The Judas Child (46 page)

When Sadie smiled, her dog’s-blood lightning bolts jumped. “You’re losing your sense of humor.”

“Do you understand what death really
is
?” Gwen raised her hand high, and though she was weak, she managed to smash it down on the hapless spider. When she turned her hand over, the creature’s sticky innards were spread across her palm. “That’s death. You can never undo it.
Never
.”

All the insect legs twitched independently for a while. The girls watched the spider, fascinated, until it jerked one last time and was still.

“Cool,” said Sadie. “I think you’ve got the hang of it.”

And it
was
interesting. Gwen shook the bits of the spider’s body to the ground. The remainder of the poor innocent little beast was only a smear on her hand.

Well, that wasn’t so bad
.

“One good shock,” said Sadie. “That’s what we need to work on. He’ll lose his mind when he sees this.” She held the flashlight to her face to highlight the blood. “You get it? Like dogs reverting to wolves.”

“I think he’s seen scarier things than that,” said Gwen, appraising the symmetrical rows of jagged streaks on either side of her friend’s bloody face. Then her gaze wandered down the rows of mushroom tables, each with its own wooden cart. Why had he dug the graves in the middle of the row? Why not at the end or the beginning? Unless some of the—

“All right,” said Sadie. “But surprise will still work. We need a distraction—something really gross. So we wait by the door, see? Maybe not
under
the ground, just a little covering of dirt—camouflage. And then when he comes in, he’ll see something at the other side of the cellar. When he goes over there to get a better look, we run outside and lock him in. Neat?”

Gwen dropped her head. “It won’t work.” Once buried again, no matter how light the covering dirt, she didn’t believe she would ever climb out of her own grave. Buried alive—dying slowly with the dirt in her eyes, the bugs crawling in her ears and her nostrils. And then they would crawl into her mouth when she opened it to scream—unable to fight back against the smallest insect.

And Sadie believed she could win against a full-grown man.
Impossible.

“You know I can’t run.”

“Yes you can,” said Sadie. “I’ll help you.”

“Hiding is better.”

“We can’t do that—not if you won’t go into the ground.” Sadie pressed on. “Doing something is better than doing nothing, better than—”

“I know Miss Vickers isn’t coming back. But what about our parents? The police? You think they’ve given up on us, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. But it may take a very long time before they find us.” She knelt down beside Gwen and touched her face. “You’re on fire. I have to get you out of here.”

Gwen lay back on the ground, resting her head in Sadie’s lap. It was a fight to keep her eyes open. “Even if you think I’m dead, don’t put me in the ground. Promise me?”

“I promise you’re not going to die.” Sadie gently stroked her burning forehead with a cool hand.

Gwen sat up and shined the light on her friend’s face. This time she had to know she wasn’t being told a comforting lie. “You won’t do that—you won’t bury me?”

“I promise. Don’t think about death anymore.” Sadie stood up and walked over to the dog’s body. She shrouded it with a plastic trash bag, so Gwen would not have to
look
at death, either.

But there was yet another sense of mortality in the stench, for the dog had lost control of his bowels at the end. This smell mingled with the putrid odor of her wound and added a little to her growing store of knowledge about death.

“Take the parka, Sadie.” Gwen struggled to get out of the down jacket, but she was too weak to work her way out of the sleeves. “You
take
it! You might have to walk a long way before you find help. It makes sense that one of us—”

Sadie pulled the parka back over Gwen’s arms and zipped it up, gently scolding, “You’re very sick.”

“Sadie, never mind about me. Run for it when you get the chance.”
Please don’t leave me alone.
“He has a gun. Your knife can’t beat a bullet.”
If you leave me, I’ll die.
“You can’t fight a grown man. You have to run.”
Don’t go.

One child folded into the other, arms entwining, cheek pressed to cheek, soft as flower petals. So quiet now. Then Sadie whispered, “How could I leave you behind?”

 

Arnie Pyle and Rouge Kendall sat on the office couch. Ali Cray was seated on the other side of the desk, facing Captain Costello. Only Marge Jonas remained standing as she stared through the blinds of the second-floor window overlooking Cranberry Street. The sun had been snuffed out by a heavy overcast. Behind her back, Costello was answering Ali’s question.

“No, your uncle hasn’t told us a damn thing. No confession, no denial, nothing at all.” The captain sat back in his chair. His eyes made a slow roll to the ceiling, as if he could not believe his own words. “Dr. Cray waived his rights to a lawyer, but the DA insisted that we have a doctor present.”

Now he turned to the large woman at the window. “And Marge? Find out how those local cops just happened to turn up a damned heart specialist in three minutes flat. Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m not in charge anymore.”

“I’ll look into it,” said Marge, without turning around. He knew her every expression; she couldn’t afford to face him when she lied. The first flakes of snow sifted down from the dark gray sky. Though it was the noon hour, she would not have been surprised if the thick clouds had parted to show her the moon; it had been that kind of a day.

Three people stopped on the sidewalk. They appeared to be together, yet there were no greetings, no conversation passed between them. And there was no sun to cast their shadows. The strange little trio turned in unison to stare up at the window. Marge took one step back, feeling suddenly naked under the bright light from the office ceiling.

Costello was still talking to Ali Cray. “So the DA says to me, ‘Suppose the old guy has a fatal heart attack. We don’t want to see a crucifixion on the evening news. Get a doctor.’ And then two village cops come whipping around the corner with this bastard, this—”He looked down at his paperwork. “Dr. William Penny in a bathrobe. You know this guy, right?”

Marge looked back over her shoulder to see Ali Cray nodding, but volunteering nothing. Apparently, Chief Croft had called it right. William Penny had preferred to keep the details of his improper arrest to himself—along with the facts of his affair.

More people had gathered on the sidewalk below, though not many. A sprinkling of pale faces and dark ones were tilted up to the lighted window. What did they want? Well, nothing dangerous. They had the look of a small band of alien tourists lost on a strange planet and seeking guidance.

Behind her back she could hear Costello tapping his pencil on the desktop—sure sign of an impending storm. He was still addressing Ali. “Has William Penny always had this bad attitude about cops? You think the guy might’ve had a prior run-in with the law?”

Marge winced.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Ali. “He’s my uncle’s doctor. I never heard anything about his personal background. Is Uncle Mortimer all right?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s just
fine
. Old Willy boy, the damn heart specialist, sedated your uncle five fucking minutes into the interview. Then this twit heart surgeon smiles at me—pure evil—like he really enjoyed pissing me off. That’s when the lawyer showed up. I’m pretty sure Dr. Penny called him. So the lawyer pulls all the right strings to have your uncle sent home in the doctor’s care.”

“That isn’t right!” Rouge Kendall stood up, angry and incredulous. “I identified that ankle chain. It was my sister’s.”

Costello shrugged. “Unfortunately, that’s evidence in a closed case. We’re not investigating that death.”

“But they’ve got to be tied together. All those—”

Costello put up both hands in surrender. “Hey, Rouge. This is the DA talking—not me. Mortimer Cray visited Paul Marie at the prison. We don’t know that the priest wasn’t the source of the ankle chain. If we can’t prove there wasn’t a prior doctor-patient relationship, that visit taints the evidence.”

Marge watched more people gathering outside the building, and others were coming down the sidewalk and from across the road, so silent in their gathering. And the snow continued to fall. Still she had no sense of anything sinister. They seemed helpless. Some were holding hands for courage or comfort in the dark of midday.

“For all we know,” said Costello, “the shrink collects souvenirs from all his patients. Could be five different perverts contributing to his little stash—that was the lawyer’s argument. The only descriptions on the rest of the jewelry are in Ali’s case notes. So the fuckwit DA says that’s not enough to charge Mortimer Cray with murder, conspiracy or obstruction of justice. Not even if we prove every single trinket is tied to a dead kid.”

Costello cast his eyes down to read from the sheet of paper on his desk. “This comes from the DA’s office. ‘A psychiatrist cannot be compelled to give evidence against a patient for a crime committed in another state.’ ” He looked up at Rouge. “That tears it, kid. Your sister is a closed case. All the other trinkets belong to cases outside the state. True, it’s a gray area of law, and the local DA is a moron. He’s also pissed off that I challenged him on a warrant, so this paper could be legal bullshit. But he’s got jurisdiction. I can’t shop around for charges.” The captain pushed his chair back. Turning away from Rouge, he spoke to Ali, “And both of those kids are dead by now. You
know
that. You were right about everything. Merry freaking Christmas.”

Marge sank down to a chair by the window. She thought Ali Cray was about to say something. Was there still a chance of finding the little girls alive? Apparently not, for Ali’s shoulders slumped, and there were other signs of resignation: her eyes were sad, so close to tears, and her hands balled into fists of frustration.

So the children were dead.

Marge stole a glance at Costello in profile. He hadn’t shaved this morning—a bad sign. She found worse omens in the clutter on his desk. Fast-food wrappers and take-out containers were breeding on and under the furniture.

She turned back to the window and looked up to the sky. Had the ceiling of cloud cover dropped in these past few minutes? Was it falling as she watched?
Yes, indeed, Chicken Little, the earth and the sky, the night and the day are trading places.

Oh, and now
more
zombies were gathering on the sidewalk, escapees from an entirely different story. She counted fifteen people standing beneath the window, all staring upward. Marge looked at the bright fluorescent tubes spanning the office ceiling.

Perhaps the light was attracting them.

“I want a warrant to search Oz Almo’s house.” Rouge Kendall was moving toward the door, and he was angry.

“Hold it, Rouge.” Costello’s voice was all authority now. “It’s over. All that’s missing are the bodies of the kids.”

“Mortimer Cray didn’t confess, did he?” Rouge walked back to the desk, planted his hands flat on the wood and stared at Costello. “And you don’t think that old man is the one—do you.” This was not a question, but an accusation. “I want to search Oz Almo’s place. If you want, I’ll go to Judge Riley’s house myself and get the warrant.”

Marge caught the captain’s eye, and now she was nodding, pleading Rouge’s case.
Let him do this?

Costello turned away from her and addressed his rookie investigator. “No—not today. I’m telling you for the last time, you’ve got no probable cause for a search warrant. All you’ve got is an old grudge match, Rouge. I know it and you know it. Nobody goes off spinning their wheels until we find the bodies. I want you to go over everything on Sorrel’s desk. But first, stop by the medical examiner’s office and try to get something out of him. I still think Chainy’s holding out on me.”

Marge could see that Rouge was about to come back at the captain with another argument. Costello also saw it coming and shook his head. “No warrant—no way. Now get moving.”

Arnie Pyle trailed Rouge out the door. As the two men headed across the squad room toward the stairs, Ali Cray stared after them, looking very much like the leftover child who was not chosen for the baseball team. She drifted out of the office and gently closed the door behind her.

On the sidewalk below the window, the silent crowd had doubled—no,
tripled
in size. Their numbers spilled into the street, and the slow traffic moved around them. Perhaps she should mention this gathering of weird mutes. Ah, but what would she say?
Excuse me, Leonard, but the body-snatching pod people are here.
The captain had seen that movie; he would know how to deal with them.

Marge faced him now. “So you want me to tell the uniforms to stop digging up the hazelnut tree in the postman’s atrium? It’s Christmas, they’ve all got—”

“Yeah, pull them off.”

“And can I tell them
why
they were digging up the postman’s tree? Their dick supervisor won’t tell them anything. They want—”

“No. You keep that to yourself. That’s all I need right now is another damn leak to the press. I just hope they don’t find out about the kids’ jewelry. There were a lot of troopers there when—”

“You treat every cop in uniform like an idiot.”

“I can’t afford a leak!” He slammed the flat of his hand on the blotter, and plastic dinnerware rattled in the take-out boxes at the edge of the desk. “I’ve got those bastard reporters on my neck, demanding a dog and pony show for the tabloids. And the people who read that trash are just as bad. The press scum and the public scum—they’re all the same.”

“You really don’t think the shrink did it. Even with all that evidence? Was Rouge right?”

Costello nodded. “The kid has real good instincts.”