Cold Dead Past (12 page)

             
                                          CHAPTER 22

The ride back to the station in Neame’s car was a long one.  Several times he made like he was about to say something, only to screw his lips up in a sort of a pout. Gary had seen it before when his boss was trying to think out a problem that was just a little bit beyond his grasp.

Finally, Neame said, "And you didn’t find anything in the son of a bitch’s house?"

Gary replied, "We looked everywhere. If he’s hiding something, he’s found a damn good spot."

"Well, we’re going to need more than just that patch from a pair of coveralls.  We’re going to need those bite marks."

Gary ground the palms of his hands into his eyes and yawned.  As much as he hated to admit it, the boss was right.  Any half-way decent lawyer, even one from the public defender’s office, could make a good case that the coveralls had been stolen or even donated to the Salvation Army. That made it plausible that someone else had committed the crimes.

People on a jury in this town would much prefer to believe something like that than that one of their own, who had lived in the community his entire life, would be capable of the types of things that would come out once all the evidence was presented in a public courtroom.  On top of that, anyone who knew Gene would automatically discount the idea that he was even smart enough to pull something like this off.  They would have to find other evidence linking him to the scenes.

"What’s he say about the patch?" asked Gary.

Neame braked the cruiser as they came to a crest in the road. 

"Nothing.  He just yammers about his rights and how we can’t arrest him ‘cause he didn’t do anything.  I’m gonna grill him myself in the morning.  You sure that you don’t wanna get some sleep?"

"Later.  A couple of the crime lab boys from the state police were supposed to go over the girl’s car today. I want to be there when they get finished."

"I think I should tell you," said Neame, nervously, "there’s been more press show up in town."

When the cruiser pulled up in front of the station, Gary could see that Neame was a master of understatement.  What was once an infestation of news agencies was now a plague of what, in Haddonfield, amounted to biblical proportions.

No longer was it just a few local stations from Albany and some reporters from regional newspaper and radio. There were also vans with call letters from as far away as New York and Buffalo with their satellite uplinks primed and raring to go.  A small group of reporters was scuttling along, pacing the sidewalk, hands-free sets dangling from their lapels like some sort of trailing antennae.

If the local reporters were like cockroaches Neame could stamp out with his size 12EEE’s, then the ones from New York and the networks were like mantises, ready to bite his head off.

He wasn’t anywhere near equipped to deal with them.  He showed it in the quaver in his voice as he asked, "Listen, I was thinkin’… You’ve been handling this case, mostly.  You think you can ride herd on the media situation?"

The old bastard wanted to put Gary on the hotseat.  If he worked it right, he could take the credit when Gene was convicted.  If the case blew up in their faces, then Gary would take the blame and the sheriff wouldn’t suffer too much political damage.  Slick.  Clean.

Gary saw Troy Dexter talking to a reporter from a television station in front of the shop next door.

"Someone’s got a big mouth.  I’m going to fix that right away."

They cruised on down the block, slowly, and pulled around to the lot at the back of the building.

As Neame shut off the ignition, he turned to Gary, the pale yellow whites of his eyes moist and gooey. "You know I’ll take care of you, right?  Haven’t I always?"

"Sure, boss.  But I’m gonna want a lot more than a plaque to put on my wall this time.  I want some of those changes we talked about six months ago.  You know, the ones you said were a good idea but never seemed to make it past the council?"

Neame’s mouth screwed up into an angry, fuzzy pucker and his eyes closed to slits, crinkly at the corners. "Sure, boy, anything you say.  But you’re gonna have to learn what it takes to get what you want.  You think I’m some dumb shit hack who doesn’t deserve to be the sheriff.  Well, you’re gonna find out what it takes and you’re gonna see it all in a different light, my son."

As Gary opened the door and stepped out of the car, a wide grin came to his face.  Years of making himself indispensible were about to pay off. The first thing Gary did in his new position as press liaison was head to the front of the station and key in the mike on the communications console.

Outside, Troy and Roy were still standing out on the sidewalk in front of the station, hoping more reporters wanted their expert opinions on the case.  Gary’s voice came over their radios.

"Units R-5 and R-6, 10-22 inside the station.  Immediately!"

It took them a minute to work through the ten codes in their head before they reached the one in question.  It all sounded so official, but all 10-22 was telling them, basically, was to get their asses inside in a hurry. As soon as they were in the door, Gary nodded to the sheriff, whose face flushed a deep crimson.

"Okay, you stupid shit sticks!  Who told you to talk to any reporters?"

Their mouths moved, but no sounds came out.

"You know, you wanna be deputies so bad.  I think you should really be working your way up.  Learnin’ the operation from the bottom.  Mebbe this case is a bit too much for you and you need a little more basic police experience."

He pointed toward the cellblock at the rear of the station. "I want you boys to police the prisoner holding area.  There’s a cabinet back there.  I want you to get into it.  You’re gonna find yourself some toothbrushes.  Now down in the bottom, you’re gonna find some Lysol.  Now I want you to take that stuff.  I want you to get down on your hands and knees.  I want you to put a little Lysol on your brushes and I want you to scrub the insides of those sinks and toilets.  And I want them spotless.  Savvy?"

The Dexters visibly slumped.  It was as if someone had taken a fork to a balloon at a picnic.  As they shuffled off, Neame turned to Gary. "Okay. You’re on, son."

Neame hiked up his gunbelt to just under his gut and braced himself for a confrontation with the media.  Gary just pursed his lips and let the sheriff waddle out the door onto the front steps ahead of him.

The reporters noticed them almost immediately. They were bathed in the unnatural burn of a dozen television lights.  One of the television reporters shoved her way to the front and waved her microphone as if it were an oversized, threatening phallus.

"Sheriff Neame," she yelled, "Is there any truth to the reports that you have captured a suspect?"

Almost as soon as she could blurt out her question, she was shoved aside by a burly man with a hand-held tape recorder.  His stained parka bore a crinkled press pass that looked like it had been run through the wash. It identified him as a reporter for the local paper.

"Sheriff!  Parker with the Sentinel.  Is it true that there is some sort of cult of cannibals loose in town?"

Neame was taken aback by this question and Gary knew what his response would be almost before he did.

"What kinda bullshit question is that?"

Gary’s hand whipped out and pulled Neame back by his belt.  He whispered in a commanding voice, "Shut the fuck up!"

The sheriff’s jaws clamped tight as Gary stepped in-between him and the reporters. Gary's answer was directed at the newspaper reporter. "Now, any speculation like that is just irresponsible and could only serve to frighten people.  If none of you have any questions that are more intelligent than that, this news conference is over."

He pushed Neame ahead of him through the door and once they were safely inside, he turned to him and said, "You can’t talk to them like that.  Just let me handle it from now on and keep your big mouth shut."

Neame wasn’t used to being ordered around and snarled, "Well, what the fuck kinda question was that?"

"Listen, why don’t you head on home?  I’ll catch a quick nap in the conference room."

"Let me know as soon as the state boys have their report ready.  I want something to use when I interrogate that bastard."

Gary knew he wouldn’t have to worry about any trouble from Neame. Not as long as the sheriff’s mind was working on ways to take out the near-disaster he’d just had on Gene.

"Sure thing, boss," he said with a smile.

             
                                          CHAPTER 23

Jay's sleep wasn’t peaceful. It was filled with nightmares that alternated between dark, surrealistic images of that day on the ice when Frank had drowned and bloody dioramas of platoons of the marching dead, their chests bloody and raw, their hands reaching out for him as if they were claws. They were accusing him, their faces were like the points of color in an impressionist painting; distinct up close, but if he stood back for just a moment they all blended together into just one face, Frank's.

Jay welcomed it when, at 6 a.m., he was awakened by an urgent call from Abe. He was still groggy and covered in a cold sweat, so for a moment, he couldn't make out what the old man was saying. Abe's words poured out over him in a torrential spray.

Jay ran his fingers through his hair and pulled the comforter around him. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute," he interrupted, holding the handset of the phone away from his ear. Abe's voice, loud and at an excited high pitch compared to his earlier low, soothing tones ran right over him. After another minute of this he yelled, "Stop! Alright? Slow down. I just woke up, dammit!"

There wasn't an immediate silence, as Abe's voice wound down like a train coming into a station. Then, once Jay was sure he had stopped for more than to just take a quick breath, he put the handset back to his ear and said, in a measured tone, "Okay. Slowly. What the hell are you talking about?"

Abe began speaking, calmer now. He had worked late into the night and on into the morning. He had been listening to the morning news when the announcement came on about Gene having been arrested.

"So you see," he said, breathlessly. "We may not have to go on that hunt we were worried about. If the cops have gone over the house, they may have the thing we're looking for."

"And this helps us how? They aren't just going to let us walk in there and borrow it."

"All that matters is that we get our hands on it for long enough to get an idea of what it's about. I need to see something that will at least let me get a handle on its origins." He paused and took a deep breath. "I've been sitting here going through everything I have in the shop and there's nothing exactly like what we have here. There's all sorts of ghoulish behavior and sacrifice, but this Frank, it seems as if he's some sort of conglomeration."

"So what is it exactly that you want to do? Walk right into the station and ask to see what they found in Gene's place?"

"Yes. Well, you would, you see?"

Jay shook his head in disbelief. Abe was either disingenuous or had balls the size of avocados. Then Abe continued, "And you see some sort of problem with that?"

Before Jay could answer his question, Abe steamrollered him.

"Anyway, be ready. I've called Meg and she's graciously consented to give us a ride. Be out front waiting for us."

Abe hung up before there was a chance to protest. Jay thought to himself that it probably wouldn't have mattered if he had argued against the expedition, anyway. 

An hour later, Jay stood waiting under the Inn’s porte cochere.  The light from the rising sun was just a pink and white strip bouncing off the underside of the clouds in the distance. The bitter cold caused his lungs to ache if he breathed too deeply and vapor hung round his head like a big cotton pad.

He had forgotten that this far north, it was practically a requirement that you have a woolen scarf and ear muffs.  His ear lobes were numb and burned when he rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger.

The new shoes were now a definite liability.  His feet felt chill and damp in them. The slush from the streets, mixed with road salt, had resulted in a jagged white line that ran along the sides of them like the high water mark from a flood. So much for Prada. After about five minutes outside, with the thin socks he was wearing, Jay found himself pacing back and forth, stamping his feet to keep his circulation going.

He put his brain to work to get his mind off the cold. The last couple of killings had taken place at times when he was awake. He hadn't had the experience that he had gone through the night the drunk was killed in the alley. That told him something; that Frank might only be able to get to him when he was asleep and vulnerable, unable to wall him out of his consciousness. It was too bad that he couldn't stay awake twenty-four hours a day without developing a bad crystal meth habit.

Meg’s car finally pulled into the driveway. He was unhappy that Abe had hitched a ride with her.  That old protective feeling had come over him since they had been back together. He didn't like having her in such a potentially fatal situation.  What was worse was that when things got bad, he might not be able to keep her from getting hurt and he knew it.

 
When the Mustang pulled up to the curb, Abe was stowed uncomfortably in the back seat.  Seeing his obvious discomfort brought a smile to Jay's face and he laughed to himself.  The grim old elf was bundled up in one of those big parkas that made the wearer look like the Michelin Man. With the hood up, the fur lining fringed his face so that you couldn’t tell where his beard began. His knees were jammed up into his chin because the front passenger seat was still pushed all the way back from the last time Jay had ridden in the car.

As he climbed into the car, Jay could also see that Abe had on a set of those black galoshes that every kid’s mother made them wear before there were fancy ski boots, the ones that had the thin, black metal clips that snapped all up the front.

Abe caught Jay’s gaze and gave out a grunt. "What?  You haven’t seen someone dressed for the winter before?  I’m a lot better prepared than you are.  You’re going to freeze your skinny white ass off." He was right, probably, but here with Meg, with the heater turned up full blast, Jay wasn’t thinking of that.

Meg turned to Jay and said, "Ignore him.  I have.  He’s been making snide remarks the whole way here.  I don’t think he’s a morning person."

Abe picked up a thermos from the seat beside him, unscrewed the plastic cup and lid from the top, then held it out across the console between the front seats.

Meg leaned away from it as if it were a snake.

"Jesus, no, I have to drive."  She turned to Jay once again. "I swear that it’s half brandy.  He offered it to me when I picked him up. I took one sip and almost choked."

Abe settled back into the seat and carefully poured out a measure into the plastic cup. "A tragic waste of good cognac on an unappreciative palate."

Meg glanced into the rearview mirror. "What’ll be tragic is what’ll happen to you if you spill any of that on my seats.  I still have six months to run on the lease and they charge outrageous fees for damage."

Abe harrumphed and said, "Don't get so excited about petty things." He arched his brows and continued, darkly, "I've had a chance to think about it since we spoke.  I’m not so sure we won’t have to make a trip to Gene’s." He punctuated his remark with a loud, slurping sip from his cup.

"But, it's like you said.  The cops will have torn through everything from top to bottom," said Jay. "They’d be sure to find signs of what he’s been doing. And what are you doing bringing her along?"  He pointed at Meg.

"I have no doubt that the police in this town are very efficient when writing speeding tickets, but they have no experience, I think, in dealing with necromancy." He sucked in a deep breath. "You think that someone who is involved with something like this is going to hide what he’s doing in his kitchen cupboard?  No. And as far as bringing Meg along, I think that it's only prudent to have as many allies to help us fight this thing as we can."

Before either of them could continue, Meg interrupted angrily, through gritted teeth, "And what's wrong with my coming along?"

"Well, nothing. I mean I... I know this town, too, remember. I spent a big part of my life here."

Meg blasted him, fire in her eyes, "But where have you been for the past fifteen years, Jay?"

Abe downed the remainder of the coffee with a single gulp as his eyes followed the panorama rolling past his window. They darted to the argument in the front seats and then back to the view out the window.

"We don't need this now, you two. Meg has a point, Jay. You haven't been back to this town in years. She's going to be much better acquainted with the dynamics of the people here."

"I wasn't trying to be insulting or anything," replied Jay, sotto voce. "I was just concerned about her getting mixed up in the middle of something that wasn't really her business. It's something to do with me, after all."

"But it is my business," interjected Meg. "It became my business the first time you climbed back into my bed and I fell in love with you all over again. You idiot!"

 
Abe rolled his eyes and said, "Oh, my."

There was a long, pregnant pause while Jay and Meg stared into each other's eyes. Jay hadn't considered her feelings. Now he was feeling the consequences. The only thing that he could think of was to change the subject. He turned to Abe in the back seat.

"Okay. So why the early callout?"

Meg wasn’t about to lose the initiative.  She trampled Abe’s reply, "The sheriff’s station.  You need to talk to Gary and weasel information out of him."

Jay shifted uncomfortably in his seat and frowned. "Why me?"

She shook her head. "Because you’re a man, silly.  And a writer.  You forget that that counts for a lot, still, in some places.  And being a writer, you can get away with asking stupid questions as research for a new book or something."

Jay didn't much like this switch that she was pulling. One minute she was pissed off about his wanting to protect her because it offended her. The next she was batting her eyelashes like a southern debutante.

Was this type of manipulation what he would have to deal with for the rest of his life? And when, exactly, had he decided that he had a lifetime commitment? The best thing he could come up with in answer to these important questions was a shrug. He was caught. 

"I guess I could make something up.  I sure can’t tell him the real reason that I’m asking.  What if they haven’t found what we need?  What then?"

Abe turned away from the window. "Then we go back to Plan A."

Jay didn't know they had gotten to the point where they had enough plans to begin designating them with letters of the alphabet.

When they pulled up in front of the station, most of the media had disappeared.  A couple of the television reporters were doing stand-ups off to the side of the station entrance for their early morning news segments, but the rest had slunk back under the rocks where they had come from until the next feeding.

 
Jay took a deep breath as he opened the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.  He didn’t like lying, really.  He knew he was bad at it.  He would have thought that as a writer, he could have gotten over that, but writing wasn’t really lying.  It was telling someone a story.   Lying had so much more psychology invested into it.  You knew that a lie was a matter of survival.  Your adrenaline shot through your veins like some hot speed. Your mind raced at a mile a minute, constantly checking and evaluating the response of the person you were talking to.

A lie is unscripted and improvised. There was a reason they used your galvanic skin response on those so-called lie detectors.  You didn’t sweat when you were writing a book unless it was a hot, humid day and the air conditioning was out.  The worst that a writer could be accused of was theft of a snippet of conversation or a bit of someone else’s life.

His quick sketching-out of what to do once he was inside was interrupted by Abe, who’d rolled down the window and now had his face framed in the open space.  Why was it he knew just the right time to interrupt?

"Don’t sweat it.  Just tell your friend that you’re working on a novel about satanic cults."

"Right," Jay answered, acidly," and would you like me to maybe get a stool sample from Gene?"

Abe laughed and replied, "A big, steamy one."

When Jay stepped through the door, the blast of warm air immediately set his ears, which hadn’t quite warmed up in the car, to tingling and burning.  The only person visible was a stout deputy with a turkey neck who was seated at a desk, working on a crossword puzzle.  In pen.  A reader, he thought to himself.  Or an idiot savant.

Jay pulled off his gloves, stepped up to the counter, and rapped on it with his knuckles.  He could see the deputy’s lips purse for a moment before he looked up.  Jay thought he saw the pen hand tense up for just a fleeting moment.

When the deputy looked up, Jay made eye contact and said, "Pretty cold today.  Is Gary Nelson in?"

The deputy’s eyes shifted away to his puzzle and then pulled back to focus on Jay. "Yeah, but he was up all night and he’s trying to get some shut-eye."

"Hmmm… That’s too bad.  I’m a friend of his and I’m working on a new book idea.  I wanted to talk to him about these murders.  Sort of research, you know?"

The deputy looked Jay up and down, sort of the way someone would check out the rungs of a ladder before they climbed up to clean out the gutters.

"Well, you do look kinda familiar.  Like somebody I’ve seen on one of those talk shows.  But I don’t know."