Lark (23 page)

Lark had massaged the bridge of his nose and inspected the remains of a pepperoni pizza. “Did you see any odd construction in any one of them that looked out of place?”

Horse had shaken his head. “Nothing. In all the ones I checked out there was nothing remotely resembling any sort of torture room. They were all ordinary campers.”

Lark had looked down at his list. All the names but two had now been checked off. “Herb's bringing his to work tomorrow.”

“That leaves Renfroe Martin.”

“Yes, doesn't it?”

“Tomorrow's the last day before shift rotation, Lieutenant, and that means four days off for our boy. It's got to be Martin.”

“I hope to God it is.”

There was a car parked by the trailer. He stopped the pickup by Faby's car. He didn't want to deal with her tonight. He was tired and all he wanted was a beer and shower.

She stood in the door with the light bracketing her trim body. “That you, Lark?”

“Uh huh. I'm beat, Fabe.”

“I would have words with you.” Unbidden, she went to the refrigerator and took out a can of beer and handed it to him.

Lark threw himself down on the divan after gratefully accepting the beer. “How do people who work in factories afford twenty-thousand-dollar recreational vehicles?”

“Their spouses work, the kids work, everybody works. You're one to talk about money. Where do you keep all yours?”

“Mostly in money markets, some CDs here and there,” he replied sleepily. “I have some convertible preferred that looks good for growth.”

She sat primly in a straight chair. “Have you been down to headquarters recently?”

“We're working undercover. I haven't been to the office in a while.” He gulped beer;

“Look at this.” She threw him a folded copy of the
Middleburg Times
.

He plucked it from the air. “I'm too tired for the funnies.”

“Page one, right-hand column.”

He forced himself to read the short article. Méndez was dead. The young man who had sued him for brutality had been found curled around an ashcan, dead of an overdose. “I read it,” he said, and dropped the paper to the floor.

“I thought you'd be interested. Isn't that the kid who was after you?”

“Uh huh.”

“Doesn't that mean the suit will be dropped?”

“Probably.”

“I don't want to see you anymore, Lark. That's why I came over to wait for you.”

“Not now, Fabe. I've been looking at campers all night after working all day, and the last couple of nights haven't been so hot either.”

“You drink too much.”

“Stipulated.” He lay his arm across his eyes.

“You're tired because you're depressed.”

“I won't even argue that.”

“And you're depressed because of the work you do.”

“And because I don't seem any closer to some psycho who's running all over New England killing young women.”

“It's deeper than that.”

“Uh huh.”

“I want to talk about our relationship,” she said. “I mean, really talk …”

He would have agreed if he hadn't been sound asleep.

17

He couldn't see his face in the small bathroom mirror because her note was taped over the surface. He squinted at her spindly handwriting, ripped the note from the mirror, and took two steps into the kitchen, where he eased gingerly onto a high stool.

“I have been fortunate enough to have received a formal education,” the note read, “of twelve years of secondary work, four years as an undergraduate, and over three years of graduate studies. This mental honing allows me to write clearly and succinctly, therefore, go FUCK yourself.”

He had to smile. After all, it did show a certain verve.

In the employees parking lot of the Macklin Company, Herb Harper lounged in the driver's seat of a Heritage camper. He waved at Lark.

The recreational vehicle's door stood open as Lark shuffled over. “I have coffee on, Lark. Come on in.”

“That would hit the spot,” Lark said as he stepped inside.

Harper was as effervescent as his quiet manner would allow. “How do you like the layout? Everything's compact and mostly built in.” He poured two cups of strong coffee and laced Lark's with a heavy slug of brandy. “Take a swig of this and I'll give you the tour.”

“I live in a trailer,” Lark said as he sipped coffee and felt the double warmth seep through his stomach. “No tour.”

Harper arched an eyebrow. “You live in a trailer and yet you want to buy a camper? That doesn't make much sense.”

“Suppose not.”

“I have the feeling that you aren't what you seem to be.”

“Nobody's what they seem to be, Herb.” He drank more coffee-brandy and slowly looked over the vehicle's interior. It was immaculate, as he knew it would be, for Harper was that kind of man. In other ways, it was perfectly ordinary-looking. There were no acoustical walls, and no matter how they were bound, there were no compartments large enough to hold murder victims. It was purely and simply, a recreational vehicle. He finished the coffee. “We're going to be late punching in.”

Harper smiled. “Does it really matter for you?”

Lark returned the smile. “I guess it doesn't. This is my last day here.”

“I suspected as much. You're here to check out campers, right?”

“Got to all of them but one.”

“Martin's sexmobile.”

“I'm going to have a talk with ol' Renfroe.”

“Where's Renfroe Martin?” Lark asked Horse as he passed his partner's machine with a clipboard in his hand.

“He called in sick; the senior lead man is running the shift. No one believes him, they think he's got some hot bimbo lined up for a trip in his sexmobile.”

“Come on!” Lark began to run around the floor's perimeter walk.

“We've got to punch out,” Horse yelled as he brought up the rear.

“Christ, Horse, the city pays us, these people don't.”

“What about my machine?”

Lark pushed through the door to the loading dock and jumped off the platform to take off across the parking lot. He slammed into the pickup and unlocked the glove compartment. He took the Colt Python from its resting place, shoved it into the waistband of his trousers, and started the engine.

The truck was rolling with the passenger side door open as Horse puffed after it and swung inside. “You think it's him?”

“He made us. Harper did, and I'm sure that Martin did too.”

“I don't know where he lives.”

The truck screeched out of the parking lot and rocked onto the highway. “The MVD list is in my case.”

Horse fumbled through papers and finally called out an address, “Seventeen-ten Willow, that's in the north part of—”

“I know where it is.” Lark reached under the seat and picked up the flasher light, which he attached to the roof by its suction cup. The pickup accelerated. “We got him,” Lark said. They pulled into the 1700 block of Willow Street and could see a camper in the drive of 1710. The pickup jumped the curb in front of 1710 and Lark swung it broadside at the rear of the camper, effectively blocking it in the carport. “Call for backup,” he said as he jumped from the truck and reached for the Python.

Renfroe Martin, his face beet-red in anger, slammed through the front door of the ranch house and stalked toward Lark. “What in the hell are you doing driving over my lawn?” He stopped stock-still when he saw Lark take a shooter's crouch and level the Python. “Holy shit!”

“Turn around slowly,” Lark said as he cautiously approached. “Get your hands up high or I'll blow you the fuck apart.”

“You're crazy.”

A heavy woman in tight stretch pants and red hair too brilliant to be natural appeared in the doorway with a drink in her hand. “You ready to leave, Froe?”

“Two units are on the way,” Horse said.

“Cover the woman.”

“I'll try.” Horse walked over to the redhead and gently took the glass from her hand.

Lark realized that his large partner didn't have his weapon. “Watch her. If she moves, fall on her.”

“Hey, what's going on here?” the redhead protested.

There were sirens in the distance. In forty-five seconds half a dozen men in uniform swarmed over the yard, searched the suspects, and waited for orders from Lark.

“I knew you were a cop,” Renfroe Martin said as he was pressed against the side of the house and cuffed.

“How'd you know?” Horse asked out of curiosity.

“You kept calling him lieutenant, for Christ' sake.”

Lark walked over to the woman in the tight pants. “Do you have any ID?”

“Why should I show identification. I live here, for God's sake? Ask anybody on the street. I'm Flo Martin.”

“I wonder if you would let me see inside your camper?”

“Screw you,” Martin said. A cop shoved him and he staggered to maintain his balance.

“I can have a warrant in half an hour. If you let me see the camper voluntarily, I'll see that the prosecuting attorney hears about it.”

“What's going on?” the woman screeched again. “Froe, you been drinking again?” She looked over at Lark. “Do you have him on a DUI charge?”

“Not hardly.”

More cars arrived and the woman looked awed. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn't have the whole force out here on any drunk-driving charge.”

“Last offer, Martin. Let me see inside the camper.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Pleasant guy, isn't he?” Horse said as he walked ominously toward Renfroe Martin, who now had his hands cuffed to a waist chain. Horse began to rub one mass of knuckles with his other hand.

“Don't you hit him!” the woman screamed as she strained against the officer holding her. “For God's sake, Froe, let him see the camper.”

Martin watched Horse approach and then croaked that the keys were on a ring in his right-hand pocket.

While Horse obtained the keys, Lark walked to the heavily curtained camper. “Let Mrs. Martin come with me, so everyone knows this is a voluntary admission.” He contemplated the camper's dusty sides as the redhead scurried to him. “Your husband goes off in this thing alone every couple of weeks?”

“No. Where he goes, I go. I don't let him out of my sight for ten minutes, except to go to work and back.”

Lark vaguely remembered a case in England years ago where a man and women killed victims on desolate moors and not only tortured them but also recorded their cries. Horse unlocked the camper's door and they stepped inside.

A heavy curtain that parted in the center separated the driving compartment from the rear of the camper. Lark gingerly parted the folds of heavy velvet and stepped through into the dim interior.

“Jesus Christ!” Horse said behind him.

Having toured a rash of campers of all sizes, models, and makes in recent days, Lark was familiar with the normal configurations of this type. It had been extensively remodeled, and its resemblance to the factory-delivered appearance was not even remote.

Just beyond the driver's compartment, the galley area had been shortened and now contained only a sink and small refrigerator. A bar had been built and numerous bottles of liquor, of all brands and types in various stages of consumption, were stored in racks that lined the walls. The last portion of the vehicle was filled with a massive bed that stretched from one side to the other. A VCR recorder and television was positioned on the wall over the bed, near where dozens of X-rated tapes were stored on a shelf.

“It's a moving bordello,” Lark said.

“We call it our humpmobile,” Flo Martin said. “Now are you guys satisfied?”

“Will you tell me exactly what you people do in here?” Lark asked.

She raised a deeply penciled eyebrow. “You must get your kicks this way.”

“Answer the question.”

“We ball in here.”

“Your house is five feet away.”

“It's not the same,” she said. “Listen, I got a problem with Froe out there. He's like sex-crazy. So, no matter what shift he works, I'm ready for him before he leaves and I'm ready for him when he comes home. Twice, maybe three times a day, I give it to him. He don't have no energy left to ball any chicks down at the factory or even somebody he might pick up at the supermarket. No way do I leave him enough energy for anybody else.”

“But you take trips in this thing,” Lark said. “You drive through New England during the days off.”

“Hell, we hardly ever get it out of the drive.”

“I think those people are telling the truth,” Horse said.

“I'm having uniforms check it out with the neighbors, but we know what the answer will be. God damn!” Lark pounded the steering wheel with both fists. The truck swerved toward a bus as he fought for control. The bus's horn sounded in Doppler effect as it faded to the rear.

“What now, Lieutenant?”

“We turn over everything we have to the state police, you go back on traffic, and I put in my papers.”

They were silent. Lark drove without seeing and tried to peer into a blank future. Most senior, officers his age took a job with private industry in large security departments and were glad to have the added income to augment their pensions. Lark didn't consider himself emotionally constituted to hold a job that required a good deal of public relations and diplomacy. Other men had hobbies: woodworking was popular, the outdoor types took off for Maine with rod and reel. He would probably report to the nearest bar and proceed to irrevocably damage the remaining portions of his liver.

They turned into the lot at police headquarters, where Lark parked in the chief's reserved slot.

They worked on the files for two hours. Both men were concerned that they be in the best possible shape. Lark kept putting off the requisite calls to the state police and to Frank Pemperton.