Meeting Evil (20 page)

THE nightmare, or at least the worst phases of it, had begun to come to an end, and much more quickly than it had developed. First there was a jurisdictional dispute among the various police forces, and though John was “booked” at the state-police substation, he was soon taken, still manacled, to his own town, actually a medium-sized city, for arraignment, and his pleasure in going home, or anyway closer than he had been to home all day, was, once he began to recognize landmarks outside the windows of the car, almost immediately soured by the humiliation of returning in handcuffs. Suppose someone he knew saw him? He had watched with scorn the captured criminals who hid their faces from television news cameras as they were herded toward jail, but now was grateful for their example.

“Could you please handcuff me in front?” he asked Brocket. “Or to yourself? I think I have a right to cover my face.”

“I can see why you would be ashamed,” Brocket said, ignoring the request.

But things suddenly began to go John’s way when they reached city hall, one wing of which was occupied by police headquarters. Beneath the building was a parking garage for official cars. Trooper Franklin, still at the wheel, drove down the ramp and into a far corner of the underground enclosure. There was no need for John to hide his face: only some local officers were in attendance.

In the elevator, which traveled only one story but so slowly that the trip seemed eternal under the prevailing conditions, one of the local cops murmured something into Brocket’s ear.

“Huh?” Brocket asked in apparent disbelief, shaking his large head, turning to glance back, raising his brow, at Franklin. He was clutching John’s right elbow. John was still handcuffed at the small of his back.

Nothing further was said by anyone until the delegation, which attracted stares from a few corridor passersby (none of them reporters), went inside a large corner office and faced an incongruously frail-looking man wearing a gold-buttoned blue uniform and a white shirt the collar of which was slightly too large for his neck.

“Hi, John,” said he, putting out his hand. “I’m Chief of Police Marcovici.” He scowled at Brocket. “Take those cuffs off.”

“Chief, he’s our prisoner.”

Marcovici’s scowl grew darker. “That’s going to quickly change, Officer! This man should not have been collared in the first place. He’s been well vouched for. The lady came in who was a fellow captive. She not only cleared him of any possible suspicion, but she says he’s a hero, for God’s sake. The fugitive we want has been identified as Richard Harold Maranville. He was just released from Barnes Psychiatric, first thing this morning. He’s got a sheet it takes all day to read.”

Brocket was shaking his big head. “What about all the so-called eyeballs?”

“I don’t know how long you been in law enforcement,” said the chief, “but if it’s half as long as me, you know how questionable all witnesses are, I’d say especially those people who claim to have seen the whole thing, whatever that might be, if only a fender-bender.”

Brocket shrugged and admitted the truth of that sentiment. He unlocked John’s cuffs. “What were we supposed to do?” he asked the chief. “We got the call.”

The chief put his hand out again to John but spoke to Brocket. “I’m a good friend of your superintendent. We’ll do this informally. I’m going to tell him you and your partner did a fine job.”

“Appreciate it. I’m Brocket. My partner’s Franklin.”

“You owe me one,” the chief said amiably, then to John, shaking his somewhat benumbed hand, “We’re real sorry about this. The young lady’s right down the hall, and they brought the boy in, too. He’s settled down now and says you’re okay. He got you wrong at first, he says. Also the fine ladies at your place of business gave you a report that should make you feel good; they think the world of you. Mrs. Marcovici, my wife, knows Tess Masterson from the businesswomen’s association.” He grasped John’s shoulder. “We’re all proud of you, John. You’re one of our own. Now, if you don’t mind going down the hall and giving my men all the information you can on this Maranville.” He took his hand away. “You deserve a lot of credit for doing what you did with him. He’s got one of the worst records I’ve ever seen. In and out of one penal facility or another since he was a teenager. Lately he’s been working one of those fake deals at Barnes: ‘antisocial behavior due to an explosive personality disorder.’ They treat them with drugs for a while and let them
out as cured. You see what happens. Maranville’s a lot worse than when he went in. In the past he’s assaulted a lot of people and pulled a lot of robberies, usually getting very little money but hurting as many people as he can, but he’s never committed a homicide until today. Not for want of trying, though. He’s cut people real bad, and once he beat a man with a baseball bat, so savagely the victim’s brain-impaired. He’s the kind who should be burned, but no: we’ll go all through this again in a few years when they let him go still another time.”

“Excuse me, Chief,” said Trooper Brocket, “we’re gonna need some paper on the transfer.”

Marcovici said nothing but with a finger directed the trooper to one of the uniformed men who stood in wait.

Brocket spoke at John’s side. “No hard feelings. It’s the job.”

John felt light-headed. He nodded at the trooper, whom he could see clearly in the physical sense but who seemed morally a blur.

“Now, if you don’t mind going down the hall with this officer,” Marcovici said, pointing at another man in uniform, “we can—”

“My family!” John said. “Richie was heading for my home. Have you checked on my family?”

“Let me just get the latest on that,” said the chief, reaching for the phone on his desk and stabbing at one of the buttons on its panel.

“He was driving a Smithtown police car,” John said.

Marcovici winced and waved, and spoke into the telephone. John had now emerged fully from his momentary stupor and was exercised once more.

The chief said rapidly, “Okay, okay, get going! The man
is justifiably concerned.” He hung up. “Seems they’ve been trying to phone for quite a while, but the line’s been busy, and—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” John shouted, “what good are you people, anyway? You don’t send a car there, when some maniac is roaming the streets?”

“Now, take it easy, John,” Marcovici said, waving a pencil. “Let me set your mind at rest on one matter. The Smithtown car was found abandoned, just off the motorway at the Costerton exit. That’s a good thirty miles from here, and there haven’t been any reports of car thefts out that way.” The chief smiled. “Anyway, one of our cars is probably at your home by now. You live right near DeForest Park, I understand. Nice area. Your people will be okay, I guarantee. How many children do you have?”

“Two,” John said impatiently. “Look, can’t I go right there first and see them, then come back here?”

“We really have to nail this thing down,” Chief Marcovici said, coming to him and taking his elbow, though with a lighter touch than Brocket’s. “If you don’t mind, John. I know how bad your day has been, but—” With his free hand he was signaling to the remaining uniformed officers.

These men surrounded John as if he were still a prisoner and inexorably escorted him out the door and along a corridor to a roomful of shirt-sleeved men, some uniformed, some not. In a far corner was a partitioned enclosure, with a door paned in frosted glass. It was closed and bore no identification.

One of his escorts opened the door, and John saw Sharon and Tim for the first time since the episode at the barn. Sharon took him unaware with a cry of delight and a hug that was quite forceful for a woman of her size.

She thrust herself at arm’s length, holding onto his arms. “It’s so great to see you, John! God, it’s great!” Then she hugged him again.

John lost some of the fear that had obsessed him. These two were also a family of his, and he was deeply moved by Sharon’s obviously sincere affection.

“I’m glad to see you, Sharon. I feared the worst.” He felt a sudden access of guilt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” she asked with mock severity. “Isn’t saving our lives enough for you?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head regretfully. “I wish—” He continued to touch her but extended his free right hand to Tim, and the boy rose from his chair and diffidently shook it.

“We’re all okay now!” Sharon said with a rush of feeling, and she began to sob. John took her in his arms again and kissed her forehead and her cheek just before the tears reached it.

“I wish I could say I was as brave as either one of you,” he said. “I made too many mistakes.”

“Mr. Felton,” a male voice said impatiently, “I’m Detective Lang.” He wore a brushy mustache and was seated at the table in the middle of the room. A gold shield hung on a tab from the upper pocket of his tweed sports jacket. A tape recorder sat near his forearm. “Would you like to sit down, so we can get the whole story of what happened today?” As John approached the table, Lang stood up and shook his hand.

“Look,” said John, “I can tell you later. First I want to check on my wife and children. They’ve been home alone all day, and nobody’s reached them yet.” He had no intention of being further obstructed by the police, and started for the door.

But behind him Lang, still standing, said, “John, please! As soon as our car gets to your house and finds everything okay, they’ll call in. Please, we
got
to get this bad guy, and you can really help.”

This was the effective note to strike, all right. Now that Sharon was praising him for his nonexistent heroism, John believed more than ever that he had been disgustingly inadequate in dealing with Richie. He came back to the table and sat down in the chair that Sharon and Tim had left vacant between them. Sharon was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

He turned to the boy. “You realize now, I guess, that I wasn’t Richie’s willing partner. But it was dumb of me to break that phone line. I don’t know why I did that. I wasn’t thinking, and it was stupid. I want you to know I’ll pay for the damage.”

Tim consoled him. “You had a lot on your mind at the time. You were under a lot of pressure. Sharon told me what you guys had to go through all day.”

John asked Sharon, “Are you all right? I never got a chance to talk to you alone after we drove out of town. You seemed out of it for a while, but then you really snapped back.” Having said as much, he wondered whether he should have: Richie had claimed she was on drugs.

It turned out Richie had been right, for the wrong reasons. “I’ve got a condition I take medication for.” She smiled brightly, through smeared eye makeup. “It’s not life-threatening, just a pain in the neck, but it kicked up there.”

“
You
knew from the first what he was,” John said. “That’s what gets me. I didn’t have a clue. If I had, just think, maybe I could have saved that poor girl at the gas station.”

Sharon clasped his hand on the table. “And maybe not, too, John. He had a knife, didn’t he?”

John shook his lowered head. “I guess. I didn’t see it. But
he never threatened me, never raised a hand against me all day. You saw that. He got this idea I was his friend. I probably could have done a lot more than I did, using that against him. But I didn’t!”

“John,” said Detective Lang. “Can we get this going in a more structured way? How did you meet this Maranville in the first place, and then try to remember as many details as you can about everything that happened afterwards.” Lang nodded at Tim and then at Sharon. “And you two can jump in at the right point if you remember something on your own. I got your original statements, but John might mention something that will trigger your own memory, either one of you.”

John turned his hand so that he was clasping Sharon’s. “Christ, how could I know he would go into the taxi office and attack that woman!”

“How
could
you know?” Sharon asked. “Nobody’s blaming you, John. So just stop this stuff! Think of what you did for Tim and me.”

“John,” said Lang.

“I think you two saved yourselves,” John said, “in spite of me. That’s what I think.”

“John,” asked the detective, dancing his fingers above the tape-recorder buttons. “If you would, please?” He spoke toward the machine, identifying himself, John, Sharon, and Tim. “Now, John, when did you first encounter Richard Harold Maranville today, and did you know him prior to today?”

John stirred in his chair, taking his hand from Sharon’s. “There’s been enough time now for your people to get to my house and report! Why don’t I hear anything?”

Lang touched the side of the machine. “I’m sure we will any minute now. We’re giving it priority. Maybe the officer was delayed getting there.” He gazed blandly at John’s stare
but in the next instant turned off the tape recorder and stood up. “Let me go check for you. I know you’re concerned.” He carefully closed the glass door on his departure.

“The least he can do,” Sharon said indignantly. “You know, you can sue them for false arrest, and I guess he knows that.”

“It was the state troopers who did it,” John said. “They had no choice, I suppose. Hell, several people said it was
me
who committed the crimes.” He immediately regretted having made the statement: Tim was probably one of those witnesses. He turned to the lad. “I don’t mean you. You had good reason.”

Tim had been looking bored, but he now displayed a grin. “Dumbest thing I did was not go out and grab the twelve-gauge when you left it on the porch. Then I coulda shot Richie when he showed up.”

“I’ll bet you would have done it, too.” John was sincere. “Living out in the country, you probably know about guns.” Beyond that, the boy had proved to be resolute.

“There’s not a whole lot to know about them,” said Tim. “You just point them at what you want to hit and blast away.” He lost his grin and said soberly, “Well, there
is
something to learn. My dad taught me what I know. But when he left, he took all his guns with him.”

“I was wondering,” John asked, “If maybe I bought a gun and took it out there, you might give me lessons? I’d be willing to pay you.”