They Thirst (39 page)

Benefield nodded. Palatazin lit it for him and put it into his mouth. "When can I go home?" Benefield asked.

"Not just yet, Walter. First there are some things we have to talk about."

Benefield's eyes narrowed. "I know you. You're the cop who shot at me."

"I fired a warning shot, yes. I was trying to protect you from the others. They might've killed you."

"Oh."

'Take the cuffs off," Palatazin told Zeitvogel. The detective started to protest, then he shrugged, took the cuff key from his pocket, came over, and unsnapped them. Benefield drew deeply on his cigarette and watched Zeitvogel carefully as the man took his seat again. "Are you comfortable now?" Palatazin asked.

"I'm okay, I guess."

"Good. I know Lieutenant Reece can be a bit too hard sometimes. Pretty overbearing. My name's Andy. Is it all right if I call you Walter?"

"I don't mind. Listen, I told that nigger a thing or two. He won't be bothering me anymore."

"I hope not. I imagine he came in here and talked about the Roach, didn't he?"

"Yeah. I told him I didn't know what he was talkin' about."

Palatazin nodded. "And why should you? The Roach is gone. Nobody cares about him anymore. The vice squad should probably thank him. How do you feel about prostitutes, Walter?"

He was silent for a moment, staring at the burning end of the cigarette. "They stick together," he said softly. "All of them do."

"Uh-huh."

"They laugh at you behind your back. They try to fool

you."

"But they didn't fool Roach, did they?"

"Nope."

Palatazin was beginning to sweat under the stark fluorescent overheads; he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. "You work for Aladdin Exterminators, right? Do you like that job?"

Benefield smoked his cigarette and thought about it for a minute. "Yeah," he said finally. "I do."

"I'll bet you're a good worker. What do you use, one of those metal spray cans?"

"A B&G sprayer, yeah. Shoots the
Diaz
right into the cracks."

"Tell me about Beverly," Palatazin said softly.

"Bev . . . erly?" Benefield's eyes glazed over immediately, and his mouth dropped open. He stared right through Palatazin as the cigarette burned down between his fingers.

"That's right. Your mother. Where is she?"

"She's . . ." His brow furrowed in concentration. "She's not here."

"She's dead, isn't she?"

"Huh?" Shock stitched Benefield's face. "No! You're wrong! She's hiding, they're helping her hide so I can't find her! Sometimes they can even make themselves look like her to fool me. Oh, they know all the tricks!" His voice dripped with bitterness now, and his eyes were hard and cold.

"She's dead," Palatazin persisted. "And after she died, you were sent to Rathmore State Hospital."

"NO!" His eyes flamed, and for an instant Palatazin thought the man was going to leap at him. "Rathmore?" he whispered and rubbed his forehead. "No. Bev went away, and because she left me, they sent me to . . . that place. It's not a
hospital.
Hospitals cure sick people. That place was a . . . a Crazyhouse. When I find Bev, things will be like they were
before.
I won't have to think about the Crazyhouse anymore, and my head won't hurt. But first . . . first I'm going to have to punish her for leaving me . , ." He crushed out the cigarette and dropped it on the floor. "She's somewhere in the city," he said. "The Master told me so."

Palatazin's heart began to pound. "The . . . Master?" he murmured softly. "Who's the Master, Walt?"

"Ohhhhh, no. You'd like me to tell you, wouldn't you? You'd like to know, but you can't."

"Who's the Master? Are you talking about God?"

"God?" Something about that word seemed to trouble Benefield. He blinked and ran his hand across his forehead. "He talks to me at night," he whispered. "He tells me what to do . . ."

"Where is he?"

"Can't tell.
Can't."

"He's here in L.A.?"

"He's everywhere," Benefield said. "He sees and hears everything. He knows where I am; he knows where you are. If he wants you, he'll call you in the night, and you'll have to go to him.
You'll have to."
He looked up into Palatazin's face, his black eyes strangely magnified by the glasses. "He's going to be mad at me for not going to him last night. He's going to be mad at you, too."

"What's his name, Walt?"

"Name? He . . . doesn't have a name. Before he saved me, I was . . . paying them back for fooling me, but the Master said I was . . . I was wasting. He said he could use them and that I would be helping him win the great battle."

"What battle?"

Benefield looked at him and blinked. "For Los Angeles. He wants the city."

A cold terror spread through Palatazin. "Where is the Master, Walt? If I wanted to find him, where would I go? He's hiding in the Hollywood Hills, isn't he?"

"Can't tell," Benefield said.

"Where? A house? A cave . . . ?"

Murphy, across the room, cleared his throat. Palatazin glanced up and saw Zeitvogel staring oddly at him.
Let them think I'm insane!
he thought.
I don't care!
He returned his attention to Benefield. "I want to find the Master," he said urgently. "I have to. Please help me."

"Oh, no. He has to want you first. He has to call you, then you'll know how to find him."

Palatazin forced himself to calm down. His face seemed to be burning up with fever, his guts filled with arctic cold. "Are you the Roach, Walt?"

Benefield froze. Slowly his face contorted into a sneer. "You're just like that nigger, aren't you? Pretending to be my friend, and laughing at me all the time. You want to send me back, don't you? Back to that place! I won't let you do that.
He
won't let you!"

"WHERE IS HE?" Palatazin shouted suddenly and lunged for Benefield's collar. He slammed the man's face down on the table, then jerked his head up again. The man snarled and grabbed for Palatazin's throat, blood stringing from his nostrils. "WHERE IS HE!" Palatazin shrieked again, all control gone now, nothing but animal rage and fear left. Benefield grinned, and then Murphy and Zeitvogel were pulling him away. "No," Zeitvogel ordered, his gaze fixed on Palatazin. "Don't do that, captain."

"LET ME ALONE!"' Palatazin fought free of them and stood up, breathing harshly. "Just leave me alone!" He started for Benefield again, but Zeitvogel blocked his way. "You don't understand," Palatazin said. "I've got to make him tell! I've got to!"

Zeitvogel shook his head. Benefield grinned and wiped his bloody nose.

"Get him out of here before I throw up," Palatazin demanded abruptly and brushed past Zeitvogel out of the interrogation room.

In his office he lit his pipe and tried to calm down. He couldn't get his thoughts organized. Of course Benefield was the Roach, and of course he knew where the Master was hiding. But how could he make him talk, how could he break the hold that evil force had on him? And then an even more terrible thought gripped him—how many were there now in this city who had heard the Master's voice? How many now walked at night, hungering for blood? A thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand? It would happen insidiously, slowly, as it had happened in Krajeck so very long ago, until at the end the city would be at the mercy of the Master and his brood. He
had
to tell someone now, anyone who would listen. The newspapers perhaps? Chief Garnette? Maybe the National

Guard could be called out, and the things found, burned or staked before they grew stronger. Perhaps the city could be evacuated and firebombs dropped from helicopters. . . .

But no. They wouldn't believe. He felt a chill of dark madness cover him. Who would believe?
Who?
He remembered the doctor in that building on Dos Terros Street, Dr. Delgado. The bodies had been taken to Mercy Hospital. Perhaps she could be made to believe. Yes! He reached for the telephone, but it rang before he could pick up the receiver.

"Captain Palatazin," he said.

"Andy? It's Garnette. Would you come down and see me right away?"

"Yes, sir, I will. But first I have to make a . . ."

"Andy," the voice was sterner, cast a tone lower, "I'd like to see you right now." The phone clicked and went dead. Palatazin put it back on its cradle and then got up, moving as sluggishly as a zombie. He felt weary, drained, about to split apart at the seams. He walked along the hallway to the Chief of Detectives' office. When he rapped on the door, he heard Garnette say, "Come in, Andy."

He stepped into the office. "How are you feeling, Andy?" Garnette asked, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "I understand you were busy last night."

"Yes, sir," he said and smiled wanly. "Quite a few of us were."

"I talked to Lieutenant Reece and Detective Farris. I'd say you did one hell of a good job. Now tell me about this Benefield character."

"Well, I believe he's the Roach, though we haven't got all the evidence we need to make an arrest stick, and I don't think we're going to be getting a confession from the man."

"But you're holding him on an assault charge?"

"Assault, reckless driving, resisting arrest—whatever we could come up with."

Garnette nodded. "Okay. But you think it's too early to tell the papers?"

"I think so."

"In your best estimation, that man you're holding
did
kill those four girls and wrote the letters signed by Roach?"

"Yes, sir. Possibly more than four girls. He changed his MO in the past two weeks and began using a chemical-soaked cloth to knock his victims out first. We're still questioning him about his procedure."

"I see." Garnette was silent for a moment, his hands folded on the desk. When he looked back at Palatazin, his expression was tough and direct. "You've worked long and hard to crack this thing, Andy. No one in the department appreciates that as much as I do."

"Thank you, but I'm afraid we have a long way to go yet before we can consider it closed."

"No matter. You're a good cop, Andy. You've been
a
good cop and a credit to this department ever since you joined us." He smiled slightly, his eyes warming up with memories. "You remember those old days? When you were a detective first-grade and I was trying to make sergeant? We were scruffy bastards then, weren't we? Out on the streets throwing our weight around, flashing our shields whenever we could, making a lot of noise about every goddamned thing. We had chips on our shoulders as big as redwood logs, didn't we? Those were the days. You remember that time we cornered the sniper on the fourth floor of the Alexandria Hotel? About fifty cops out in the hall shaking in their shoes, everybody afraid to breathe because the bastard had an elephant gun in there? And you just walked right up to the door and knocked on it! I almost dropped my teeth when that guy opened it and came out with his hands over his head! Shit! You remember that?"

"I remember," Palatazin said quietly.

"That took guts. And how about the time we were looking for the Chinatown Strangler? We were on rooftop stakeout with binoculars and a girl in one of the windows started doing a striptease? That crazy broad had the biggest set of oompahs I've ever seen. She could've made it in the movies. Things were better then, weren't they? We didn't have computers or sociologists or psychics trying to do our jobs for us. We got out in the streets and worked our asses off, and we didn't have to worry about a mountain of files and paperwork. Well, that's progress for you, right? Seems like you and I have gotten a little grayer and slower over the years. The pressure is so much tougher now. You have to contend with so many conflicting factors. It's not cut-and-dried anymore.

The psychiatrists and the ACLU people see to that. Sometimes I just want to chuck this whole mess and take the wife down to Mexico City or someplace like that. Haven't you ever felt that way?"

"Of course I have," Palatazin said. "Everyone does."

"Uh-huh." Garnette nodded, placing his fingertips together and staring at the other man for a few silent seconds. "Okay, fine. I'm going to give you a chance to take a little vacation, Andy. Two weeks with pay. How about that?"

"A . . . vacation? Well, that's very nice, but I've got to finish this thing first."

"No, you don't," Garnette said sternly.

"What?"

Garnette cleared his throat. "Lieutenant Reece is going to take over for you for the next two weeks, Andy. I want you to take off."

"I. .. I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You're tired, Andy. You're overworked and worn out. You deserve some time off, but I know you—if it were up to you, Hell would freeze over before you left your desk. So take advantage of this. You and Jo go somewhere nice for two weeks . . ."

"What is this?" Palatazin demanded, his cheeks reddening. He knew exactly what it was, but he wanted to hear Garnette say it. "What are you trying to tell me?"