The Dead Room (8 page)

It took three tries to make it up the mile long hill on Devon State Road—the third attempt a nail-biter at fifty miles an hour. The car slipped and skidded, requiring both sides of the two-lane road, but he made it over the hill with enough momentum and didn’t veer off into the trees. Once he glided over the other side, he crossed Lancaster Pike and headed south on Waterloo Road. Two miles down, he pulled into the driveway and noticed Quint Adler’s car parked beside his mother’s. The lights were on in the barn out back. Even with the doors closed he could smell the oak burning from the wood stove and knew they were still working.

Teddy was grateful that Quint was here. He was grateful to Quint for a lot of things, but tonight it was just because he wanted to be alone.

He got out of the car and looked at the house in the snow. It was an elegant colonial farmhouse built in 1820 and set on four acres of wooded land. A long way off from Holmesburg Prison. His father had bought the property before Teddy could remember, remodeling the stone house and building a greenhouse off the den for his mother. Once the renovations were complete, his father got started on the barn, converting the space into an art studio for her as well.

A car ambled down the road. Teddy watched it pass the house, listening to its engine tick and marveling at the way snow muffled the sound. He looked across the street where the open fields had been eaten up by one housing development after the next just as his father said they would. The big houses were set down in haphazard clusters as if the result of a tornado, the architecture cheap and grotesque. Even worse, none of the people who lived in these homes believed in planting trees. Instead they preferred the open look, marring the once pastoral setting with a show of money and turning the rolling hills into a garish eyesore. To Teddy, the layout reminded him of a graveyard.

Teddy flicked his cigarette into the street, grabbed his briefcase from the car and walked around back to the kitchen door. Kicking the snow off his shoes, he stepped inside and got out of his jacket. He needed a drink. Not his usual beer, but something stronger. He decided on vodka, pulling the blue bottle out of the freezer and filling a large glass loaded with ice to the brim. He took a first sip, letting the smooth liquid coat his throat and warm his stomach. Then he headed up the back staircase to his room, hoping the medicine would quiet him down.

He switched on the light and closed the door, taking another sip of vodka before setting the glass on the table beside the bed. Opening his cell phone, he thought he’d give Barnett another try and punched in his number at home. After two rings, Barnett’s service picked up again.

Teddy was trapped and he knew it. He couldn’t leave the firm because his debt after four years of college and three more years at law school amounted to one-hundred-and-ninety-thousand dollars. The interest on his loans was costing him another eighteen-thousand a year. After making loan and credit card payments each month, his check barely covered food and clothes. He needed this job, but he couldn’t continue helping Barnett either. Not with Oscar Holmes.

He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. It was after midnight. A football game or movie must have delayed the schedule because the local news was still on. Teddy sat on the bed, watching the broadcast as he sipped his drink. The news readers had cut to a live shot of Darlene Lewis’s house in the snow storm. The reporter was a woman who looked more like a model. She had big hair and capped teeth, wore too much makeup and jewelry, and in spite of the harsh weather conditions, left her jacket open so everyone could see her Armani suit underneath. The death house was dark and haunting and provided just the right backdrop for the story, the police long gone. The model stood on the front steps, explaining what happened that day in broad strokes and pretending that she was afraid. But she wasn’t a very good actress, and her half smile seemed out of place. Teddy wondered if she wasn’t really happy about what had happened to Darlene Lewis this morning. Ratings would be up. Murder paid for the Armani suit and the car and house and mutual funds that went with it. The model had a big story and everyone would be watching her tonight in spite of the hour.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

The live shot cut to footage recorded earlier in the night, but it wasn’t much of a relief. Teddy watched as the people from the medical examiner’s office wheeled Darlene Lewis’s corpse out the front door on a gurney and rolled it into their van. The sight of the body bag brought it all back, and Teddy could see the girl still tied down to the dining room table, screaming through her gag. The friendly neighborhood mailman was standing over her. Holmes had been teased once too often, he imagined. Pulling out his knife, he’d cut her flesh away and eaten it.

Teddy switched off the TV and killed the lights, lying back on the bed and considering his options as he gulped down more medicine. There weren’t any, he decided. His eyes moved through the darkness to the twelve-gauge shotgun mounted on the wall beside the window. He’d inherited the gun after his father’s death. A long time ago, when the world was a different place and the fields on the other side of the street were just fields and not graveyards. They used to shoot skeet together, just the two of them. Sometimes they’d leave the gun behind and just walk, spooking the pheasants hidden in the tall grass. He could see the gleam in his dad’s eyes as the colorful birds took flight. He could still smell the scent of his aftershave mixed with sweat when he hugged his father and kissed him on the cheek. Teddy hadn’t fired the gun since it came into his possession thirteen years ago. Instead, he preferred to look at it and dream about the way things were before they took his father away, accusing him of murder, and not protecting him from his own cellmate. Strung out and crazed, the man had beaten his father to death because he couldn’t get his hands on enough money to buy drugs. The man needed another hot load and would’ve done anything to get it.

Holmesburg Prison ...

Teddy finished off the glass of vodka. The room was spinning. As he laid his head on the pillow and gazed out the window at the falling snow, he hoped he wouldn’t dream tonight.

EIGHT

Teddy poured a cup of coffee and walked down the hall to his office. Before he could get to his desk, Brooke Jones had picked up his scent and was in his face full-blown.

“Why didn’t you call me back last night?” she said. “This is a professional office. When someone leaves a message, you’re supposed to return the call. And don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”

He sat down, taking in her attitude as he sipped the hot coffee and gazed out the window. It was eight-thirty, and he was already working on his third cup. The vodka hadn’t helped. It had been a night of tossing and turning, fighting off his demons and nightmares, and waking up every hour or so in a cold sweat. By 5:00 a.m. the bed sheets were soaked through to the mattress and he’d had enough. Deciding to get an early start on the day, he got dressed and drove into town. It was a warm, sunny day—the weather as crazy as Brooke Jones.

“You’re not hearing me,” she said. “We’re going to trial in two weeks and you still have the motion papers. I want your files. I want all of them right now.”

He turned away from the window and finally looked at her. She was in a hurry again. All worked up over nothing and shouting orders at him.

“Who says it’s your case, Brooke?” he asked calmly.

“I was in court yesterday,” she shot back. “It’s my case. Barnett said so.”

“That was yesterday, and I appreciate what you did for me.”

“What are you talking about? I spoke with Barnett last night. He said it’s my case until you’re finished with whatever you’re doing for him. He’s pulling all your cases.”

Teddy had been in the office waiting for Barnett for more than an hour. When he tried reaching him by phone, he hit his voice mail just as he had last night. Teddy’s anger had subsided, and he was beginning to worry about the man. But now the anger was back. The feeling that he was being used.

“What time did you talk to him last night?” he said.

“After eleven. After you didn’t call me back. Now where are the files?”

She pushed his mail aside and started going through his desk as if it were her own.

“Please don’t do that,” he said.

She picked up another file and opened it. She must not have heard him. Teddy stood up, stepping between her and the desk.

“Get out,” he said.

She stopped and gave him a look. Her eyes narrowed.

“This is a favor,” she said. “Who wants a personal injury case anyway? I could care less.”

“If you don’t care, then stop whining and get out.”

“I’ve been here longer than you have. I’ve got more experience. Why is Barnett always asking you for help instead of coming to me?”

“I don’t know, Brooke. I’m not a mind reader. I’m just asking you to leave.”

He held her gaze, knowing she was seething. When she finally turned and stomped out, he sat back down and sighed in her wake. His head was throbbing, behind his eyes and just below the left temple. He opened his briefcase, grabbed the bottle of aspirin and popped the cap. As he chased the pills down with more hot coffee, he turned away from the door and looked at his office. Even though it was half the size of a partner’s office, he was grateful for the window and at least a partial view of the city. He slipped the bottle of aspirin into his jacket pocket and leaned back in the chair, gazing at the building across the street. He’d give Jones the files, he decided, but only if he had to. Only after he spoke with Barnett. There was still a chance Barnett could handle Oscar Holmes on his own from here on out. Still a chance Teddy could find his way back to the life he had before he stepped into the death house on Scottsboro Road.

Jill Sykes tapped on the door and gave him an anxious look.

“He’s here,” she said. “He wants to see you.”

Teddy followed her into the hall, ignoring his natural attraction for her the way he always did. But as he swept past her, he could smell the shampoo in her light brown hair, the faint scent of her perfume. He caught the spark in her eyes, and glanced at her angular face. She looked fresh, as if she’d slept the whole night through.

She smiled at him, then wished him luck. He nodded back, starting down the hall to the other side of the floor. When he turned the corner, he saw Brooke Jones exiting Barnett’s office with her tail down. Teddy filed the dirty look away as they passed each other and kept walking.

He found Barnett seated at his desk going through a three-ring binder. Teddy moved closer, but didn’t sit down.

“I thought we were gonna talk last night,” he said in an even tone.

Barnett kept his eyes on the binder, scanning a page quickly, then turning to the next. “Sorry, Teddy. I had my hands full. How bad was it?”

“About what you’d expect,” he said, “for a cannibal. You want to tell me what’s going on, or would you like me to guess?”

Barnett finally looked up. Not at Teddy, but at Larry Stokes, co-founder of the firm, peeking in the doorway with obvious concern. Stokes was ten years older than Barnett, his hair already as white as the clouds. And he was socially connected, which meant he spent more time acquiring clients and maintaining the firm’s political contacts than actually practicing law. Larry Stokes had never been much of an attorney, but he played the role well and the arrangement had proven successful for over twenty-five years. Stokes brought the clients in. Barnett handled the legal work once they signed an agreement and the firm’s accounting department received their retainer.

“I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping,” Stokes said to Barnett. “Is there a problem?”

“No, Larry. Everything’s fine. We still on for lunch?”

“I hope so.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

Barnett faked a smile, then closed the door and returned to his desk. Teddy kept his eyes on him. Barnett looked pale and washed out, and Teddy guessed the man had been up all night just as he had.

“I haven’t broken the news to Larry yet,” Barnett said. “Holmes has a history of mental illness. He should have been put away before it came to this. Before he hurt anyone.”

Teddy glanced at the binder Barnett held against his chest.

“It’s a copy of the murder book,” Barnett said, closing the binder and handing it over. “At least the start of one. It’s all yours. I want you to call the district attorney’s office this afternoon and make sure it’s kept up to date.”

There were two chairs before Barnett’s desk. Teddy slid one out and sat down without opening the binder.

“They’re working fast,” Barnett was saying. “They’ve got a witness, and the fingerprints match on both the body and the murder weapon. Same with the lip prints. If there was any question about Oscar Holmes, we’re past that now. I was with his family last night. All they want is to make sure he gets the help he needs. An institution rather than prison. Life without parole instead of a shot in the arm.”

“There’s no way the district attorney is gonna make a deal,” Teddy said. “Not with the hit he took yesterday. Not if he wants to become the city’s next mayor.”

“You don’t think so?”

It had been a question, but it was clear to Teddy that Barnett understood the situation as well as he did. District Attorney Alan Andrews had no reason to want to make a deal.