Charade (4 page)

She was his now. No question. If she'd had any feelings left for the vanquished Cyclops, she would have chosen to stay behind. Instead, she was his prize. As the victor, he'd earned the right to claim her. As soon as they had put a few more miles between them and Cyc-- "Shit. He's coming after us, Sparky." A split second before she spoke, he had noticed the headlight piercing the darkness behind them, glowing like the single eye of a monster, a simile he thought particularly appropriate but disturbing. The headlight grew larger in his rearview mirror as Cyc gained on them at an alarming speed. Already taking the steep curves at a dangerous pace, Sparky accelerated to maintain a relatively safe distance ahead. Knowing that Cyc was maddened by vodka and fury, he reconciled himself to the death-defying chase down the hairpin curves into town, where, he hoped, he could lose him. It was an unrelenting challenge to keep his bike under control. He shouted for Kismet to hang on tightly and took a curve at a terrifying angle, laying the bike nearly on its side. Once they'd straightened out, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw that the curve hadn't slowed Cyc down. "Hurry!" she shouted. "He's getting closer. If he catches us, he'll kill us." He pushed the bike to go even faster. The landscape was a blur. He dared not think about oncoming traffic. There'd been none so far, but-- "Look out!" Cyc had pulled almost even with them. Sparky whipped his bike into the opposing lane ahead of Cyc so that they could maintain their lead. If he let Cyc get even with them or ahead of them, they were as good as dead. The road wasn't as steep now, but it still ribboned its way around the foothills. Not much farther to go. They'd lose the maniacal bastard once they reached town. He was mentally laying out his strategy when he took another curve. When they came out of it, it was like being hurled into another landscape. Suddenly the foothills were gone. Open road

stretched out before them like a silver ribbon pulled taut, leading straight to the center of town. If fate had favored them, it would have been a welcome sight. Instead, Kismet screamed. He cursed. They were barreling headlong into an intersection. A cattle truck pulled directly into their path. They were going too fast to turn. Cyc was riding their exhaust pipe. The cattle truck lacked the speed to clear the intersection before they reached it. There was no time to think.

A half-hour later, a fresh-faced resident raced down the hospital corridor to the emergency room waiting area, where a motley group of bikers awaited word on the condition of their friends. Even the roughest among them blanched when they saw the amount of blood staining the doctor's scrubs. Breathlessly, he said, "I'm sorry. We did everything we could. Now we need to speak with next of kin--about organ donation. And quick."

Chapter Five

May 1991

Hey, Pierce. This is a public building. As such, it deserves some respect. Get your goddamn foot off the wall." That voice could have awakened the dead. It certainly snapped Alex Pierce to attention. His gaunt face broke into a smile as the bailiff approached him. Contrite and obedient, he slid the sole of his cowboy boot off the wall. "Hey, Linda." "That's all you've got to say? 'Hey, Linda.' After all we've meant to each other?" She planted her meaty fists on her wide hips and glared at him, then dropped the pose and walloped him affectionately on the shoulder. "How's it going, handsome?" "Can't complain. How're things with you?" "Same as always." She frowned toward the crowded jury room where hundreds of prospective jurors hoped desperately to be excused from fulfilling their civic obligation. "Nothing 'round here changes except the faces. Always the same lame excuses, the bitching and moaning and bellyaching about being called to jury duty."

Her gaze swung back to him. "Where've you been keeping yourself these days? Heard you'd left Houston." Before the preceding Fourth of July, he'd frequently been in the Harris County courthouse to testify as a witness in court trials involving criminals he'd helped to apprehend. "I still get my mail here," he replied indifferently. "Been traveling, mostly. Went to Mexico and did some fishing." "Catch anything?" "Nothing to tell about." "Not the clap, I hope." He smiled wryly. "These days you'd better hope the clap is all you catch." "Ain't it the truth?" The husky bailiff sadly shook her helmet of burgundy hair. "I read in yesterday's newspaper that my deodorant's poking holes in the ozone. My tampons can give me toxic shock. Everything I eat is either clogging my arteries or giving me colon cancer. Now they've even taken the fun out of screwing around." Alex laughed, taking no offense at her vulgarity. They'd known each other since he was a rookie cop on the Houston police force, riding shotgun in a squad car. Linda was a courthouse institution, known to everyone. She could be counted on to know the latest gossip and to tell the dirtiest joke circulating at any given time. Her profane gruffness was a cover for a tender spot that she revealed only to a privileged few. Alex was among them. She gazed at him meaningfully. "So, how are you really, sweetheart?" "Really, I'm fine." "Miss the job?" "Hell no." "I know you don't miss the politics and the bullshit. What about the action?" "These days I let my characters dodge bullets." "Characters?" "Yeah," he said with embarrassment. "I've been doing some writ ing." "No shit?" She seemed impressed. "Going to write a tell-all book about the inner workings of a big city police department?"

"Fiction, actually. But based on my experiences." "Having any luck?" "Publishing you mean?" He shook his head. "That's a long way off. If ever." "You'll make it." "I don't know. My career track record's not so good." "I have every confidence in you." Then she asked, "You seeing anybody?" "You mean a woman?" "Unless you've switched gears," she said dryly. "Of course a woman." "No, I haven't switched gears, and no, I'm not seeing anybody. Nobody special." She gave him a critical once-over. "Maybe you should. Your wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired. It could stand a woman's touch." "What's wrong with my clothes?" He glanced down and could find no fault with the manner in which he was dressed. "To begin with, that shirt hasn't seen the hot side of an iron." "It's clean. So are my jeans." "Looks to me like when you left the force, you got lazy and sloppy." "That's what comes with being my own boss. I dress for comfort, and if I don't feel like shaving, I don't." "You're scrawny as a scarecrow," she observed. "I'm trim." Skeptical, she raised her eyebrows. "Okay. One of those Mexican bugs got hold of me while I was down there. Puked till there was no tomorrow. Haven't regained my weight yet." Her baleful stare said she wasn't buying it. "Look, I'm fine," he insisted. "Sometimes I forget to eat, that's all. I start writing at dusk, and it's dawn before I realize I didn't have supper. Opting for sleep over food is a hazard of my new profession." "So's alcoholism, I hear." Alex quickly averted his head and said testily, "I've got it under control." "That's not what I hear. Maybe you ought to back off some." "Yes, Mother."

"Look, asshole, I think of myself as your friend. And you ain't got all that many to brag about." She sounded both annoyed and concerned. "Honey, I hear you're having blackouts." The goddamn courthouse grapevine. He wasn't even one of the players anymore, yet his name still caused juicy gossip. "Not in a while," he lied. "I only mentioned your love affair with Johnny Walker because I'm worried about you." "Then you're the only one around here who is." Hearing what sounded like self-pity in his voice, he let down his guard a notch and softened his expression. "I appreciate your concern, Linda. I know I went a little crazy after all that shit came down, but I'm okay now. Honest. Squelch any rumors you hear to the contrary." The bailiff regarded him skeptically but let the subject drop. "So what brings you here today?" "Just trying to scare up an idea for a book. The upcoming Reyes trial might have possibilities." The bailiff's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Any particular reason why you picked the Reyes trial when you've got all these others to choose from?" Alex had been closely following the intriguing case for several months. "It's got all the ingredients for a titillating novel," he said. "Illicit sex. Religious overtones. Lovers caught in the act by an enraged husband. A baseball bat for a weapon--much more dramatic than a bullet from a Saturday night special. Blood and brains on the wallpaper. A body on its way to the morgue." "A body not quite dead." "Brain dead," he argued. "That's a medical call, not a legal one," she reminded him. "Reyes's lawyer contends that he didn't actually kill the victim because the heart was being kept alive for harvesting." "Harvesting," Linda said scornfully. "Leave it to the doctors to make it sound more like a goddamn cotton crop than a human heart." Alex nodded. "Anyway, a whole legal can of worms has been opened up. If the stiff wasn't really a stiff when they harvested the heart, is Reyes really guilty of murder?" "Fortunately you or I don't have to decide," Alex said. "It'll be up to the jury."

"If you were on the jury, which way would you go?" "I don't know because I haven't heard all the evidence yet. But I intend to. Do you know which courtroom has been assigned?" "Yeah, I know." She grinned, revealing extensive gold bridgework. "What's it worth to you?" Any courthouse employee could have given him the number of the courtroom, but he played her game. "A few beers at quitting time?" She smiled. "I was thinking more along the lines of dinner at my place. And then . . . Who knows what?" "Yeah?" "Steak, potatoes, and sex. Not necessarily in that order. Admit it, Alex my boy. That's the best offer you've had today." He laughed, not taking her invitation seriously and knowing that she hadn't intended him to. "Sorry, Linda. Can't tonight. Previous plans." "I'm no beauty queen, but don't let my looks deceive you. I know my way around the male anatomy. I could bring tears of gratitude to your eyes. Swear. You don't know what you're missing." "I'm certain that's true," he said solemnly. "You've got enormous sex appeal, Linda. I've always thought so." Her smile widened. "That's pure bullshit, but you were always good at slinging it. Sometimes you even make me believe it. That's why I think you'll succeed as a writer. You've got a real knack for making people believe anything you tell them." She nudged his arm. "Come on, handsome. I'll escort you to the courtroom. They'll start jury selection soon. Try not to make a nuisance of yourself, okay? If you get drunk and disorderly and they kick you out, I won't take responsibility for you." "I promise to be on my best behavior." He drew an imaginary X over his heart. The bailiff snorted. "Just like I said, pure bullshit."

The murder trial of Paul Reyes had generated much public awareness and curiosity. Alex had to arrive at court earlier each day to get a seat. Reyes's family and friends took up much of the available seating. The prosecutor heavily relied on the testimonies of the first police

men on the scene, which was described in lurid detail. When the jury members were shown the 8x10 glossy photos, they shivered. Defense counsel had organized a phalanx of co-workers and friends, including a priest who testified to Reyes's good character. Only his beloved wife's adultery could have driven him to commit such a violent act. The jury heard the testimonies of paramedics, called to the scene by Reyes himself. The victim had a pulse when they arrived, they said. The emergency room doctor determined that there was no brain activity but kept the heart and lungs alive with machinery until permission could be obtained to harvest organs and tissue. The surgeon who performed the retrieval procedure testified that the heart was still beating when he extracted it. This testimony caused a furor in the courtroom. The judge rapped his gavel. The assistant D. A. tried, but failed, to look unconcerned. In Alex's opinion he should have gone for a manslaughter charge instead of murder. Murder implied premeditation, which in this case couldn't be proved. Most damaging to Reyes's case was that the survivor of the attack was unavailable to testify. Despite these setbacks, the D.A. delivered a brilliant summation speech, urging the jury to bring in a guilty verdict. Whether or not the victim died at the moment of impact, Paul Reyes was responsible for another human being's death and should therefore be found guilty. The defense attorney had only to remind the members of the jury, again and again, that Paul Reyes was in jail when the victim had actually died. The case was turned over to the jury after three days of testimony. Four hours and eighteen minutes later it was announced that the jury had reached a verdict, and Alex was one of the first to return to the courtroom. He tried to gauge the jurors' moods as they filed in, but it was impossible to guess their decision by their blank expressions. The courtroom fell silent as the accused was commissioned to stand. Not guilty. Reyes's knees buckled, but he was bolstered by his jubilant attor ney. Relatives and friends surged forward to embrace him. The judge thanked the jury and dismissed them. Reporters were eager to get statements, but Reyes's attorney ignored them and ushered him up the center aisle toward the exit. When Reyes reached the end of Alex's row, he must have sensed Alex's stare. He stopped suddenly, turned his head, and, for a split second, their eyes connected.

Chapter Six

May 1991 Eat. Sleep. Breathe. These life-sustaining functions were now done by rote. Why bother? Life no longer had purpose. There was no solace to be found--not in religion, meditation, work, exhausting physical exercise, or raging fits. All had been tried as a means of easing the wrenching pain of loss. Yet, it prevailed. Peace was unattainable. Each breath was laden with sorrow. The world had been reduced to a tiny sphere of abject misery. Very little stimuli penetrated the encapsulating grief. To one so steeped in bereavement, the world seemed monochromatic, soundless, flavorless. The grief was so severe, it was paralyzing. The untimely death had been unjust and infuriating. Why had this happened to them? No two people had ever loved as deeply. Their love had been rare and pure and should have endured for years, then extended beyond death. They'd talked about it, pledged everlasting love to each other. Now, the immortality of their love was impossible because the cache where it was stored had been extracted and given to someone else.

Ghastly, that postmortem vandalism. First robbed of life, then robbed of the core of existence, robbed of the chamber where that sweet spirit had dwelled. Now somewhere, inside a stranger, that beloved heart was still beating. Moans echoed softly in the small room. "I can't bear it another day. I can't." Although the loved one lay dead in a cemetery plot, the heart lived on. The heart lived on. That was a haunting preoccupation, tenacious in its grip, shackling and inescapable. The surgeon's scalpel had been swift and sure. Painful as it was to accept, what had been done was irreversible. The heart continued to live while the spirit was unfairly doomed to eternal incompleteness. The soul would search endlessly and in vain for its home, while the still-beating heart continued to mock the sanctity of death. Unless . . . There was a way! Suddenly the keening ceased. Breathing became agitated and choppy with excitement. The mourner listened to the rioting, fleeting, galvanizing thoughts suddenly unfurling. The idea came alive, took shape, divided, expanded, rapidly, like an ovum just fertilized. Once born, it frolicked inside a brain that for months had been stagnant with despair. There was a way to achieve release from this unbearable torment. Only one way. One solution that swiftly evolved from that single cell of an idea and suddenly was fully formed. It was converted into words that were whispered precisely, with the reverence of a disciple to whom a divine mission has been revealed. "Yes. Of course, of course. I'll find that dearest of hearts. And when I do, mercifully and with love, to reunite our spirits and give us peace, I'll stop it."