Murder by Candlelight (38 page)

The other thing Z had to do was get home so
he could wrap a package. Take it to the post office before closing
time.

At the post office, finally at the counter,
Z's single question was: "When will this be delivered?" The clerk
weighed the small, brown paper wrapped package, the electronic
scales flashing the weight and postage.

"Tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Since it's local, 99%."

"Any way to make it 100?"

"I guess you could pay the
price for an overnight mailer. But
I
wouldn't. That's more for
out-of-town mail."

"I'll do that."

"What?"

"Buy the mailer."

"You sure?" the man asked, wrinkling his
forehead.

"Some things are worth the price," Z
said.

And the trap was set!

* * * * *

Chapter 21

Twelve fifty-six White Street, Liberty.

After another hot day, it was a cloudy
night. Coffin dark. Just the hint of early September cool about the
air.

Again, Z parked his car a block over, at the
shadowy back of the 7-Eleven lot. Using his penlight, he selected
the tools he thought he'd need from his detective satchel: picks,
sap, his own surveillance camera.

Getting out of the Cavalier so quietly even
the door catch failed to click, he reached in the backseat to lift
out the two bulging grocery sacks he'd packed that afternoon at
Safeway, using his knee to ease shut the door.

Carrying a sack in each arm, camera strap
around his neck, he made his way over the back curb of the brightly
lighted convenience store, across the velvety, tree-planted privacy
strip, to enter the dark throat of the narrow, loose-gravel alley
that led to Ashlock's home one street over. Just enough moonlight
to see by.

The air smelled of bug chewed leaves,
limestone dust, and little else.

Earlier that morning, Z had made the
fifteen-minute trip to Ashlock's part of Liberty, Z first dressing
in a white shirt and black string tie, Z going to Liberty as Pastor
Goodfellow, complete with plastic-laminated identity card to
"prove" he was the genuine religious article. (Johnny Dosso's I.D.s
were first-class fakes.)

Posing as the obnoxious Goodfellow,
exaggerating his natural limp to shame people into talking to him,
Z had gone up one side of Ashlock's street and down the next,
pounding on every door in order to outrage everyone who answered by
noisily claiming they were bound for hell unless they attended his
fictional Church of the Living Word.

No takers, of course.

Which wasn't the point, Z's only purpose to
make his presence known in the neighborhood. All to be able to
stand outside an absent Dean Ashlock's door for however long it
took to examine the lock -- without the neighbors getting
curious.

Cheap lock, as it turned out, one the "truth
in packaging" people should insist be labeled,
"Standard-pickable."

Besides "casing" the lock, Z had learned
that the dean's L-shaped ranch was a recent, and jarring addition
to an aged, tree-lined street of nineteenth century,
two-and-three-story "fixer-uppers." The Ashlock house a rambling
dogleg of a structure, painted white with dark green shutters,
perfectly clipped Virginia bluegrass surrounding it -- a lawn-look
achieved by professionals hired to administer lethal injections to
native grasses.

A cement driveway came in from White Street,
ending in a two-car garage; the house also accessed from the alley;
a massive oak tree sheltering the front of the house on the near
side.

His morning trip to
Liberty a success, Jamie Stewart had come over in the afternoon
(her body, sausage-stuffed into a too small red shirt and painted
on jeans,) Z showing Jamie how to focus and click the shutter of
the camera he'd bought for her, the flash the automatic kind that
went off in low light. Telling her she didn't have to buy film,
that the camera was ready to go (just point and shoot,) Z
bum-rushed the girl and camera out of the house before she could
even
think
of
getting "frolicsome." (A by-product of this Ashlock business was
Z's plan to put a choke-chain around the neck of bitchy Jamie
Stewart -- bitchy, but cute, in a perpetually-in-heat
way.)

Nighttime vanquishing another day, Z now
approached the Ashlock house from the back, leaving the alley to
weave past a strategically planted shadow fall of weeping willows,
then around trimmed shrubbery, and wood-slatted benches. With the
night as treacherously black as any coal shaft, Z's charmed passage
was the result of his morning's look at the Ashlock "estate."

Slipping to the front, putting the sacks
down on the stoop, adjusting the camera slung over his shoulder, Z
was relieved to find the package he'd sent right where it should
be, in the metal mailbox. Thinking about it, he decided to leave
the parcel where it was. In a business where details counted, it
wouldn't hurt to let Ashlock add his fingerprints to the package
while taking it inside.

Lock picks at the ready, storm door open, Z
turned his attention to the main door; had the house unlocked as
quickly as if he'd had a key. Picking up the grocery sacks, he
stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

Calder assuring Z that workaholic Ashlock
wouldn't return to his home until later that night, Z had time to
give the blacked out house the once-over, Z shifting one of the
bags to the crook of his arm to reach into his pocket for his
penlight, flicking on the tiny beam to use for slicing his way from
room to room.

Large living room, the room's furniture
transformed to squatty shadows by the little light. Tables, sofas,
overstuffed chairs, hassock, coffee table, drop-leaf table by one
wall, bookshelves, floor and table lamps. Impressive, in an
expensive, highly polished, barely lived-in way.

Skipping the den, he went down the hall
leading to the bedrooms: four of them, one unfurnished, sleeping
rooms featuring overlarge windows, each frosted with what Z's Mom
would have called "glass" curtains, behind the gauzy draperies,
yellow blinds, pulled down.

Backtracking to leave the
sacks in the hall -- both bags stuffed with party goodies: chips,
dip, liquor -- getting out his pocket knife, unfolding the blade, Z
returned to each bedroom to make an unobtrusive stab-twist in each
of the room's window shades, doing
anything
while strapped to a camera,
more difficult.

Rescuing the bags, Z found the kitchen,
putting the sacks on the kitchen counter.

What Ashlock would make of the mysterious
materialization of groceries (should he go into the shiny kitchen,)
Z didn't know. And didn't care. If the timing was right, it
shouldn't matter.

All Z had to do now was get out of the
house. (He'd already decided to hide behind the big tree; close to
the front door but hidden from the street.) After that, would come
the hard part. Waiting for the "party" to arrive.

Out the front door, clicking the lock shut
behind him, Z stepped behind the oak's thick trunk to become as
much a part of its rough bark as an ancient wen.

A quick review of the situation told him
that the vehicles he'd be looking for would park on the street;
conveyances driven by Dan -- the D.J. -- Jewell and Philip -- the
Asshole -- Scherer.

Z
knew
Scherer and, while Z had only
met Jewell once -- to Z's sorrow -- Z had also learned a thing or
two about
that
slippery bastard. What Z was betting his reputation on was
that both men would show. And show up early.

Z's calculations proving to be accurate, the
headlights of the first "interesting" car soon flashed into view,
its engine winding down, the car parking five houses away,
headlights switched off, no sound of a door opening to let its
driver out.

Scherer?

Risking a glance from behind his tree trunk,
Z could tell the vehicle was the sort of "unmarked" car Scherer
would be driving: a low-rent, fleet-purchased junker any criminal
would immediately type as cop bait.

Nor was Scherer -- eager as he was to add to
his fabricated reputation as Clay County drug-buster -- content to
stay in the comparative safety of his heap. Not Scherer. He hadn't
been on the scene five minutes when he got out to move closer to
the "drug" house.

With Scherer approaching, Z backed away from
the tree, turning to retreat in the opposite direction, down the
completely dark side yard.

At the back, Z pivoted to trot across other
yards; Z's plan, to circle the police captain.

Returning to the front sidewalk several
houses down, Z saw he was now behind Scherer.

With the advantage of surprise, Z tiptoed
after the captain, using the soft grass bordering the sidewalk to
absorb his footsteps, until he was within striking range of the
cautiously advancing cop, Z tapping Scherer asleep with Z's
blackjack. (To Z's discredit -- the Zapolska Code not allowing Z to
take pleasure in violence -- Z got a little thrill out of slugging
Scherer. Z could only hope that, in his enthusiasm, he hadn't
zapped the rat-faced cop too hard.)

As an afterthought, Z looked around to see
if anyone along the dark street had "caught" this action; was
relieved to find no one looking, everyone in the neighborhood
inside their houses, stuck to their TV screens like ancient insects
trapped in amber.

Scherer slumped to the ole-timey,
cracked-brick sidewalk, it was now only a matter of toting
Scherer's limp body to the Ashlock house; a feat, using a "dead
man" carry, Z accomplished with acceptable strain, getting the
captain through the front door, down the hall and into one of the
back bedrooms.

Dumping the still inert
cop on the bedspread, Z first unbuttoned the captain's neatly
pressed, snow white shirt -- before going to the kitchen to get a
bottle of booze and one of Ashlock's shot glasses, returning to the
bedroom to pour a drink, then to splash some hooch over Scherer's
chest. After which, Scherer certainly
smelled
like a party.

Pressing the Dean's fingerprints around the
glass and bottle, Z poured some whiskey into the glass, then put
both bottle and glass on a convenient night stand.

Z quickly out of the house; he was, once
again (as lumber men always intimated about environmentalists,)
eager to hug his tree. There, to wait for the next sucker to
arrive, D.J. Jewell not taking long, an antenna-festooned panel van
passing the house, squeaking to a stop up the street.

Z flashed his penlight at his wristwatch.
Eight-thirty.

Unless Z missed his guess by what his father
would have called a "country mile," Jewell would, even now, be
observing the "drug" house in his rear view mirror, waiting for
signs of a "party" before sneaking up to try to capture the
promised "police disgrace" on videotape. Also picking up some
"illegal" substances for evidence.

Time getting short, Z backed away from the
tree, careful to keep the tree trunk between him and the van in
question.

Clear of the tree, hustling down the side of
the house, turning at the back, Z broke into a knee-straining trot
across the Ashlock yard and through other, moonlit backyards until
he was certain he'd outdistanced the parked van.

Slowing, coming back
through a distant neighbor's side yard, approaching White Street
again, Z saw he was now two houses in
front
of the panel truck. A safe
enough distance for him to cross the street before slithering back
to squat down directly across the street from the van, in the
vehicle's blind spot, Z hoped!

The question of the moment was, would Jewell
have a camera-man with him? ... Unlikely. A hot dog like Jewell
would do the job himself. Credit-hounds worked alone.

Nor was Z disappointed, the ethereal halo of
a distant streetlight showing the shadow of but one head in the
van.

Bending low, Z crept across the dark street
until he'd reached the van's side, squatting down there below the
high, driver's window of what was more truck than minivan.

Now what? Jewell, lone wolf of the airwaves,
wasn't stupid. He'd have locked the doors ....

No problem.

Bending lower still, Z patted the surface of
the street until he found what all streets had to offer. A
pebble.

Duck-walking to put himself closer to the
driver's door, blackjack out and in his right hand, Z lobbed the
small rock with his left, a clumsy toss but one sure to have the
pebble hit the hood of the truck.

Click!

Not disappointing Z,
Jewell followed the course of action any man
would
have: opened the door to find
out what made that peculiar "engine" noise, receiving his
complimentary tap by way of explanation.

Another "body" delivered to Jewell's
house.

Put in yet another bedroom.

Anointed with still another drizzle of
alcohol, plus shot glass, and booze bottle.

Z's part in the evening's festivities over
for the moment, he left the house again to hide behind the tree, Z
hoping the rest of the plan went as smoothly as the evening had
gone so far. (Proud to be Immune from superstitions, he couldn't
help but feel he was overdo for some good luck.)

At least five, hour long minutes passed
before Z heard the sound he was hoping for, a car slowing as it
approached.

Z risked a flash of light at his watch.

Eight forty-five.

Like the automaton his was, Dean Ashlock was
coming home.

Car lights raked the front lawn as the dean
swung from the street into the small driveway on the other side of
the house.