In the Air Tonight (8 page)

“Bobby Doucet.”

Even though Bobby hadn’t asked, Johnson explained the way things worked. “Dr. Christiansen is our funeral director and medical examiner.”

“Thrifty.”

“We don’t have need for any more. There hasn’t been a murder here in decades.”

While that might be fabulous on the brochure, it did not give Bobby a good feeling about the state of the crime scene or the evidence.

“Forgive me, Doctor, but maybe the body should have been sent to…” Bobby paused, uncertain which city was the appropriate one.

He’d flown into Madison, the home of a well-respected university, a medical school, a teaching and research hospital—that had been on
their
brochure. Then again, maybe there was a closer place with adequate resources.

What did it matter? The doctor had already opened up the woman and started to dig around.

“If I’d felt I wasn’t competent, I would have said so.” Christiansen didn’t seem offended. Like most funeral directors Bobby had encountered—and he’d encountered a lot of them—the man possessed a personality so laid-back as to be nearly asleep. Considering what he had to deal with, that was probably for the best.

“In this case, it wasn’t difficult to determine a cause of death.” Christiansen lifted his gaze. “She’s missing an arm.”

“She died from that injury?”

“I’ve found nothing else that would have killed her.”

Bobby moved forward. “I’m most interested in the brand.”

“More than a missing arm?” Christiansen shrugged. “To each his own.”

“We’ve discovered several bodies in New Orleans with a similar mark. May I see?”

Christiansen gently drew the woman’s hair away from her neck. Branded into her flesh was the head of a snarling wolf.

“It’s the same,” Bobby said.

“Do you have any leads?” Chief Johnson asked.

“Haven’t had a body in nearly a year.”

“So, no,” Christiansen murmured.

“No.”

Johnson frowned. “How many bodies?”

“Five.”

“And not a single damn clue?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Didn’t mean they had a clue—literal or figurative—but he certainly hadn’t said so.

“Different methods of death,” he continued. “Young, old, male, female, white, not. The only thing they had in common was that brand.”

“What did you find out about it?” Johnson asked.

“Nothing.”

“It would seem,” the doctor began, “that such a mark would be easily traceable. Especially in this day and age.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Bobby shoved his fingers through his hair. “We’ve been over hundreds of old books, examined ancient jewelry—amulets, rings—even family crests. Haven’t found one that looks like that. You told her brother about the brand?”

“Did better than that.” The doctor withdrew another organ, weighed that one too. “I showed him.”

“He was here? When?” Bobby had gotten here pretty damn fast himself. How had he missed the man?

“Madison is only an hour away. He came immediately. Identified the body. Left.”

“Did he have any idea why someone would off his sister?”

“None. She was a saint.”

“I doubt she was killed because of who
she
was. Has he pissed off any Mexican drug lords? Mafia?” Bobby frowned. “Do you have mafia?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Christiansen asked.

Did that mean they did or they didn’t?

“Marshal McKenna transports federal prisoners,” Johnson said. “Might be drug dealers, or even mafia—ours are mostly boring old Italians from Milwaukee or Chicago.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Remember Capone? But by the time he deals with ’em, they’re convicted and sentenced. They’ve got no reason to retaliate at him or his family.”

“Someone did.”

“Mebe,” Johnson allowed.

“If she wasn’t killed because of her brother, then why?”

“I thought that’s what you were here to find out.”

“I’m just here to see if her killing is connected to any of mine.”

“You think there are two psychos running around branding folks?” the chief asked.

Bobby rubbed his eyes. “I hope not.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Three,” Christiansen said.

“What did the marshal say about the brand?”

“Never seen it either.” Johnson shrugged. “But when he put it into the federal system—”

“My name popped up.”

“Your cases did. But nothing on the brand.”

Bobby already knew that. He’d put the damn brand into every system he could find. And gotten bupkis.

“What about the wound?” he asked.

“More of an amputation,” Christiansen said. “Without anesthesia.”

“She was alive?”

“It would be pretty hard to kill her with that wound if she was already dead.”

Good point. Or bad point, Bobby wasn’t sure.

“No one heard her?” he asked. At the chief’s blank expression, Bobby continued. “She had to have screamed.”

“She wasn’t killed where we found her. Not enough blood.”

“Could it have been an accident? Maybe she got her arm stuck in…” He waved his hands helplessly. “One of those big-ass farm machines.”

“And flew into town on the wings of angels?” Johnson asked. “There’d be a blood trail.”

“Not an accident,” the doctor said.

“You’re certain?”

“Her arm was hacked off, not pulled off, or even sliced with a decent blade.”

“Do you know what kind of blade it was?”

Christiansen leaned down and peered at the wound. “From what I’m seeing here, my guess is…” He met Bobby’s gaze. “A meat cleaver.”

Chapter 6

Meat cleaver? That could not be a coincidence.

Raye
had
seen the murderer, and she’d thought she’d imagined it. Either she’d been lying—and for what reason, Bobby couldn’t fathom—or she had issues with reality and fantasy. He wasn’t one to throw stones, though he’d like to know why.

First he had to find her. Fast. Raye was walking around loose, and so was that maniac. If the man had come after her once, he’d do so again.

“Gotta go.” Bobby started for the door.

“Back to New Orleans?” The chief followed.

“Not yet.”

Bobby should tell the chief everything. But not until he knew just what
everything
might be.

“I have to make some calls,” he said. Not a lie. He would—after he found Raye.

“Let me know what you need from me.” Johnson held out a hand, and they shook. “And I’d be obliged if you kept me in the loop.”

“Of course.” Bobby shook and fled. He was driving back in the direction he’d come before he realized that he had no idea where he was going.

Raye was a kindergarten teacher. In a town this size, how hard could it be to find the grade school? He doubted there was more than one. He was a detective for crying out loud. He should act like one.

Bobby pulled into the gas station and asked for directions.

There was only one grade school, and it wasn’t far. New Bergin Elementary stood on the nearest field to the town in a three-field parcel, with the junior high in the middle section and the high school in the northernmost plot. The athletic fields lay to the east, a parking lot flanked the west. He pulled in the space marked
VISITOR
directly in front of the entrance.

While the school itself had been built in the sixties, the security had been updated recently. Bobby stepped through the first set of doors and discovered he could not get beyond the next until he’d passed through a metal detector and then been buzzed in. At least no one with a meat cleaver could have gotten in ahead of him.

On the one hand, the need for such methods made him sick. On the other hand, so did the children. He hadn’t been in a school since …

Bobby turned and walked right back out.

*   *   *

After lunch everyone retrieved their nap mats, blankets, sleeping bags. I turned down the lights and we had a quiet hour. I read a story; everyone rested, or at least pretended to.

The first weeks of a new school year I often had to sit next to one or two of the kids, keep my hand on their backs until they got the idea that they would stay on their mat until the hour was up. But by this time of year, over six weeks in, everyone knew the rules. I think most of them even enjoyed that bit of downtime. It recharged them enough to rev right through dinner. I’m sure their parents were thrilled.

I opened Stafford’s favorite book, guaranteed to get him to come out, come out, wherever he was, and began to read. “‘I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there’s gum in my hair.’”

You can see why Stafford might enjoy the tale of Alexander’s terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

Because I’d read it so many times I could recite most of the story without even looking at the book, I spent half my time glancing around the room. Stafford didn’t materialize, but Genevieve did. As it was her I wanted to talk to, I didn’t mind. I did wonder where Stafford had gotten to. I should have wondered harder.

I read the last lines just above a whisper. Then I got up and walked to the back of the room—with no fast, loud, or too interesting movements, otherwise everyone’s head would be up and my peace would be over.

Genevieve sat in the alcove of cubbies where my kids kept their coats, boots, sleep mats. “My daddy used to read that to me,” she said.

Curses! Alexander had been published in 1972. While it was helpful for getting Stafford to come out, it was not very helpful for deciphering much of anything else. If I’d chosen a more recent release, it would have given me a smaller window to determine when Genevieve might have died. But I’d been a kindergarten teacher long enough to become crafty. In truth, it had taken about a week.

“You love your daddy?”

Genevieve’s lips curved in the kind of smile reserved for the most beloved—Mommy, Daddy, Granny, depending on the kid.

“More than anyone,” she said.

“What’s his name?”

She took a breath. Her mouth pursed. I leaned forward, expectantly.

And the fire alarm went off.

My entire class popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Genevieve vanished. For the rest of the afternoon, the children were so jazzed I wished I had a whip and a chair.

Or an industrial-sized bottle of Benadryl.

By the time school let out, I was fantasizing about an industrial-sized bottle of something dry and red for myself. As it was Friday, I could even drink one.

I’d almost forgotten about Bobby Doucet. Almost.

I considered calling my father, asking if the detective was still in town, and if he was, suggesting he and I get together for a fish fry.

Friday night in Wisconsin meant that every place serving food served fish. Fried. Certainly you could get your fish baked. In butter. Sides of potatoes—pancakes, French fries, boiled in butter. Rye bread, with pats of butter. Cole slaw—mayo base, never vinegar.

Sense a theme?

However, I’d never asked out a man, and as I found my key and opened my front door I decided against making the call. One didn’t dive into the deep end of the pool after the very first swimming lesson, and a woman like me shouldn’t ask out the hottest man she’d ever seen the first time she asked anyone out at all.

Instead, I did what I did every day. I went into my bedroom and took off my school clothes, grimacing as I drew what had once been my best sweater over my head.

I’d been right about the barf. The fire alarm had riled everyone up so high that not only had Susan urped on me, but so had Troy.

After kicking off my shoes—they’d been christened too—I took the sweater into the bathroom and filled the sink. The garment was in desperate need of a presoak. It appeared Susan—or maybe Troy—had enjoyed grape jelly for lunch.

I stepped into the bedroom and felt a draft. Ghost or …

I glanced toward the front door. “Damn.”

Unless I locked the door, and usually I did—I could almost swear I had—the thing blew open in any stray breeze.

I moved toward it in nothing but my bra and jeans, hoping the UPS man wouldn’t suddenly appear on the landing—it had happened before—and got a chill the instant I stepped into the living room. I turned my head.

Ghost this time. Meat-cleaver maniac. Big guy. Ugly. Bald. Looked like a member of the Hell’s Angels. Did they still have those? I’d be scared if he were real.

“Take a hike,” I said, and continued on my way.

The blade splintered the doorjamb I’d just passed.

I stared—blinking, stunned. Ghosts couldn’t splinter wood.

Thankfully, he’d sunk the cleaver in so deeply he was having a hard time yanking it back out. Then, suddenly, he did.

It was going to be a shame that I hadn’t taken the time to pull on a sweatshirt, although the UPS man seeing my tacky, worn bra would soon be the least of my worries.

“Get down!”

I kissed carpet.

The report was louder than today’s fire alarm, but staccato—
bang, bang, bang
—and over more quickly, yet my ears rang just the same. A current that smelled of smoke swirled past, then something thudded next to my head.

The meat cleaver had missed me by an inch, slicing into the carpet and not my brain. The maniac fell right next to me, his weight causing the floorboards to jump beneath my cheek. I stared into his dead eyes.

Talk about a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

*   *   *

Bobby kicked the weapon away from the intruder’s hand. He’d seen enough dead men to know that this one was. Still, he was taking no chances.

He’d left the school in a rush, thinking Raye would be safe inside. He was nearly an hour away, driving past fields dotted with pumpkins, before it occurred to him that the kids were not imprisoned inside all day. They imbibed in that dangerous activity known as “recess,” and their teachers probably did too.

He’d turned around, then gotten stuck in a bumper-to-bumper jam when an eighteen-wheeler had jackknifed on the expressway. After taking the next exit, he had become horribly lost—the GPS on both his phone and the rental car telling him his destination lay on the other side of a field dotted with massive windmills. Unfortunately the road it instructed him to take through that field, in an annoyingly robotic voice he wanted to reach into the machine and rip out by the throat, did not exist.