Dark Places (17 page)

I clicked it in a hurry, and there it was in all its ugly details. McKay had been expelled from school, kicked out, sent up the river, and why? For putting a live garter snake in Simon Classon's roll book. Anybody heard the term personal vendetta? I read on, almost drooling on the keyboard, and found that he was quite the troublemaker, had been sanctioned four times by his instructors, three of them by Classon, who wrote a lengthy, overly nasty account of McKay's tasteless prank and how much mental suffering it had cost him, angst, even. I guess his angels were off duty that day, too. I read on. Psychic Phenomenon Boy was a real mess. Caused all kinds of consternation, problems, nearly drove Classon and Jesus nuts. I liked him better all the time.

Then I delved some more into his past but hit a brick wall when I tried to find out who recommended McKay for admission and funded his scholarship. Beside the green blinking cursor it said confidential. Aha. Highly suspicious and something to look into. I printed all the screens containing Joe McKay's data. Maybe Charlie'd like to take a peek at his guy's penchant for juvenile delinquency. Maybe then he'd take him off the case and thereby improve my hideous mood.

I checked out the rest of the files for incorrigible students, printed the screens, then shut down the computer, bundled into my parka and gloves, and headed out to my car, suddenly eager to talk to my boss. Across the quadrangle, the library building was aglow with yellow, beckoning lights in every window. I headed there, craving more incriminating ammunition against McKay and wondering if they had any microfiche of the local newspaper articles about campus deaths from spiders or snakes in roll books. Inside, it was warm and cozy with expensive tan leather couches and chairs grouped around for students to study on. Must be Building Tan. Only one kid in sight. Sound asleep and snoring with odd, puffing sounds. Probably allergic to ecru. I walked up to the checkout desk.

A man immediately got up from behind the counter. He'd been working on a laptop. He left the lid up. Typical man.

“May I help you?” He smiled, a tall black guy with black-rimmed square glasses, thick hair parted on the left, quiet voice, nice manners, good teeth, polite. The run-of-the-mill librarian, to be sure.

“I'm Detective Morgan from Canton County Sheriff's Department. I'd like to use your microfiche machine, if that's okay?”

“Sure thing. No problem. Have you used microfiche before?”

“Oh, yeah. I'm a detective, remember?”

He laughed. “Then I'm sure you have. I'm Morton DeClive, the head librarian here. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here. And may I say, Mr. DeClive, you're the only normal person I believe I've met since I stepped foot on this campus.”

“Tell me about it.”

Good vibes at last. A man I could talk to without wanting to double my fist and deck him.

He said, “That was terrible. You know, what happened to Simon.”

I nodded. “Yes, it was. He a friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Did you like him?”

“Hell, no.”

Like I said, he had a nice smile. He displayed it now. “Did you have any specific run-ins with Mr. Classon?”

“He called to bawl me out regularly, usually on Wednesdays.”

“Wednesdays?”

“Yeah, go figure.”

“He died on a Wednesday.”

“That's right, he did. You think that's significant?”

I shrugged. This case was already so weird, nothing would surprise me. “Who knows? Maybe.”

“Nobody liked him, at least nobody I know of, but not enough to kill him. Most people just ignored him and reamed him out behind his back. I've seen grown men stick out their tongues or give him the finger after he walked by.”

“Really? That seems a bit childish.”

“Yeah, but it sure felt good.”

We laughed together. I liked him. I can't believe it. I actually liked someone on the staff of the Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted. He took me to the rear corner of the main room and showed me the microfiche setup. Then he told me he had a list of all articles about the academy printed in the local newspapers. I asked Morton if he'd print them out for me to read through at my leisure, leisure which I really didn't have, but I sure didn't have the time or inclination to sit in the library until the ten o'clock closing time, even with Morton DeClive for company.

I perused briefly and gathered up a handful of brochures advertising the academy and its dubious perks while he printed out an inch-high stack of news articles. He offered to loan me a file of the academy's own news releases, which he kept in his desk for personal reference. I jumped at that and invited him to please include anything else he thought might be of interest to the investigation. Told you we were both polite. On the other hand, I was building up a volume of homework that didn't look inviting, but what else did I have to do? Black was gone, and I'd already done my Christmas shopping.

 

 

It turned out I didn't have to worry about what to do with my time. My cell phone burst into song just as I reached my Explorer. I dug in my handbag for it as I slid into the driver's seat.

“Yeah. Morgan.”

Bud said, “Joe's had a vision. Says he saw the second murder victim. Charlie said for us to check it out.”

“No way.”

“Uh-huh. You're to meet us there ASAP.”

“Who'd he say it was?”

“Stuart Rowland of Satan fame.”

“Yeah, right. We just saw him this morning. Where's he live?”

“Lake Road 565. Know it?”

“Yes. Gotta box number?”

“390. His turnoff's close to the SP Quick Stop. We'll meet you there.”

My adrenaline pumped up to car-lifting levels, and I pulled out and called for backup as I gunned my way out of the parking lot and fishtailed onto the gravel road. Lake Road 565 was about fifteen minutes away, on a road lined with outlying subdivisions. I made the quickstop in ten, eager beaver. Ahead of me, I saw Bud's Bronco turn off the highway and head toward Rowland's place. I sped up, caught them, and then jumped out in front of Rowland's driveway almost before my engine died.

Rowland's house was a fifties ranch, tan brick, large picture window beside a burnt-orange front door, very neat and well-kept. The window was draped. No lights on except for an outdoor coach light at the end of his front walk. The garage door was open, and the blue Mustang we'd last seen outside the Classon crime scene was parked inside.

“Stay here, McKay. We'll check this out.”

“Okay, but he's already dead. Inside some kind of trunk or chest of some sort. The killer's gone.”

Bud said, “You sure?”

I said, “Let's go. Bud, take the back. I'll go through the garage. McKay, yell if anybody comes out the front door.”

I unzipped my parka and pulled out my Glock and settled it in my hand as Bud melted into the night around one end of the house. I moved to the front of the Mustang and put my palm on the hood. It was cold. I snapped on my Maglite and checked around the car so I wouldn't get jumped. All was in place, no spiders, no snakes, no sicko serial killers.

I pressed my back against the wall by the door and tried the knob. It turned easily. I nudged it open and felt for a light switch. I found it and light flared. I darted a quick look. The kitchen was empty so I stepped inside, leading with my gun. No sound. White cabinets, red-tiled floor, gleaming stainless-steel appliances. Nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle. I caught motion out of the corner of my eye and swiveled my weapon. It was Bud at the undraped slider, gesturing for me to let him in. I backed my way there, pushed up the lock with my flashlight.

“See anything?”

“Not yet.”

Bud took one side of the kitchen. I took the other. A swinging door led somewhere, and I motioned Bud to go through first. He took it low and I covered him, then hit the light switch. One lamp in the corner came on and illuminated the living room, decorated Christmas tree and all. The tree lights weren't plugged in and some ornaments lay broken on the floor. Nothing else was disturbed. We checked out the three bedrooms and two baths. I sheathed my weapon and looked around. Then I saw it, a flat-topped antique red steamer trunk that Rowland used as a coffee table. A Christmas gift tag was stuck on the top.

“There it is, Bud.”

Bud said, “What's that tag say?”

I looked at it, then at him. “It says, ‘Don't open until Christmas.' ”

“Goddamn. Something's moving around in there. Listen.”

Soft, scratching sounds were coming from inside.

“You hear it?”

“Yeah, something's in there, all right. Cover me, Bud, I'm going to open it.”

A graphic vision of Simon Classon's body flashed across my mind, and I knew Stuart Rowland was in there, just like McKay had predicted. I braced myself for something horrible. Bud trained his gun down at the trunk, and I pulled the padlock free and jerked up the lid. I shined my flashlight inside.

“Oh my God, what are those black things?”

Bud's face looked revolted.

“Scorpions,” he said in a low voice. “Jesus, look at all of 'em.”

And Stuart Rowland was in there with them. He had on blue sweats. His wrists were taped together, his face covered by an Indonesian red devil's mask like the ones the director liked to display on the wall behind his desk. Dozens of small black scorpions, tails up and poised, were teeming all over his body.

I shivered uncontrollably, then nearly jumped out of my skin when somebody pounded on the front door. Bud and I both turned and set our weapons on the door. A male voice yelled, “Police, open up!”

Bud sheathed his gun and opened the door, and a man wearing an Osage Beach police uniform trained his weapon on Bud's chest.

“Get your hands up now. Now!”

“Whoa, man. I'm Canton County Sheriff's.” He held up the badge hanging around his neck. “Thanks for backing us up so fast.”

“What backup? I just got off duty when the owner of this place flagged me down. Said somebody's breaking into his house.”

“No way. The owner's dead.”

That's when Stuart Rowland stepped into sight. He said, “What the hell are you talking about? I'm not dead. And what are you doing in my house?”

Bud and I stared at him a moment, then I said, “Keep him outside, officer.”

Warily, we moved back to the trunk. Five or six scorpions had scuttled out of the trunk and were crawling around on the floor, but most of them were still crawling all over the body. I smashed the ones on the floor under my boot, then used my fingertips to lift off the mask. I gasped and backed away in aversion. Bud stepped closer and stared down at Christie Foxworthy's bulging eyes and taped mouth with complete and utter horror.

One night about a year after Uriel arrived at his grandma's house, Gabriel picked up Uriel and they went riding around on his motorcycle He liked to drive the fifteen miles to a town where railroad tracks ran under an Interstate bridge. Hoboes liked to congregate and drink whiskey there.

Gabriel and Uriel hid in the bushes and listened to them talking together about how they'd been in prison and gotten beat up, and stuff like that. Gabriel said they were evil, sinful men, and should probably be sent on off to heaven, but there were too many to deal with, so they just watched and listened. Sometimes they'd wait until the tramps passed out and then sneak to the fire and steal their duffel bags and booze.

Tonight they stole a bottle of vodka. Gabriel wiped off the top of it and took a big swig. He handed it to Uriel, and Uriel took a drink, too, then coughed and choked because it tasted horrible and burned his throat.

“You big sissy,” Gabriel said. “You gotta learn to drink like a man. I started drinking beer when I was just nine. C'mon now, drink some more, it'll put hair on your chest. That's what those old farts under the bridge say, I heard 'em.”

Uriel didn't like it and didn't want to, but he did, just a sip at first, so Gabriel wouldn't get mad. Then they took turns passing the bottle, and Gabriel took out a pack of Camels.

“Well, you might as well start smoking, too. It makes you feel good, once you get used to it. Daddy'd skin my hide if he found out I was doing this stuff, but hell, he smokes a pipe, and that's okay. He's a hypocrite, ain't he?”

Uriel nodded as Gabriel lit up and passed the cigarette to him. He puffed it and choked some more, but he thought it looked cool, and he wanted to be like Gabriel, just exactly like him, in every way.

They sat there awhile, drinking and smoking. Sometimes Uriel only pretended to take a drag on the cigarette. The smoke was caustic and burned his mouth, and he didn't like it. And the vodka was making him feel dizzy.

“Let's go, Uriel, we better hightail it home. Got school tomorrow.”

Gabriel let him off at the edge of the woods like always, and Uriel ran down the dark path through the woods that he knew so well by now. A full moon was shining, guiding his way but he skidded to a stop when he saw his grandma was awake and waiting on the back steps.

She stood up and held onto the banister. “Where have you been, young man?” Her voice was harsh. Angry. He'd never heard her use that tone before. She grabbed his arm, her gnarled fingers biting into his skin. “What's that stink on you? Is it cigarettes? Lord help us, child, what have you been up to?”

In the distance, far out on the highway, the buzz of Gabriel's motor scooter echoed in the quiet darkness. His grandma squeezed his arm tighter. “Was that the preacher's son you went sneaking off with? Was it?”

“No, ma'am, I just couldn't go to sleep so I went out for a walk 'cause the moon's so bright.”

“You little liar, you sinner, you are not to be with that boy anymore, you hear me? I forbid it! Freddy's brother thinks he had something to do with that poor child's death, and now I wonder if it's true. You get in the house, and don't you dare ever step foot out at night again. And don't you be hanging around with that boy anymore, either.”

Scared, Uriel ran into the house and slammed his bedroom door. He pushed a chair up under the doorknob so she couldn't get to him. She did come and rattled the door and said a bunch of bad things about Gabriel. He covered his ears and didn't listen, and then he got angry that she was telling him what to do. He'd already sent people to heaven, hadn't he? He was an avenging angel, wasn't he? He wasn't going to stop being Gabriel's friend, no matter what she said. Gabriel was his best friend, his secret friend who loved him and took good care of him.

The next day at school, Uriel told Gabriel what happened, and Gabriel said they couldn't let Uriel's grandma tell Gabriel's dad about the smoking and drinking. He said that maybe it was time for her to go to heaven and be with the rest of Uriel's family. Uriel didn't know what to think about that. It didn't seem right, because she had taken him in and made him chocolate chip cookies and pineapple upside-down cake. She was okay most of the time.

“I dunno, Gabriel. Who'd take care of me then? Who'd I live with?”

Gabriel frowned. “Yeah, you're right, we don't want you goin' into some kind of foster home. I guess we don't have to send her up to heaven, but we got to fix her where she won't tell my daddy or keep you from hangin' around with me. Tell you what, I know this older guy, a real weirdo, who gets me drugs sometimes. I'll get some that makes her sleep all the time. Old folks sleep a lot anyways. Nobody'd ever know. You can tell people she ain't feeling well, and I can say I'll be glad to go over and check on her every day and we'll say we'll go to the grocery store for her, run all her errands, and all that. And that'll make us look good, too.”

“Yeah, Gabriel, I like that idea a lot better. She ain't that bad, to send on to heaven, I mean. That's the first time she ever yelled at me, or got on to me, or nothin'.”

So that night Uriel ground up a bunch of the small white pills Gabriel gave him and stirred them into his grandma's cup of green tea when they were watching the Cardinals play baseball on television. It didn't take long for her to fall asleep in her chair, either. She was so still that Uriel poked her with his finger to wake her up. She didn't stir, and he put his hand over her mouth to see if she was breathing. She was.

Gabriel said the pills would knock her out all night and probably most of the next day, too. He was right. He was always right. Uriel left her sitting in her rocker, her head lolling onto her frail chest, and ran through the woods to the old lodge. They were going to try smoking pot tonight, down in the cave where nobody would ever know. Uriel couldn't wait, was really looking forward to it. Gabriel said it would make him feel like a real live angel, soaring high in the sky, maybe all the way up to heaven.