Liar (25 page)

“Thank you, Mrs. Havens,” I heard him say. “Yes, I’m glad I had some time with him, too… No, I didn’t know you had known him that long. Listen, Mrs. Havens, I need to speak with Father Chris. Is he in?”

There was a wait, then Travis said, “Hi, Chris? Can my cousin and I come by to talk with you for a few minutes? Thanks-you’re sure this is an okay time?”

An elderly woman greeted us at the rectory door. She exclaimed and fussed over Travis, asking several times if she could bring him anything, until a handsome, dark-haired man of about thirty came into the room. He was wearing jeans, work boots and a flannel shirt, and said, “Thank you, Annie.” She left with some reluctance, and only after Travis assured her he would visit again soon. The man in the jeans turned to us as the door closed behind her, and said to Travis, “She used to work for your father, you know.”

“So she’s been telling me. How are you, Chris?”

This was Father Chris?

“I’m all right, Travis,” he was answering. “Doing better now that I know you’re back.” He turned to me. “You must be the cousin?”

Travis apologized and introduced me to Father Christopher Karis, who, we learned, had climbed down off a roof to talk to us.

“Happy to be called away from roof repairs,” he said, extending a hand. “Which side of the family are Kellys?”

“His mother’s,” I said.

He smiled. “So she did contact her nieces. At a time like this, it must be such a comfort to Briana to have Travis back, and to be seeing her sister’s children again. Travis, what happened to your hand?”

Travis looked as if he had been punched. “Chris…” He couldn’t manage more.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the priest. “Briana was killed three weeks ago, in a hit-and-run accident.”

We didn’t rush things after that. We gave Father Chris what few details we had regarding Briana’s death. His shock and grief kept either of us from asking him any questions for a time, but he quickly became more concerned with Travis.

“But-then you don’t know! Travis, they married!”

Travis looked at me, then back at Father Chris. “Why?”

“Why? The best reason in the world. They loved each other.”

“But she was so bitter-”

“She let go of that, Travis.”

“She forgave him?”

“Yes. Yes, and asked his forgiveness. And I know she sought yours, too. She saw that all of this had been hardest on you, who hadn’t done a thing to deserve it. She came to regret those years-”

“I understood!” Travis said. “Didn’t she know that?”

“I think she did. She told me that after you started traveling, she started thinking. You brought them back together, you know.”

“No, you know she just finally listened to you. But there was so much wasted time!” Travis said.

“Yes, I suppose there was. But does that matter now? Both of your parents found some happiness together. Both were good and generous people-human and imperfect, yes, but good at heart. I sincerely believe they’re together now, in a life without pain or suffering, without separation or loneliness.”

“Yes,” Travis said after a while, “I guess I believe that, too. I just wish- I wish we could have all been together, a family again, even for a little while.”

“I know, Travis. And I’m sorry that you weren’t able to have that. But you aren’t without family-” He glanced toward me. “You have your cousins; perhaps other members of your family will be reconciled. And you have a family here-this parish will always welcome you.”

They agreed to meet again soon, and Father Chris told Travis to call him anytime-day or night-if Travis needed to talk or if he could be of help to him in any way.

Travis didn’t talk much as we left, other than to give directions to his father’s office-his office, too, I reminded myself. The office was in a beautiful old brick building, one that had once belonged to an insurance company. It stood with dignity between two taller, newer and less lovely structures, separated from them by more than the narrow alleys on each side. Travis told me that his father had bought it for a song, made a few repairs and brought it up to earthquake code. The offices took up the entire top story-the ninth floor, he said. Most of the rest of the building was rented out to other businesses.

There were a few people walking around on the downtown street that Saturday morning, but far less than the usual crowd. It wasn’t hard to find a van-sized parking space.

“I know what’s bothering me,” Travis said as I turned off the engine. “But what’s bothering you?”

“Beyond seeing how hard all of this is on you?”

He nodded.

“McCain. If your mother received anything-community property, anything-after your dad died, and that holographic will was the last one she made, I’m going to be suspect number one.”

“Ulkins will probably know what the situation is,” he said. “Mr. Brennan can help us with any legal hassles.”

I was out of the van when I realized that although he had opened his door, he was having trouble unfastening the seat belt using one hand. I had just stepped around to his side of the van when we heard glass shatter.

Pebbles of it pelted hard down on us, blue-green gravel from the sky. We hardly noticed the glass, though, for as we turned toward the building an object hurtled onto the sidewalk next to us, spraying us with blood and God knows what else, making a horrible sound, a sort of crackling thunk, as if someone had smashed a carton of eggs by hurling a watermelon at it.

This helpless missile had been a man, a frail old man.

I looked away, looked up to see where he had fallen from, and saw a sight so incongruous, I wondered if my mind had finally snapped. Above us, leaning out through a broken ninth-story window, was a man in a black wetsuit, wearing a ski mask and gloves.

Someone a few feet away started screaming, and soon several people were screaming, shouting, running toward us. I looked to see Travis, bending over the awful mess on the sidewalk, shouting, “No!” He took a breath, filled his lungs, and let it out in a long, loud “No!” again and again and again.

I shoved through the flow of people who came toward us, moved away from my cousin and the remains of a man I already knew must have been Ulkins, ran out of the crowd and into the building, hell-bent to catch the son of a bitch who was seriously screwing up the Maguire family reunion.

I got lucky-the lobby was empty, an elevator car was open and waiting. I was in it and on my way up to the ninth floor before my temper cooled off enough to allow me to ask myself what the hell I thought I was going to do when I caught up with Mr. Death in a Wetsuit. I quickly pressed eight, got out on that floor, pulled the stop button, then the “down” call button to bring the other car. When it arrived, I did the same thing- pulled the stop button. If he hadn’t escaped already, he wasn’t going to take an elevator. That left the stairwell. He might have plans for using the roof, but he’d be obvious-people on the street would be looking up at the ninth floor, the top of the building.

A man running around downtown in a wetsuit would be equally obvious. Anyone who was wearing a wetsuit inside an office building didn’t just happen to walk in off the street that way; he planned to wear it, and must have plans for getting out of it and into less attention-grabbing attire. I was counting on that to give me some time to limit his escape options.

I hurried toward the stairwell, to my right. I would just keep an eye on him, I told myself. From a safe distance. I’d stay low until I heard him pass by, then step into the stairwell and get a look at him. Tell the police where he had gone, give as good a description of his street clothes as I could manage. Nothing more. No revenge-yet.

This darkened floor of the building seemed deserted; all the office doors along the long, L-shaped hallway were closed. All was quiet. At the top of the L, far behind me, a tall window at the other end of the hall provided soft low light. The end I was approaching, near the stairwell door, was brighter. As I reached that part of the hall, I saw that the light came from a larger, second window-an old fire escape. I wondered briefly if he would make use of it, but decided he would not-too much exposure, and unlike the stairwell, it made access to other floors more difficult.

As I neared the stairwell door, I heard a soft clicking sound behind me and whirled, but saw nothing. I felt myself break out in a cold sweat. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with a loud ringing, a giant’s brass alarm clock, echoing off the walls-the elevators. The stop buttons must have had a timer on them-and now the alarm bells were heralding my presence to anyone one floor above. I ran back down the hallway, got into one of the cars and slammed my palm against the stop button, then hit the “close doors” button. Nothing happened. The ringing was so loud in this enclosed space, it made me clench my teeth. I wasn’t going to stay in that elevator car.

I considered going into the stairwell, or a nearby janitor’s closet, but opted instead for the fire escape. What would have been his disadvantage would be my advantage-and outside the back of the building, I might see any exit the killer made from this side.

The bells kept ringing, the hall seemed to be made of the sound. I stepped closer to the window, took hold of the latch on the sash, and vaguely recognized the reflection of something dark before he grabbed me from behind and yanked me backwards, off balance. A large, black rubber hand, coated in something wet and warm and sticky, covered my face. The smell of it mixed with rubber made me want to pull away, but he held me tight, his much larger arm pinning both of my arms; I felt the weird smoothness of the neoprene suit against my skin, on my neck and arms, as he lifted me off my feet, and even as I kicked at him, turned and slammed my head into the wall.

Dazed, I saw nothing but black wetsuit and the wall as he maneuvered me against it; I made some useless efforts to push away, then felt searing pain on my already aching scalp as he took hold of a handful of my hair and yanked it hard. His other hand took me by the belt; he lifted me from my feet by these two handles and swung me toward the wall again.

At the last instant, I realized his intention and tried to shield my face with my arms, twisted my head just enough to prevent myself from hitting completely face-first. It hurt like hell anyway, the impact strong enough to give me a bloody nose. He slightly changed his grip, picked me up, and twisting at the last minute, managed to land another blow to my head. I didn’t feel anything after the moment of impact.

I awakened, if you can call it that, to heat, and the smell of something burning. Neoprene. And rubber gloves. And other things. I had no idea how long I had been out, but I could still hear the goddamn elevator bells ringing and took that to be a good sign. People would be coming into the building, they would hear the bells. No, I thought-slowly, it seemed-people don’t run into burning buildings.

I was dizzy, and facedown on the linoleum, which-a few feet away from me-was also on fire. I couldn’t see very far. The hallway was filling with smoke. I looked for an exit, but the stairwell and the hallway to the elevators were blocked by a bonfire of sorts. An evidence fire, with what looked like a few items from the janitor’s closet thrown in for good measure.

I tried to move, found my hands tied behind my back, but my feet free. Telling myself that being burned alive would hurt worse, I tried to ignore the aching in my head and face and the strain on everything else as I pulled my knees up to my chest, worked my hands down over my rear and feet, then rolled to my back, bringing my hands in front of me. They were bound by an electrical cord, and I decided not to waste time trying to untie them-I needed to get the hell out of the building.

I moved awkwardly toward the fire escape again, staying low, trying to breathe the cooler air near the floor. By the time I had reached the window, the heat was intense, the smoke thickening. As I stood and reached for the window latch, I prayed to God that Arthur Spanning had maintained his building well.

The window opened easily, and set off another loud alarm, but my head was already ringing. I half-crawled, half-fell out onto the fire escape, and only then heard sirens and shouting. I was on my back, looking at the sky, which also had smoke in it, and a helicopter. But although smoke was billowing out after me, compared to the hallway the air here was cool and good, and for the next few moments, all I could do was close my eyes and take big gulps of it into my lungs. Someone in the helicopter said something over a loudspeaker and I’m fairly sure it had to do with me, because soon a fireman was on the fire escape, talking to me, freeing my hands.

“Travis!” I said, sitting up too quickly.

“Someone else in the building?” he asked, apparently pleased I was responding to him.

“No-at least I don’t think so. Outside-a young man, with a bandaged hand-”

“Oh, the owner of the building. He’s okay. He’ll be happy to know that we’ve found you. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Travis was waiting for me in the alley, and I made no complaint when the embrace he gave me sent a memo from everything that had hit the wall. It was good to know he was safe, still here, that the killer hadn’t somehow taken him away, too. When he stepped back, paramedics came toward me-but a familiar voice said, “Irene? Can I talk to you first?”

I turned to see Reed Collins, a Las Piernas homicide detective. I was relieved that Ulkins’s death was going to be Reed’s case; relieved, not just because I have faith in his abilities but because Reed works with Frank, and maybe as a way of doing penance for his actions when Frank was taken hostage, he has treated me with kid gloves ever since. I needed a break from bullies.

“Sure, Reed,” I said, “but I didn’t get a good look at him. He came at me from behind, never said a word. He was wearing a wetsuit, but it’s one of the things he set on fire up there.” Remembering how he had grabbed me, I said, “I think he’s right-handed.”