Blood Trust (5 page)

“Because,” Jack said, “you seem to have orchestrated this entire scene.”

Carson appeared unperturbed.

Jack hurried to Carson’s Navigator and they climbed into the backseat. Carson’s driver turned the SUV around and drove away from the hospital.

Jack turned to Carson. “Now what the hell was that all about?”

Carson held up a finger. “Excuse me.” He punched in a number on his PDA. After a moment, he said, “Harrison, it’s Henry.… Yes, damnit, I’m well aware of the time. Get dressed and haul your ass over to Fearington Academy.… Nothing, I hope, but on the other hand my niece seems to be in trouble.… What sort? I’ve no damn idea.”

After he closed the connection, he sat brooding and silent.

Jack said, “Who are you bringing on board?”

“My lawyer, Harrison Jenkins.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I hope not, but the world doesn’t run on hope.”

They drove on in a fulminating silence. Sitting next to Henry Holt Carson was akin to living near a blast furnace going full bore.

“You never answered my question about orchestrating that scene back there with Dennis.”

“Persistent little fucker, aren’t you?”

“That’s no answer.”

“I’ve been around politicians all my life.” Carson stared straight ahead, his arms folded across his chest. “Say, I don’t have to be worried, do I?”

“About what?”

“You being able to read the street signs, that’s what.” He glanced in Jack’s direction, though not directly at him. “Dyslexia’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“Especially,” Jack said, “if you know nothing about it.”

Carson laughed with his teeth bared. “You’re a fuckup, Jack. I’ll never forgive you for my brother’s death.”

“That’s your choice,” Jack said. “But in the same way you’re ignorant about dyslexia, you know nothing about Edward’s death or the circumstances leading up to it.”

“I’m uninterested in your litany of excuses, McClure.”

“We’re like oil and water,” Jack said, “destined never to inhabit the same space.”

Carson grunted. “What the hell my brother saw in you is beyond me, McClure. And the fact he allowed you unlimited access to Alli was a grave mistake.”

“Alli is an adult. She can make her own decisions.”

“She’s a psychological train wreck and you know it. Kidnapped, brainwashed, traumatized further by her father’s sudden death and her mother lingering on in a vegetative state.” He shook his head. “No, what she needs is the firm guidance of an adult who cares about her.”

“She has me.”

“And how’s that going?”

They had drawn up to the front gates of Fearington Academy, which was ablaze with the blinding dazzle of cop cars and unmarked vehicles. After showing their credentials to three different police in ascending order of rank, they were directed and waved through. The car crunched the gravel as Jack headed toward the obstacle course to the left of the main building.

Henry Holt Carson leaned over slightly. “My brother allowed you too much control over Alli, McClure. That’s a mistake I aim to correct tonight.”

T
HREE

“W
ELL
,
HERE
’
S
something you don’t see every day.”

The ME, a tall, rangy man in his midfifties with skin like a lizard and eyes like burnt-out pits, was crouched just to the right of Billy Warren’s corpse. His name was Bit Saunderson; he viewed corpses the way a philatelist views stamps. His forensic people had snapped photos from every conceivable angle, taken shoe prints from the crime scene area, and had departed as silently as clouds drift across the sky.

“Look here.”

He was speaking to Willowicz, but no one stopped Alli from having a look herself. Saunderson’s knees creaked like masts at sea as he moved to give them a view of the side of the corpse’s neck.

“Yeah, we noticed,” Willowicz said, “but what the fuck is it?”

“It’s a bit of a plastic straw. See, it’s pink-and-white striped.” Saunderson touched the protruding end with the tip of his gloved finger. “Neatly punctured the carotid, too. This is how your victim exsanguinated.”

Willowicz scratched his razor-burned jaw. “That speaks to a working knowledge of the human body.”

“Anatomy is a first-semester class at Fearington.” Commander Fellows had begun to look green around the gills.

“Aced her courses, she said,” O’Banion growled as he took up position directly behind Alli.

Naomi Wilde frowned as she bent over for a look. “But why a straw, of all things?”

O’Banion was virtually breathing fumes from his sour stomach down Alli’s neck. “Why don’t you ask her?”

Saunderson turned his half-dead face up to Wilde. “Like sucking an ice-cream soda, you can control the volume of flow.”

A deep and horrific silence ensued, which ended abruptly with O’Banion’s bray. “Doc, please, you’re telling us that Ms. Carson might be a vampire?”

“You’ve been seeing too many horror films, O’Banion.” The ME shook his head. “No, this is something far worse. Your perp is a deeply disturbed individual—a psychopath, though there’s nothing textbook about him. He—”

“Or she.” O’Banion stared at the back of Alli’s head with newfound venom.

Saunderson took a breath. “Your killer is both a sadist and, I would venture to guess, insane, or at least has become unhinged.”

“Traumatized,” Willowicz said. He, too, was watching Alli as if she were already in a cage. “As from a terrible ordeal.”

Saunderson, clueless as to his true meaning, nodded. “Something in the past, yes, that’s a distinct probability with psychosis.” He tapped the straw. “Who else would think of varying the flow of blood in order to prolong a victim’s agony?”

*   *   *

H
ARRISON
J
ENKINS
, Carson’s attorney, drove up minutes after Jack had exited the car. Carson was walking back and forth over the frosty ground like a caged animal impatient to be fed. Jenkins was one of those sleek men you see giving sound bites on CNN or Fox News. His gray hair was thick, and long enough to cover the tops of his ears, his cheeks were a healthy pink, and, Jack noted, he had perfectly manicured nails that shone like ten tiny mirrors. He gave the impression of being tall, but up close he was less than median height, maybe five six. He was carrying a battered leather briefcase. His expensive overcoat was open, revealing a steel-gray suit, white shirt, and a striped red tie. There was an enamel pin of the American flag on the lapel of his overcoat. All he needed, Jack thought, was a bald eagle perched on his shoulder. He walked like a lawyer should, as if he owned the ground over which he strode. Jack supposed he should be grateful for Jenkins’s appearance, but something about the man chilled him.

Carson whirled around when he saw his attorney approach.

“Anything more you can tell me?” Jenkins asked as he pumped Carson’s hand.

Carson shook his head. When he introduced Jack, a small, secret smile played briefly across Jenkins’s face. Then he asked Jack to brief him on Alli’s recent history.

When he had finished, the attorney said, “In your opinion, as of today, is she of sound mind?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said.

“I strongly disagree,” Carson responded.

Jenkins blew air through his nostrils like a racehorse at the starting gate. Then, putting his PDA to his ear, he walked several paces away from them and spoke into it for several moments. When he returned, he said, “Right, let’s get this show on the road.”

Following the directions they’d been given, they skirted the obstacle course, where shapes reared up out of the gloom of a false dawn like pieces of a wrecked ship, then they descended a shallow embankment via a set of narrow stairs, and almost immediately turned left, threading their way through a copse of old trees that smelled of leaf mold and loam. Up ahead was a fierce pool of light, as concentrated as a key spot illuminating an actor on stage. In this case, however, the actor wasn’t moving.

Jack felt as if he were in an elevator whose cable had been cut.

“Jesus Christ,” Carson muttered, “what the hell is this?”

Then Jack saw Alli walking toward them out of the blinding light. She was between two suits who looked to him like Metro police detectives. Behind them came Naomi, McKinsey, and Commander Fellows, but Jack’s attention was riveted on Alli. She was in handcuffs. He began to make a move, but Jenkins, anticipating him, grabbed his arm to restrain him.

“In these matters I’ve found that methodology is better than instinct,” he said softly, so only Jack could hear.

“For God’s sake, she’s been arrested.”

“Mr. McClure, let me handle it.”

Jack, after a moment’s thought, allowed Jenkins, whatever his reaction to the horror of the crime scene, to take point. The lawyer strode toward the semicircle of people, with Jack and Carson flanking him, as if they were a raiding party. The moment she spied Jack, Alli’s eyes lit up, but despite how well she seemed to be holding up Jack could tell that she was badly shaken.

“Do you think that’s a wise move, Detective O’Banion?” Jenkins said.

O’Banion looked blankly at Jenkins. “Who the hell’re you and how d’you know my name?”

“I’m Ms. Carson’s attorney, Harrison Jenkins.”

O’Banion sneered. “An ambulance chaser.”

“Watch yourself, Officer,” Jenkins said.

“I’m a detective.”

“Then act like one.”

When O’Banion continued to glower at him, Willowicz stepped up. “Alli Carson is under arrest for the murder of William Penn Warren.”

“I assume, Detective Willowicz, that you’re referring to the victim strung up behind you,” the lawyer said as he picked his way among the trees.

“D’you know what’s in my service jacket, as well?” Willowicz said in a mild tone of voice.

Jenkins nodded. “Everything I need to know. Wounded twice in the line of duty, a medal of honor.”

All this from the one phone call Jenkins had made. Jack was impressed, despite himself. He despised lawyers almost as much as O’Banion, because they had a knack of knitting a skein of gray areas and half-truths into a story a jury could believe in.

“Jack, this is a crazy mistake,” Alli said. “Please listen to me.” She recounted what had happened and how she had come to be a suspect in William Penn Warren’s torture and murder.

“All of this is circumstantial,” Jenkins said, unperturbed.

Willowicz nodded. “True enough.” He held up a plastic evidence bag. “On the other hand, our forensic team found a vial with traces of Rohypnol under Ms. Carson’s bed and this bloody knife in a trash bin behind her dorm room.”

“Please hand them over, and whatever other evidence you have,” Jenkins said.

“What?” O’Banion stood with his feet planted in a clearly combative stance. “Back off, windbag, this is our jurisdiction.”

The small, secret smile Jack had noticed earlier had returned to Jenkins’s face. “Tell me, Detectives, just how did you wind up at the scene of the crime?”

“We caught Commander Fellows’s call,” Willowicz said.

“So, what you’re telling me is that the commander invited you here to Fearington.”

“That’s right,” O’Banion said.

Jack could already see the changed situation dawning on Willowicz’s face.

“Fearington is federal property,” Jenkins said.

“What?” both detectives said at once.

“The federal government bought this parcel three years ago.”

Jack knew a cue when he heard it. Stepping forward, he presented his ID. “Jack McClure, Department of Homeland Security. You have no jurisdiction here. I’ll be taking over this case, Detectives.”

“Oh, you’ve fucking got to be kidding,” O’Banion said.

Willowicz said nothing because he knew which way the wind was blowing. He handed over the bags with the vial and the bloody knife.

“What’s this?” The ME appeared out of the trees. “Those are my evidence bags.”

Jack showed his ID. “Not anymore.”

“How is this homicide a matter of national security?” Saunderson looked put out.

“That’s a matter of national security,” Jack said.

“But the body—”

“I’ll take care of the body.”

The ME looked alarmed. “This is highly irregular.”

Ignoring him, Jack turned to Alli. “Uncuff her,” he said.

O’Banion took out the manacle key. “We won’t be forgetting this.”

Keeping his eyes on Alli, Jack beckoned to her the instant she was free. But before she could get to him, Jenkins intervened and, taking her by the elbow, steered her away from Jack, toward her uncle.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jack said.

“Taking my niece to a place of safety,” Carson said.

“You have no—”

“Leave it this way, Mr. McClure,” Jenkins said in a low voice. “If you take Ms. Carson into custody it will look bad for her when I go before a federal judge tomorrow.”