Dark Places (26 page)

“Hello, Willie.”

When he saw me, he jumped to his feet and stared at me like I was an apparition from hell. Maybe he didn't recognize me in half a dress. “Sorry if I'm disturbing you, Willie, but I was pretty bored out there at the big hoopty-doo and I thought I'd come ask you a few more questions while I had the chance. Got a minute?”

He looked around like he wanted to flee down a fire escape. Jittery as hell. Why?

“How'd you like driving Black's Humvee?”

“It's awesome. I never thought I'd get to do somethin' like that. I heard Arnold Schwarzenegger drives one.”

“Yeah.” I looked at the book he was holding. “What're you reading?”

“Just a book.”

“What book?”

I moved closer and picked it up. “The Bible?”

“Yes, ma'am. This here's a fictionalized kind of Bible that tells it like a story instead of all those old-fashioned words.”

“You mean like a novel?”

“Yes, ma'am. It's real interesting when you understand it better.”

“So you're interested in the Bible?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Did you take Mr. Classon's course in angelology?”

“Uh-huh. Yes, ma'am.”

“How'd you like it?”

“It was good. You know, interestin'. That's how I found out about this book.”

“Was Mr. Classon a good teacher?”

“I thought he was mean to people but I liked it when he talked about the angels and all that.”

I remembered the medal that Black had given me and wondered if it might get Willie to open up and let down his guard. I pulled it out and cupped it in my palm. “I always wear a Saint Michael's medallion. It's supposed to protect me. He's the patron saint of police officers. He and I are real tight now so nothing bad can ever happen to me. Pretty cool, huh?” I smiled at my little joke.

Willie didn't smile but he looked mightily impressed. “Saint Michael's God's avenger angel. Mr. Classon said he's the first angel God created and is the leader of all the archangels. He's got this big flaming sword that he uses to protect us from Satan. Mr. Classon said he wrestled with Lucifer and cast him down out of heaven.”

“Yep, that's him, all right. And he's the one for me. I've been known to wrestle a few guys down from time to time.” I smiled some more, the angel-loving detective. But Willie was really warming up to me now. Angelology must've been his favorite class.

He said, “Saint Michael was the one who spoke to Moses on Sinai and taught Adam how to farm and take care of his family, too.”

“Wow, he got around pretty good back then, didn't he?”

“Yes, ma'am. And Mr. Classon said he helps people who have real bad nightmares.”

“Okay, that clinches it. I'll never take this thing off again.”

“Does that mean you have nightmares, Detective Morgan?”

“Sometimes. Do you?”

Willie nodded, and the look on his face told me they must be real doozies, too. “Sometimes I do, and I wake up scared to death.”

“Hey, I've been there, Willie. You better get yourself one of these things pronto.” I grinned encouragingly as I tucked the medallion back inside my velvet neckline.

Apparently really excited by me now, Willie smiled as if we were true angel cronies. I glanced over at the straight-backed chair in the corner. “Mind if I sit down awhile? I'm not thrilled about being out there with all those phonies. My boss made me come.”

That warmed him up some more. “Sure, sit down. I don't like parties much, either.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“As long as it's been built.”

“No kidding? You must have been three years old when you started.”

He grinned a little. “I'm older than I look. I like this job 'cause I don't have to be around people much. I don't like crowds. I like bein' alone, I guess.”

I noticed a small frame on his desk and turned it around. It was a head shot of a cute girl with red hair woven into pigtails and lots of freckles. “This's a good picture of Wilma.”

Willie began to look uncomfortable. He glanced around, not trying to hide it. “Yeah. She gave me that picture and I put it in a little frame I found in my desk drawer.”

“Tell me about her.”

He kept his eyes down and squirmed in his chair. “What do you want to know?”

“Was she your girlfriend?”

“No, uh-uh. I don't have no girlfriends.”

“Why not? You're a good-looking kid.”

Blushing, he still couldn't meet my gaze. “I dunno.” He shrugged slightly, then shrugged again. “I just like being by myself.”

“So you and Wilma were just friends? Good friends, though?”

“Yeah. She liked to come back here, too, like you did tonight, and just sit and talk some and be away from other people. She didn't like all the mean stuff going on, but she couldn't do nothin' about it.”

“I guess it made you mad when Classon picked on her, huh?”

“Yeah. Everybody got mad. She didn't deserve what he said about her, and stuff.”

“Did you hear anybody threaten to harm Classon for what he did to her?”

“I heard Mr. Rowland say once that he'd like to flush Mr. Classon down a toilet where he belonged. But everybody was saying stuff like that.”

“What about Christie Foxworthy? Did she like Wilma?”

“I guess so. I didn't know her very well. She never paid much attention to me.”

I watched him closely. “How did you feel when Wilma left? Did you want to kill Simon Classon for running her off?”

Willie stared at me, nervously twisting his scraggly mustache. “Yeah, I guess so. I would've liked to throw Mr. Classon in one of those giant trash compactors like they had in that first Star Wars movie and let it crush him up.”

Well, alrighty, now. Willie putting his feelings bluntly. Casually, I said, “I guess you didn't kill him, did you, Willie?” I laughed, you know, ha ha ha, you're under arrest.

Willie's eyes widened. He stared straight at me. “Do I need to call a lawyer now?”

Well, that surprised the heck out of me. No more dumb-as-a-stick impersonation. This kid was smarter than he liked people to know.

“Not unless you did it.”

“I wouldn't never kill nobody.” Li'l Abner was back, blank-eyed stare and all. Under all that, however, Willie Vines watched me like a hawk. Maybe it was time I checked deeper into Willie Vines's past, especially his whereabouts on the days Classon was kidnapped and Christie was stuffed into that trunk. There was more to the boy than met the eye.

“Maybe I do know something, though.”

Aha. “Well, maybe you ought to tell it to me, then.”

He hesitated, looked toward the door. “What if I'm scared? What if somebody might do something to me if I tell you?”

Now I was definitely hitting pay dirt. “What if you tell me enough to arrest this person so he can't hurt you? What if I promise to protect you?”

More hesitation, real fear in those strange eyes. “I dunno. I'm not sure what to do. . . .”

His gaze suddenly darted past me to the door, and a look of sheer terror overtook his face. I turned around slowly and stared into Joe McKay's face.

“Hello, Detective. I see you've met my old buddy here.”

“I didn't know you were friends.”

“Yes. He worked here when I attended classes at the academy. He's a real good kid.”

“Maybe he could tell me lots of things about you, McKay, stuff you don't want me to know.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. We weren't that close, were we, Willie?”

Willie's face was a peculiar shade of white now. He looked like he was going to throw up. “No, sir. Not really.”

“It's almost midnight, Detective, don't you think you should get back to your date?”

“I think you should let me worry about my date, McKay.”

Willie got up and came close to wringing his hands. Instead, he wiped damp palms on his uniform pants. Definitely stressed out by the sudden appearance of his old bosom buddy. “I best get the balloons ready for the midnight celebration. The director'll have my hide if I forget.”

He scuttled off like a roach avoiding Shaquille O'Neal's great big foot.

“Why don't we get back to the party?” McKay suggested.

“By the way, you look hot in that dress.”

“Gee, thanks. Now that I know what you think about me, I'll be able to sleep tonight.”

He laughed everywhere but inside his eyes. They retained that look of caution they always had. Man, he came off so guilty, I felt like pulling my weapon, arresting him, just to get it over with. We glanced toward the gym as the guests began a loud and raucous countdown to midnight. Time flies when you're not having fun.

“You better get in there, Detective. I bet you turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

I motioned with my arm for him to precede me, not particularly wanting to turn my back on him for fear he stowed feral tarantulas in his cummerbund. He strode off, and I followed on his heels. I made my first New Year's resolution. I was going to nail this guy to the wall so tight he could be his own wanted poster, and now I was pretty sure that Willie Vines might have the hammer I needed to do it with.

I wended my way back to our table as the New Year's countdown continued. All around me, people were having a great time, donning dumb party hats, blowing on paper noisemakers, tossing glittery confetti everywhere, forgetting all about two stone-cold-dead employees. It made me sick to my stomach. A fountain of bubbly was flowing down a pyramid of stacked champagne glasses. Merrymakers were imbibing like horses at a trough. Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted a Baptist college was not. Jesus Johnstone was making beaucoup money tonight for his little neck of the woods Murder U., not to mention his little hippy self. Joe Psychic had disappeared again. I guess I had blinked and missed him.

When I reached the table, Bud looked ready to move in on Fin the minute the crowd yelled happy New Year. Black just looked pissed. On sight of me, he said, “Well, well, look who the cat drug in. Just in time for the end of the party, too.”

Sarcasm? Yessiree. I made peace. “Sorry, but you know how it is. Dating a police officer, and all that stuff.”

“Tell me about it, darlin'. The story of my life lately.”

I smiled, glad about the darlin' part because he only used that in bed, which meant he wasn't too ticked off, or else he'd made romantic plans for later, which, I'm not sure. I hoped, however, for the latter. I decided to exert some wild charm on the guy, something I was relatively new at but willing to give the old college try.

“Hey, I'm back in time to ring in the New Year, right?” See what I mean? Charm just ain't my bag. I leave that to Black. He has enough for both of us.

Everybody was on their feet, laughing, drinking, watching a big digital clock Jesus had hung on the stage. People started yelling out the numbers while I searched the exits for Joe McKay.

“Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .”

When the countdown hit one, Black forgave my unexcused absence and embraced me with some enthusiasm and a bit of subtle groping. Over his shoulder, I watched Joe McKay sidle up across from us. He smirked at me, and it felt like a slap in the face. I knew in my gut that he'd been out somewhere and up to no good.

After a flurry of hugs and kisses and fun stuff, the party broke up with Jesus pontificating on the dais one last time about thanks for coming, drive carefully, and may God be with you, each and every one. Yeah, and don't forget to leave your donation pledges in the basket on the way out.

I bundled up in my parka and stepped outside with Black. Snow was spiraling down until the wind picked up. Then it blew in horizontal gusts straight into our faces. A different kid showed up with the Humvee, all wrapped up in a hooded parka and heavy leather gloves and a big smile. For a second I figured we'd need a crowbar to pry the guy out of the awesome vehicle. But he handed over the keys, and I snatched them. Truth is, I liked the Humvee, and felt like the Terminator in a slinky gown as I slid behind the wheel. Black could be Maria, show a lot of big teeth, and sit in the passenger's seat.

We took off and I felt a little like I was in a 007 plot, heading across Antarctica with James Bond to fetch back stolen nuclear warheads. I tugged off my gloves and gripped the steering wheel, ready to match wits and endurance with the winter lake gods.

Black adjusted the heater to about, say, 140 degrees and said, “My place is closer. We'll stay there tonight.”

I hesitated because it sounded like an order, and I wasn't one of his flunkies. On the other hand, he was right on. Cedar Bend was twenty miles closer than my house and not on a winding, hilly stretch of road. And, we had found that hideously ugly spider there who might have family members who'd moved in, too. I hung a right at the next intersection and headed for his luxury apartments and gigantic steaming hot tub at Cedar Bend Lodge.

Then I suddenly remembered that I now had a dog and thus a responsibility. “What about Jules Verne?”

“I'll send somebody over to get him.” Black was holding on to the dash, as if I was driving too fast and sliding around a curve. I righted the skid and regained control. Appeased, Black glanced at me. “So what did you find out when you left me alone at the table for just over two hours?”

“It wasn't just over two hours. Get real. It was an hour and a half. Actually I had a cozy little talk with the janitor slash parking valet slash suspect who knows more than he's telling me. He's hiding something, believe you me.”

“What about Joe? He was gone a long time, too. What was he doing?”

“He and the director conveniently disappeared. I went looking for them and found Willie Vines instead. And know what? Joe found me in Willie's office, and Willie was afraid of him. Intimidated. Which is pretty interesting, don't you think? And so is Joe hanging around with the director like they were old buds.”

“The director and an former, expelled student having a tête-à-tête smack-dab in the middle of the most important fund-raising gala of the year? Strikes me as a little peculiar, yes. How do you think this baby handles?”

“Good, if you like driving a tank. And I do.” I peered into the snow driving into the headlamps. It looked like a psychedelic strobe light. “Everything about that school is peculiar.” I glanced at Black, who advised me to watch the road. “What about McKay turning up here all of a sudden, right before Classon was found? Any conclusions you can draw from that, other than he's our perp?”

“Could've been the publicity from last summer drew him back here, especially if he's the killer. I've seen that before, in other cases. McKay reads all these glowing news accounts about you, the brilliant detective, surviving a run-in with a crazy killer. Psychopaths always think they're smarter than everyone else. Maybe he was jealous of the attention and decided he'd match wits with you and see how smart you really are. God, every reporter in the country was down here chasing us around.”

I thought of the satellite trucks, the brash, loudmouthed, ego-driven reporters hounding me day and night, microphones shoved into my face. a.k.a. hell on earth. “It's just a matter of time before they get wind of this case.”

“Maybe snowstorms'll keep them at bay, but once they sniff out the bizarre details about Classon and that poor girl, they'll swarm in here on snowshoes. And if that happens, you need to stay with me, where they can't harass you.”

“Charlie's not releasing facts to anybody. He learned that the hard way. Even the local papers are too busy dealing with this weather to worry about anything else. He said he'd had a few inquiries but he deflected them.”

Black said, “So far.”

“Right.”

His take on the matter wasn't exactly confidence-building. I concentrated on driving, enjoying the feel of the big vehicle. Maybe Black would buy me one, too. Maybe a black one with a personalized license plate that said
YOU'RE BUSTED
. I tapped the brakes as the snow really got down to business and the tarmac got slicker. The flakes were huge and wet, plopping down so hard and thick that my wipers were yelling uncle. I sighed with relief when I saw the grand stone entrance and all the Christmas lights turning Cedar Bend Lodge into a winter wonderland. It was a grand place, all right, with Black's own unique, I'll-spend-whatever-the-hell-it-takes-tobe-the-best-and-most-showy concept of life. I heard the faint strains of the “Mexican Hat Dance” inside my purse and braked the Humvee to a stop. I flipped the phone open.

“Detective Morgan? This's . . . Willie Vines.”

I glanced at Black and said, “Yeah, Willie. You have something to tell me?”

Silence. I listened to the isssh-thump, issh-thump of the wipers. I was eager now. Maybe we were finally going to get a break.

“Willie? You still there?”

“Yeah, but . . . I'm real scairt.”

“Why?”

“I know stuff that'll get me killed. He'll kill me if I tell.”

“Who? Tell me who, Willie.”

“What if he finds out?”

“We can protect you. All you have to do is tell the truth. Where are you now? At the academy?”

“No. I left after I talked to you.” More quiet. “I'm pretty shook up.”

“Where are you? We can meet. Talk somewhere private.” I glanced at Black. He looked interested. Or was that annoyed?

“I got a place. Nobody knows about it but me. I stay there sometimes.”

“Is that where you are now?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me how to get there.”

“You know Highway 5, out past that old schoolhouse they made into a museum? It's right past there. The mailbox has a fish on it, you know the symbol for Jesus Christ.”

I frowned. Weird. “Okay, you stay there. Don't talk to anybody. Don't call anybody and don't let anybody come inside.”

I shut the phone. “Willie's ready to crack. You want to tag along?”

“You bet.”

I hit speed dial for Bud. It rang twice before he picked up. I said, “Where are you?”

“Brianna invited me in for coffee.”

Code for he was spending the night with her. “Willie Vines is ready to talk. Black and I are on our way.”

“Shit. Now?” Bud was not thrilled. “Where?”

I told him, took a U-turn on the road, and headed out again.

Black said, “Never a dull moment with you, Detective. Any chance this is a trap?”

“Could be. Willie's pretty tame to take on both of us. He's scared of Joe McKay. You should've seen the look on his face when McKay walked in on us.”

“What's the link?”

“That's what I wanna know.”

It took almost thirty minutes to find the right mailbox. There was no traffic except a few cars slipping their way home from New Year's Eve parties. The snow did not let up, but the Humvee was like our own personal snowplow.

“There's the mailbox. Looks like he knocked the snow off so we could see it.”

“Maybe he called us from out here on his cell.”

A single pair of tire tracks led off down a heavily wooded road. Branches rattled against us on both sides.

Black said, “Man, watch it, you're scratching the paint up.”

“Sorry.”

Half a mile later we saw the house. It was very old, a typical farmhouse sitting in a snowy field. Every light was on. I pulled up out front beside a dark-colored, beat-up old Chevy pickup. I turned off the ignition but left the headlamps on, illuminating the front door. It was standing ajar. My sixth sense quivered alive.

“I don't like this.”

“Me, either.”

“You gonna wait for Bud?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should.”

I got out and pulled the .38 out of my ankle holster. My stilettos sank down into the snow and froze my toes. The snow had turned to sleet now, and I could hear it pinging against the Humvee. The motor made cooling sounds. Everything else was silent. Black got out the other side. To my surprise, he pulled out his own .38 from the small of his back.

“You're carrying?”

“I learned the hard way last summer always to be prepared.”

I said. “Something's very wrong here.”

“Tell me about it.”

There were lots of tracks on the path to the front door, going both ways and up the steps. I stood and listened. No sound. No movement. I pulled up the end of my skirt and tucked it inside my parka, just in case I had to kick somebody in the groin. We crept up the steps on either side. It was obvious Black had training somewhere, sometime in police procedure. Probably in his Army Ranger days. I was glad I had him for backup.

I rapped on the door. “Willie? You in there?”

No answer. I pushed the door open with the toe of my stiletto. It swung inward with a long, horror-film creak. Inside, there were signs of a struggle. A massive struggle. Overturned chairs. Broken dishes. Huge pool of blood settling into the shape of California and the Baja peninsula.

Bud's Bronco appeared behind us, the lights flashing across where we stood on the porch. He stopped and got out. Drew his weapon.

“Take the back, Bud. We got blood inside.”

He headed around the side, his flashlight beam revealing slanted, shining lines of sleet. Black had his gun barrel up against his right shoulder. I inched inside, back to the door. He followed. Still no sound. Two doors led off the living room. Bloody drag marks provided a red-carpet indicator to one door, probably the bedroom. I tensed as a door was kicked open in the back of the house. Then Bud's shout.

“I'm in. Clear.”

Seconds later he appeared at the kitchen door. I gestured to the bloodstained path. We moved together toward it, circumventing furniture and backing along each wall. Black stayed where he was and covered us. The blood trail looked fresh, shiny, and wet on the scarred, dark-green linoleum.

Bud leaned back then darted a quick look inside the room. “Oh God, it's a bloodbath in there.”

“Let's go. I'm low.”

We moved fast. Bud came behind me. The room was empty. No closets. No hiding places. Just enough blood and gore to take my breath away.

I kept my arms extended with the gun. “Somebody got slaughtered in here.”

“Sweet Mary.” That was Black, now at the bedroom door.

The twin bed was covered with a chenille bedspread. It was so soaked with blood that at first I didn't realize it was yellow. But that wasn't the worst part. There was a head and torso lying on it, hacked up beyond recognition. And other body parts. More were scattered around on the floor.

A long, sharp machete was lodged in what was left of the chest cavity. The odor of fresh blood, raw and coppery and nauseating, filled the air. My stomach revolted, spewed bile up the back of my throat. I forced it back down but couldn't speak. Nobody said anything, just stared at the carnage. Finally, I said, “Think that's Willie?”