Deaths of Jocasta (51 page)

I tried to get some idea what she wanted me for, but she insisted, very apologetically, that she had to see me. I finally agreed and got directions to her place. A little north of Picayune, Mississippi, about an hour drive. I tried to put her off until tomorrow, but she was very insistent that she had to see me today.

“What’s your name?” I finally asked.

“Oh, all my friends call me Sarry,” she said.

“Okay, Sarry, I’ll be there in about an hour,” I told her. This had lost cat written all over it.

“See you later, Bernie,” I said as I breezed past her.

“Where are you going?”

“To visit an invalid old lady,” I replied and waved to her.

I glanced into Sister Ann’s office, but she wasn’t there. A few questions elicited the information that she had been called away by an ill client and probably wouldn’t be back for a few hours. I wanted to ask her about Sarry, like how many cats she might have and if there was any way that this could be as important as she tried to make it sound. As I headed out the door it occurred to me that I wasn’t really sure Sarry was a woman, the voice was a gravelly midrange. Bernie had called Sarry “her” and I had just let that guide me. Of course, it didn’t really matter. Men had cats that they wanted me to find, too.

I got on I-10 and headed out of the city. Lacking an air-conditioned car, I quickly shrugged off the jacket. Then the shoulder holster, putting it under the seat. All I needed was some highly conscientious state trooper pulling me over.

A perfect day for the beach, I thought as I drove in the opposite direction, taking I-59 north, glad at least not to be driving into the glaring sun.

Sarry’s directions took me off the main road to a well-patched country road, then to a not-so-well-patched county road, then to a not-at-all-patched country road that abruptly turned into gravel.

“And I thought my suspension was inadequate for city potholes,” I muttered as I hit a spine-numbing bump.

A scrawny dog started barking, then chased my tires. But the dog worried me less than the stony and unaverted stare of his master, who looked like, if there was such a thing, a generic KKK member. I was glad to leave him and his barking dog in a cloud of yellow dust.

The gravel petered out to dirt. I finally found the turnoff for Sarry’s house. Main Street, a hand-lettered sign read. I hoped it was a joke. After about a quarter of a mile, a branch that had landed in the road impeded my progress. I might have been able to squeeze my car around it, but I decided I wanted my car to get out of here alive, so I pulled onto the grass at the edge of the road. I was close, if Sarry’s directions were to be believed. I locked my car, unsure of what I was protecting it from. The last house was at least a half a mile away. Deer flies are vicious out here, I rationalized, wiping sweat off my brow.

For a moment, I thought about getting my gun, but my car already seemed a shimmering mirage in the heat. I didn’t need a gun to talk to an invalid old lady, anyway. I wanted to hurry up and get this interview over with and get back to the clinic. I had an uneasy feeling about being away, as if something were about to happen. But I couldn’t afford to turn down any paying business.

The only signs of human habitation were a few rusty cans and the road itself. I wondered vaguely if I had been sent on a real wild goose chase, then I topped the hill and spotted a ramshackle house about fifty yards further on.

The lawn was littered with car hulks and parked out front was a wheel-less logging truck completely covered with rust. It couldn’t have budged from its spot in less than a decade. Weeds poked through the assorted debris, a small pine tree growing through the steering wheel and window of an old Ford.

I wondered what this woman could possibly want to hire me for as I passed the rusty truck, weaving my way down an unmowed, but trampled path to her door.

The boards of the porch, only a foot or so above the ground, sagged and gapped. I tapped on the unpainted screen door, which had newer patches of screen woven into the older sections to keep out flies. Somewhere inside the house I heard the blare of a TV.

At least she had electricity, I thought, finding that vaguely comforting.

I knocked again, louder.

The TV switched off, then a voice called, “Come on in.”

I opened the screen door and entered a dim hallway, in need of sweeping even in this light.

“This way,” the voice guided me.

The hallway led to a kitchen at the back of the house.

“Are you Sarry?” I asked the figure sitting at the kitchen table.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

Sarry was male. Probably late fifties to early sixties. He was in a wheelchair, his legs covered, improbably in this heat, with a knitted afghan. His hair was white, receding a bit, and his face round and pink-cheeked. A harmless old redneck, I decided.

“You’re Michele Knight, the detective,” he said, a statement, not a question, speaking with less of an accent than I’d expected.

“Yes, I am,” I replied. “What do you want me for?”

He laughed, a high-pitched snort, then said, “I want you to die today.”

I looked at this pink-faced man in a wheelchair, wondering how he was going to kill me. Then I glanced around, sure Frankenstein was going to emerge from one of the doors in the hallway.

“No one but us here,” Sarry said. “My business partners,” and he giggled again, “were too clumsy. Never send a boy to do a man’s job. Unless the man can’t go,” he added angrily.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Nobody. Just an old man.”

“Why kill me?”

“Because I want to. I couldn’t risk you being around the clinic today. The Bills failed. Bill and Bill, you’ve met them, I presume. Or at least been aware of their presence. I still don’t know how you escaped that bomb.”

“Frankenstein and Choirboy are the Bills?”

He chortled at my nicknames. “Oh, yes, much better than just Bill and Bill. Less confusing. I call the tall one Will, because two Bills was driving me crazy. Sometimes two is nice, but not in names,” he rambled on.

“How are you going to kill me?” I asked. I couldn’t see a gun or any other weapon.

He took a small box out of his lap. It had a switch on top and two wires attached.

“Boom,” he said, laughing again. Then he lifted the edge of the afghan to reveal the stack of dynamite under his wheelchair. “A big boom.”

“You’ll kill yourself, too.”

“I’m nobody. Who cares if nobody dies?” he retorted bitterly.

“You might.”

“Not anymore. Not after today,” he replied triumphantly.

“What happens today?” I demanded.

“The Bills, bless their dedicated hearts, are hard at work right now. Starting at one o’clock—or is it two? I can’t remember—the bombs will go off. The Bills are planting them, the two of them. Those fools.”

“What do you mean?”

“The self-righteous are so gullible, don’t you agree?”

“Why are you bombing abortion clinics if…?” I started to ask.

“I don’t give a damn about right-to-life. I never had a right-to-life,” he cut me off. “No, the Bills came in handy. For a bit, like most fools. They knocked on my door one day. Trying to save my soul. I invited them in. I don’t get much company out here. And those young men, with their strong legs and slow minds, gave me an idea. I talked to them for a long time that day and they came back. And I told them, that with my help, they could put their ideas into action.”

“What ideas?”

“Save innocent lives. The unborn. Oh, the crocodile tears I cried for those unborn,” he chortled.

“Why?” I demanded.

“I’ll get there. Don’t be impatient. You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his finger hovering over the switch. “I found her.”

“Who?” I asked. “Found who?”

“Will is the more resourceful of the two,” he continued, ignoring me. “He got the dynamite. He is a true believer. I made the bombs. I turned into a regular bomb factory. Such a good boy. So helpful, got me everything I asked for.”

“Your helpful boy brutally murdered five women.”

“I told you he was a true believer,” Sarry said callously. “Besides, it’s not murder to kill a murderer. He watched and kidnapped them after they left from having their babies killed. He didn’t believe those women should have abortions.”

“Not all of them did,” I retorted. “Betty Peterson didn’t. The fifteen-year-old left in the lot didn’t.”

“We all make mistakes,” Sarry said, giggling at his cleverness.

“Why, you…” I started angrily.

“Now, now, Miss Knight,” he chided, his finger resting on the switch. “Michele. Let me call you Michele. Since we’ll be spending our last few hours together, we might as well be friends.”

“So you made the bombs? Where’d you learn to make bombs?”

“The Army. I served in Korea.”

“Sister Ann,” I said softly.

“Beatrice Jackson,” he shot back. “She never would have become a nun…she had no right to do that. She couldn’t think of any better way to get out of marriage to half a man.”

“That’s not true…”

“Don’t you tell me what’s true,” he roared. “I was there. I saw the pitying look she gave me. Don’t you repeat her lies to me.”

Obviously Sarry was not going to be reasonable.

After giving him a moment to settle down, I asked, “Why kill her after all these years?”

“Why? Because I finally got the chance. After all these years. She slipped away from me. But I found her. Saw her on TV, at her wonderful community center. I wrote down the address. And I told the Bills that the clinic in the building was the worst abortion parlor of them all. They never doubted me for a minute. Gullible fools.” And he laughed, harshly this time. “And Bill—Will has a score to settle with a doctor there.”

“Surely they won’t plant bombs intending to kill nuns? They’re on the same side. More or less,” I added, doubting Sister Ann would want to be lumped in the same category as the Bills. “What score does—”

“I’m to call in warnings to all the places that are to be bombed,” he interrupted me.

“But you’re going to ‘forget’ Sister Ann’s building,” I said angrily.

“Oh, no, I’ll remember it. But my phone doesn’t work anymore.”

“It worked fine…you can’t…” I said, as the monstrosity of his actions sank in. “How many? How many bombs?”

“Eight different places are targeted. Sister Ann’s, as befits her position, will go off first.”

“And the rest?” I demanded.

“Within three hours. Lots of surprises for the fine folk of New Orleans. I picked names out of the phone book. Places the Bills would be willing to bomb.” He laughed again.

“My God,” I yelled. “Do you realize how many people you’ll kill? Hundreds will die.”

“I don’t care. I had my legs blown up, and they left me out here to rot. I don’t care how many people die,” he retorted. “Bea should have married me, should have taken care of me. I need someone to cook for me, clean for me. I can’t do things like that. But she left me. Left me and no other woman would have me, damaged as I am.” His pink cheeks turned red, nostrils flaring.

“Why kill me?” I asked, trying another tack. “What have I done to you?”

“You interfered. You were watching over Bea, making it hard to get to her.”

“I was watching over my friends at the clinic.”

“And why not kill you? You’re like all the others. You’d be happy to let me rot out here.”

“Call it off. I’ll get you help. I’ll do what I can. There are programs.”

“No! I don’t want those damned programs. Babysitting until death. You’re like my brother. He visits once a month. Always brings me something, so he won’t feel so guilty when he walks away. And always asks me wouldn’t I be happier in a veterans home. I can’t take care of myself, he says. That snot-nosed bastard.”

“You just said you can’t take care of yourself,” I reminded him spitefully.

“Not like a woman would. Do you think I’ll be better taken care of in a V.A. hospital? No. And after today he can’t put me anywhere!” He laughed triumphantly at the thought.

This man was crazy, I realized. There could be no reasoning or arguing with him. And I had little doubt about his intent to use the bomb under his wheelchair.

I had to get out of here. And get to a phone before one o’clock. His hand rested next to the switch.

“Turn on the TV,” he ordered me.

I went and flipped on the TV. It blared forth with some stupid soap opera.

“Turn it down,” he told me. “I’m only interested in the news. And there won’t be any until about two or so. That’s the news we want to hear.”

“I don’t,” I said shortly.

“Go wash my dishes,” he commanded.

“Why? If you’re going to blow them up in a few hours?” I countered.

“I’ve always wanted a woman to obey me. Do it,” he threatened, his finger poised over the switch.

I sat down defiantly. I didn’t want to get blown up, but I did want to test his limits.

“You’ll miss your newscast,” I said.