced. If he were present when the police came to question Rafferty, it might be obvious who had made the phone call, and that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.

Liz answered her door to find Jack’s mother standing there. Her eyes were red and swollen, as though she’d been crying. “They took Jack,” Nora said.

“Who took him?” Liz asked, stepping back and motioning Nora inside. Her first thought was that Sonny Shahan and the Hurd brothers had come after Jack in retaliation for the fight at Rick’s. “Have you called the police?”

“The police took him away.” Trembling, Nora folded her arms over her chest. “I was afraid this would happen. The troopers said they were taking him to Troop Three for questioning, but that’s what they said last time, and he ended up in prison.” Nora’s distraught face was pale and blotched, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. For the first time, Liz thought that Nora looked older than her age.

“What can I do?” Liz’s voice came out ragged as she put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. A dozen questions surfaced in her mind. “Why did they take Jack?”

“I’m not sure. I heard them say something about crab pots. Oh, God, Lizzy. You don’t think this has anything to do with the story in this morning’s paper?”

“What story? I didn’t get my paper this morning. I called the delivery driver, but he insisted that he’d put it in my box as usual.” Liz waved to the table. “Sit down. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

Nora sank into a chair. “You’ve been crying too, haven’t you? Is it something that Jack—”

“No, nothing to do with him. My friend Amelia—my best friend. She was killed Friday night in an accident on the Bay Bridge-Tunnel. I’ve been on the phone with another friend, Sydney. I was trying to comfort her, and . . . My mother died over the weekend and now Amelia. I can’t believe it.”

“You poor baby.” Nora rose and embraced her. “You didn’t need my trouble on top of all this.” She patted Liz’s shoulder. “They say everything comes in threes. Some people say it’s superstition, but there’s truth to it. I’ve seen it too many times.”

Liz pushed her gently away and blinked back tears. “No, it’s all right. It’s just that it doesn’t seem real. Amelia wanted me to come down to the beach house and spend time with them. I can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“First poor Tracy, then Patsy, and now your friend Amelia. It’s enough to make you shed a few tears. No need to be ashamed of being human.”

“There are mugs in that cupboard,” Liz said, pointing. She busied herself with filling the coffee maker. “Amelia’s being cremated. Her husband wants her ashes scattered at sea.”

“Lots of folks doing that,” Nora observed as she took her seat again. “Always seemed unnatural to me.”

“The service will be in Norfolk.” Liz switched on the coffee maker and returned to Nora. “I’m going, of course.” She took a deep breath. “What’s this about an article in the paper?” And how would it concern Jack? Fear constricted her throat. “Was it about drugs?”

“No,” Nora said. “Worse. Two boys out fishing or robbing other people’s crab traps found a commercial crab pot in your river. There were bones inside, human bones. Either some sick bastard is robbing graveyards or there’s been a murder.”

“In my river?” Liz shuddered. “Gross.”

Nora nodded. “There was long blond hair in the pot and . . . other parts. They say it might be a woman’s body.”

“And the police suspect Jack?” Liz’s stomach clenched. It was all coming apart. Everything. Her dreams . . . her life . . . What if Jack was the man that Michael suspected? What if she’d been sleeping with a monster who thought nothing of murder or of dealing in illegal drugs? Immediately she rejected the idea. It wasn’t possible. The Jack she knew, the man she was coming to care for more than she wanted to admit, couldn’t be a killer. Could he?

“Jack wants me to contact this man at his home. It’s an out-of-state number. He wants me to ask him to hire a criminal lawyer, a good one. Jack said that money is not a concern.”

“What?” Liz stared at the name scribbled on a receipt from a local fish wholesaler. Gregory McMann. There was a number below, and she recognized the area code as Manhattan. “He wants you to call and ask this man to find him a lawyer?”

“Yes. I told him that I could get the same attorney who represented him last time, but he said, “No. Call McMann. He’ll know what to do.”

“Did you?”

“No, I didn’t.” Nora’s eyes clouded with doubt. “I’m in way over my depth here, Lizzy. You know how I feel about talking to strangers. And lawyers?” She shrugged her shoulders. “My tongue gets tangled. I’ll make a fool of myself, say the wrong thing, let Jack down. Will you do it?”

“What is Jack involved in?” Liz felt nauseous, as she had long ago when she was seasick in a nasty storm on the bay.

“Please. He’ll be mad at me for worrying you instead of doing what he asked myself.”

“I’ll do it for you, but . . . I don’t know what to think. I can’t imagine why . . . And you say he told you that money was no object?”

Nora nodded. “That’s what he meant.”

“How? Jack doesn’t have that kind of money. A criminal defense attorney could charge him twenty thousand, forty—more if this goes to a drawn-out trial.”

“Just do what he wants. I’ve lost one son. I can’t lose another.”

“He told you about George?”

“Last night.” Tears ran down Nora’s cheeks. “Georgie should have let us know—let me see him one more time. Let Arlie see him. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

“At least this way, you know he’s safe.” Liz got up, found a box of tissues, and handed it to her.

Nora looked up. “What’s safe if a woman in Kent County can end up as crab bait? Georgie’s always been wild . . . and it looks as if Jack might be just as bad.”

“Jack wouldn’t commit murder.”

“No,” Nora agreed. “He wouldn’t kill someone without a good reason.” She blew her nose. “I’m sorry to put this on you. I could have—”

“I’ll do it.” Liz took the piece of paper and went to the phone. On the sixth ring, Liz heard a click.

“This is . . .” A deep, male voice with an upper-class British accent repeated the number Liz had just punched in. “Please leave your name, a message, and a number where you can be reached.”

“Hello, Mr. McMann. I’m a friend of Jack Rafferty’s. I’m sorry to bother you, but this is urgent. Please call me immediately, no matter the hour.” She repeated her home number and cell number and hung up. “Either he isn’t there or he’s letting an answering machine pick up,” Liz said. “If he doesn’t call back, I’ll try again later.”

“Thank you,” Nora said. “I knew you wouldn’t let us down. Your daddy was rough as a cob, but he never deserted a friend. You’re his daughter all right, a Clarke through and through.” She got to her feet. “I’d better get home and see if Jack’s called. Arlie’s in a real spin.”

“I’m sure Jack’s not involved in anything criminal,” Liz said, but she wasn’t sure at all. She was nearly as frightened as Jack’s mother. She walked out to the car with Nora, and the two hugged before the older woman slid behind the wheel. “I’ll let you know if I hear from Mr. McMann,” Liz assured her.

“You do that,” Nora said. “I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. You call me. Hear?”

“I will,” Liz promised.

The phone was ringing when she walked back into the kitchen. She checked the caller ID, but the screen read:
Unknown
. Liz answered.

“Moms? It’s me. Have you heard anything from Dad?” Katie sounded young.

“Hi, honey. How are you?”

“I’m okay. It’s Dad I’m worried about. Has he called you?”

Liz stretched the receiver cord and sat back down at the kitchen table. “No, he hasn’t.”

“I’m coming home.”

Fear made Liz’s voice sharp. “No. You are absolutely not coming home.” She made a mental note to cancel Katie’s credit card immediately. “You haven’t bought a ticket, have you?”

“No. Why can’t I come home? What if something bad happens to him? What if—”

“You wanted to stay. I’ve paid the tuition for your summer session. You can’t change your mind now.”

“That’s not fair. It’s because of Dad, isn’t it? You hate him and—”

“I don’t hate him, honey.” Liz took a sip of the cooling coffee. “I’ll come to see you in August. Maybe we’ll take that trip to Paris you’ve been wanting.”

“What about Dad? You’re treating me like a child. You don’t tell me anything, and you expect me to—”

“If I didn’t tell you, it’s because I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

“Has something terrible happened to Dad? Is he in the hospital?” It sounded to Liz as though her daughter might burst into tears.

“No, nothing like that. He’s run out on Danielle and the kids.”

“You don’t know that. Something might have—”

“Katie, I’m telling you the absolute truth. Your father took a lot of money and left the country. Michael traced him to Miami and then to the Dominican Republic. I doubt if he’s coming back.” There was absolute silence on the other end of the line. “Katie? Are you there?”

“I suppose that makes you happy, doesn’t it?”

Liz’s palm itched to slap the teenage superiority out of her. “No,” she replied as calmly as possible. “No, it doesn’t make me happy. Your father’s been gambling again. He maxed out all of Danielle’s credit cards before he got on a plane. I’m sorry, honey. I really am. But I couldn’t—”