The Judas Child (50 page)

“Not so fast,” said Arnie Pyle. He was looking at Rouge, and it was very clear that the name meant something to him. Of course—it was the name of Mortimer Cray’s heart surgeon. “I need this in plain English, so I know what we’re buying. What exactly was the nature of the blackmail?”

The attorney waved his client to silence. “That comes afterwards. Now I want to talk to the local district attorney. Same immunity on the conspiracy charges. I have his home number. But first, I suggest we begin with a show of good faith. Have them remove my client’s handcuffs.” He waved in the general direction of the police officers, clearly minions in his view.

“I don’t think so,” said Rouge, without turning away from his task of initialing the paperwork attached to an evidence bag.

Fisheye appeared to be reappraising the young BCI investigator as another source of power in the room. Then he dismissed the idea.

Arnie leaned forward. “Two little girls are dying, Counselor.”

“All the more reason to close the deal quickly. I want it from the mouth of the district attorney. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“I might just leave it,” said Rouge.

Fisheye turned to face the younger man, who was holding a plastic bag up to the light. The lawyer regarded him with great disdain, admonishing him as a child who was interrupting the conversation of grown-ups. “You’re an investigator with the State Police, right?” The attorney was clearly not impressed.

Arnie spoke softly, almost as an aside. “He’s the brother of Susan Kendall. You don’t think his word pulls weight with the local DA?” He leaned down to rest one hand on the satchel. “With this money, Oz was supposed to buy Susan’s life.”

The attorney waved one hand in the air as though he were shooing this idea away from the conversation. “You need information—and in a
great
hurry?”

“Hopefully before the kids turn up dead, you miserable —”

Rouge stepped into the space between them and addressed Arnie Pyle. “I have another witness who might be interested in turning state’s evidence.”

Was Rouge thinking of Rita the cleaning woman? Apparently the lawyer thought so, for he was rising from the chair. “I think we can discuss this further,” said Fisheye.

“Screw it.” Rouge turned his back on the man and missed the sweet sight of an attorney in shock. “This bastard is only getting away with the extortion, right?”

Arnie nodded. “But the deal was only good if he cooperated, and he didn’t.”

“You asked for a name, Agent Pyle.” The attorney was at their backs, raising his voice for the first time. “He gave you the name. That was our deal.”

“He might have a point, kid,” said Arnie. “The U.S. Attorney did a deal for the ledger entry. No conditions that it would take us anywhere.”

“Well, what about this?” Rouge opened the evidence bag and spilled out the charred remains of several magazines on the coffee table. Among the half-burnt scraps of glossy paper with scissor-cut holes were three small squares of letters and words. “Maybe your lab can match this to the bogus ransom note for Gwen and Sadie.”

“New ball game,” said Arnie, ignoring the lawyer and staring at Oz Almo. “So, you enterprising, diversified sack of shit—when I go through your books again, am I gonna find any large sums that match ransoms for other kids?”

Rouge turned to the troopers. “Book him.” To the lawyer, he said, “Kiss off.”

Fisheye was showing both sides of his face now, and he wore a worried look. He had underestimated the young policeman. Too late, he had learned who was running the game in this room.

As they were walking out the door, Arnie was doing the math on the charges. Oz Almo was not a young man; he would never see the outside world again. When Arnie slid into the passenger seat of the Volvo, Rouge was on the phone, asking for the number of a local judge. He dialed it, and then turned the ignition key. He put the car in gear with one hand, and with the phone in his other hand, he was already scamming the judge for two warrants. “Yes, sir, I know it’s Christmas. . . . Just call the U.S. Attorney. He did the deal. . . . Yes, sir. . . . No problem. I’ve got his home number.”

Arnie nodded in approval. Rouge was learning the agent’s bad habits, and so quickly. The home phone number for the U.S. Attorney was such a nice touch, the judge would probably not bother to call. And the kid’s lying was very smooth for an apprentice. There was only one problem—all the evidence was stacked against Oz Almo. William Penny was only a name on a ledger—no substance. But now this young cop was planning to arrest him.

“Rouge, you got nothing on Penny, nothing to say—”

“I’ll get it.” By the time they had turned off the access road and onto Lakeshore Drive, Rouge had issued orders for a unit of troopers to search the surgeon’s residence.

The FBI agent leaned over with one more reminder. “You have no probable cause for a search of his—”

Rouge only glanced at him.

“I know,” said Arnie. “You’ll get it.” He was trying to remember the last time he had flown a case by the seat of his pants. His career might go up in a damn bonfire of broken rules and laws and lies, but he did like the feel of the road rushing under the wheels of a car at ninety miles an hour. He would give no more advice to end this sweet chase—not for the whole earth.

“He might be at Mortimer Cray’s place,” said Arnie. “Didn’t Costello say the shrink went home in the care of his heart surgeon?”

“That’s where we’re going right now. I called the trooper watching the house. He says Penny’s long gone.”

“So you plan to squeeze the shrink? Good idea. Costello made a big mistake with Dr. Cray’s interview in the hospital. The good cop, bad cop routine? The captain tried to play both roles by himself. Now with two of us working on the old man, we could do a fast game of—”

“I’ve got a better game in mind,” said Rouge. “We’re gonna play bad cop and the cop from hell.”

Arnie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small gargoyle, a gift from Becca Green so he would not forget her daughter. And against all odds of the child’s survival, he found that he could not give up on Sadie. He set her ghoulish toy on the dashboard close to the windshield. Backlit by the headlight beams, the gargoyle made a dark silhouette jumping and bouncing on rubber haunches with every turn of the car. It was alive.

 

Charlie Croft stopped the police cruiser in the driveway of the old house and picked up the receiver of his car radio. Ali listened to the bad static and the undecipherable words from the dispatcher.

“Must be under a damn power line,” he said. “Same thing happened the last time I was out here.” Charlie held the receiver to his ear and lifted one finger with each word he recognized. “We’ve got to go, Ali. It sounds like they caught the bastard.” Into the radio he said, “They did?” He turned to Ali. “They’re going to arrest him now.” After another minute of static and garble, he spoke to the radio. “What about the kids? . . . What? . . . Say it again. . . . Is that what—” He turned back to Ali Cray. “They need backup.”

“Who is it?”

“No name, just an address. I won’t know if I even got that right till I get clear of the lines or whatever the hell is causing the interference. I’ll drop you off on the way.”

“I’d like to stay here, Charlie. I can manage on my own.” She held out hope for Gwen Hubble, but she did not want to be there when they brought in Sadie’s body. And though she knew this was rank cowardice, she could not deal with the pain of Becca Green. Ali looked out over the black water of the lake. Darkness, isolation, quiet, these were the things she craved tonight.

“I don’t like leaving you out here by yourself,” said Charlie. “I don’t see much point in this now.”

“Just give me the key. I’ll be careful.”
I can’t face Becca.

Still he was hesitant.

“You guys caught your man, Charlie. So what are the odds? There isn’t room for two monsters in Makers Village.”
And I’m a coward.

“You got me there, Ali.” He smiled, relenting, or more likely feeling pressure, wanting to be off down the road, part of the chase. “Okay. You’ll find the key over the back door. I left it there for the utility people. You better take this.” He handed her his flashlight. “I don’t know if the electricity is on or off.” He pointed to the wall in his headlight beams. “That looks like a full cord of firewood. You might need it if the—”

“Right, don’t worry about me.” She was out of the car and closing the door.

“I’ll swing back later and pick you up.” He put the car in gear.

“Shouldn’t be long.”

“Take your time, Charlie.”
The more time, the better.

“The telephone service is probably cut off. You got a cell phone?”

“No problem.” She pulled the phone from her purse and held it up for him to see.

“Marge is covering for me at the station. You call her if—”

“I’ll be fine.”

As his car turned and headed toward the main road, she walked to the house, guided by the beam of Charlie’s flashlight. Her fingers explored the ledge at the top of the door frame. No key. The utility people had probably taken it with them. Well, that was where Charlie had put
his
key. The householder might have had a more imaginative hiding place for a spare.

Charlie had mentioned arthritic knots in the hands of the corpse, so the hiding place would have been more accessible. She flashed her light on a birdbath of cement. No, too heavy to tip back. On the other side of the door was an old bronze sundial on a pedestal. A frog of a lighter shade was sitting at the edge of the circle. But for the slightly mismatched patinas, it might have been a solid piece. She tipped back the small frog. There was the key.

She entered the house through a modern kitchen. The carved door set into a far wall was somewhat grand for this room; it must have been the original front door before the exterior was added on. She trained the flashlight on a row of copper pots, and then found the mushroom clock Billy Poor had described. Perhaps the chief was right, and this was a waste of time.

The house was cold. She flicked on the wall switch, and the ceiling light bathed the kitchen in a warm yellow glow. So only the furnace had been turned off. Odd there was no entrance to the basement off the kitchen, but in this hash of add-ons, she no longer expected to find anything where it was supposed to be. The next room was a dining area, originally the front parlor.

Stashing the flashlight in her pocket, she turned on the lights in all the rooms as she passed through them. Each was filled with a collection of ceramic mushrooms on shelves and tables. Painted mushrooms lined every wall, but there were no signs of any living fungus, no truffles. She opened a door onto a narrow stairwell.

Above her head was a lamp, but the switch failed to turn it on. Pulling out the flashlight again, she descended the stairs and passed through a doorway to the cellar. The yellow beam passed over a washing machine and a dryer. As Billy had said, it was cramped down here. The oversized furnace dominated the space. Only a few steps into the room, she brushed against its cold metal housing as she focused her light on the tight space between the furnace and the corner walls.

Another door. It was a small one, perhaps only five feet high, and it was ajar. No wonder Billy had missed it. It had probably been more visible and accessible when the house had a furnace of normal proportions.

She flashed the light on the knobs. The button above the catch was set to lock when the door closed. She depressed the button to disable the mechanism. Her eyes followed the flashlight’s beam down yet another flight of stairs.

A subcellar? She touched the switch for a wall fixture, but this lightbulb didn’t work either. She turned around and washed the beam across the laundry room walls, looking for a fuse box.

 

Now Mortimer Cray was being haunted by the living as well as the dead. He avoided looking at Agent Pyle’s face, for there he saw evidence of possession. Yes, the eyes belonged to Paul Marie. They were chilling, terrifying.

He had seen the priest’s eyes in his hospital room. At that time, he had put the delusion down to lapsed medication and his massive anxiety. How to explain it away here and now? He would not even make the attempt. What was the use? Reason had fled; the agent’s eyes were proof. In the next moment, the earth might open to disgorge fire and smoke, and he would think nothing of it.

The psychiatrist directed his gaze toward the glass wall and watched as men in uniforms milled around outside in the garden, trampling plants and bushes. Another ghost of past sins was standing among the troopers and policemen in the yard, the only one not in motion—so like his sister. Rouge Kendall opened a cell phone and extended the antenna.

A moment later, Dodd appeared at Mortimer’s right hand, carrying a cordless telephone. “It’s a patient, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

The psychiatrist spoke to the FBI man without looking at him. “Agent Pyle, this could be serious. I assume you have no objections?”

“Just keep it short and don’t promise to make a house call.” The agent walked off to the far side of the room to oversee the destruction of another row of orchids.

Mortimer held the receiver to his ear. “Yes, who is this, please?”

“Come closer to the glass, Doctor,” said the familiar voice on the telephone.

Mortimer did as he was told and looked through the panes.

“To your left.”

Mortimer turned to see the young man standing in the garden and speaking into a cell phone.

“Good, I can see your face now,” said Rouge Kendall. “This makes it a little more personal.”

The FBI man with the priest’s eyes was walking back to him, saying, “Cut it short, Doc. My business takes priority here.”

“I heard that,” said Rouge’s lower voice on the telephone. “Don’t listen to the fed. He’s only trying to rattle you. You don’t have to say anything unless your attorney is present.”