by James A Ross
Joe struggled against the grip of the pillows. He pulled in shallow breaths and blew out words on the exhale. “Mom. Tommy and I… need to talk. Maybe you could go… to the cafeteria. Get something to eat.”
Mary gestured at the crutch on the floor. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
Joe sank back into the pillows and half-closed his eyes. “I suppose you’d better go ahead, brother.”
Tom handed Joe the Newcomb Guide to Wild Flowers opened to a Post It noted page. He gestured at the laptop on the table beside the hospital bed. “Mind if I borrow that?”
Joe nodded.
Removing a cable from a side pocket of the camera case, Tom connected the digital camera to the laptop and screened a close-up image of a large, green plant. “If you look at the screen and at the picture in that book, I think you’ll agree that they’re pictures of the same plant.”
Joe shrugged.
Tom pointed to the text below the photo. “Read the description.”
“‘Matricaria parthenoides… Also known as Feverfew… Many branched… with finely furrowed stems… Daisy-like flowers… borne in tight flat clusters. ’ Okay?”
“Flip to the next Post-It.” Tom ordered.
“‘Sceletium…tortuosum. Also known…as Kanna. ’”
Tom screened another close-up. “Read the description and compare the illustration in the book to the plant in this photo.”
Joe did as he was told, pausing every few words to catch his breath. “Pretty scrawny specimen,” he wheezed.
“Turn to the last page.”
“‘Hypericium. ’” Joe went through the drill one more time and after finishing snapped the book shut. “Okay… I give up. What’s this…supposed to mean?”
“All three plants produce serotonin uptake inhibitors. The stuff you said Susan claimed to be working on at NeuroGene… and the stuff in those plants you pulled up and had analyzed in that lab report you gave me to read on our way to see Willow’s partner in New York.”
Joe pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. “Okay. I remember.”
“They’re not native to this area. And they don’t grow together naturally.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you find them?”
Tom screened a landscape photo of the group of plants spread out in front of a large rock. When Joe remained silent, Tom prodded. “Remember Bobby Ambler?”
Joe turned his face to the window.
Mary looked from one son to the other. “That was the little boy you two hooligans attacked with rocks! His poor mother was hysterical. The father threatened to sue us.”
“That’s right.” Tom turned to his brother. “I found them in front of our old fort, Joe.”
Joe fixed his gaze on something beyond the window. “What made you go there?”
Tom handed his mother the pen and ink drawing that he had taken from Susan Pearce’s bedroom. “Can you hand this to my brother, please?”
Puzzled, Mary looked at the drawing and then warily passed it to her younger son.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Susan Pearce’s bedroom.”
“Oh dear,” said Mary.
Joe shook his head, appearing more frustrated than guilty. Tom took back the drawing. “You told me you ran into Susan out planting on Watermelon Hill.”
“That’s right.”
“This drawing is in her hand. The rock in it’s on the other side of town from Watermelon Hill, and that’s your hat on the corner of the blanket sticking out from behind the rock.”
“What did you expect me to tell you?”
“The truth.”
“Tommy!” pleaded his mother.
“Joe’s whisper was a feeble growl. “You’re a… masochist. So I… showed a girl… a good time?”
“Joey!” Mary bleated.
Tom pointed to the rock formation at the center of the drawing. “So that’s our old fort, isn’t it?”
“I said yes.”
“And that little garden in front of the rock would be Susan’s?”
“Go on.”
“Wouldn’t it?”
“I said… go on.”
“It’s not yours, is it?”
Joe shook his head.
“And given where it is and what’s in it, it’s not likely to be anyone else’s is it?”
“Tommy, quit acting like a lawyer and make your point,” Mary snapped.
Tom gestured at the drawing and the landscape image still screening on the laptop. “There’s another plant in front of the others, taller and wider.” He took the Taylor’s Master Guide to Gardening and handed it to his mother. “Take a look at the tabbed page, Mom, and tell me if the plant on the screen here is the same as the one in the book.”
Though there was little doubt the plants were identical, Mary would only allow, “I suppose they could be.”
“And would you read the description, please?”
“‘Abrus precatorius,’” she recited obediently. “‘Also known as Rosary pea. ’” She looked up from the page. “The church used to sell Christmas decorations using something called Rosary Pea. After the leaves fell off you could string the peas together to make a rosary.”
“Same plant,” said Tom. “Did they warn the moms to keep the beads away from the kids?”
“Now that you mention it, yes. They said it could make them sick.”
“Actually, it could kill them. The rosary pea contains a toxin called abrin. If a kid swallowed one he’d probably be okay, since the pea has a hard shell. But if he chewed it and any of the inside came out, he could die.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Susan doesn’t… have kids,” said Joe. “And I don’t… see her… as the rosary type.”
“I don’t think Billy was chewing rosaries either,” said Tom. “But according to his autopsy report, he had abrin in his blood when he died. A lot of it.”
“Snoop,” said Joe.
Mary closed the book, her face a pastiche of sadness, confusion and worry. Tom retrieved the book and handed it to Joe. “Read,” he ordered.
In a sarcastic, singsong whisper, Joe recited: “‘woody vine… with auxiliary cluster… of pink… or lavender… flowers. Warn children… that the seeds… though attractive… are poisonous.’” He dropped the book on the bed cover.
“And isn’t that the plant in the photo?” asked Tom. “And in the drawing?”
“What if… it is… brother? Billy drowned.”
“So did Rasputin. But before that, he’d been fed enough arsenic to kill a bear, shot in the face at point blank range, bludgeoned, bound and shoved through a hole in an iced-over river. But when they found his body, the ropes were broken and his lungs were filled with water. He drowned, too.”
“You saying… I killed Billy?”
“Rosary pea was on the lab list you gave me in the car on the way to New York. It’s the overlap between the plants you say you took off of Watermelon Hill and this group here. That, and that all the others are serotonin uptake inhibitors.”
“Tommy!” whined Mrs. Morgan. “What are you saying?”
“Joe knows, Mom. A dog that doesn’t bark. A boat that makes it through Wilson Cove running without lights, a severed bird leg and now this witch’s garden on the sunny side of our old fort.”
“Joey?” Mary pleaded.
“If you’ve got a story that’ll string this all together,” said Tom, “you might as well practice it here on family before you have to sell it to Dick Tracy outside.”
“I ought… to beat… the crap out… of you,” Joe whispered.
“I know you mean that lovingly. In the meantime, try the truth.”
Joe glanced helplessly from Tom to his mother and then sank back into the bed, defeated.
“Joey?” his mother whispered.
Joe turned his head toward his brother, his face a mask of exhausted defeat and his words sputtered with labored breath. “Mom told you… I saw Billy… a few hours… before he was kill
ed. That I called… Susan to get… him to a hospital. That I found… them both gone… when I went back… after my shift.”
Mary looked away.
“She told me that story.”
“When I went… into the boathouse… to look for them… that bird… attacked me. It was already… missing a foot. Whatever they find… under that claw… won’t be… from me. The Chris Craft… was gone… too. I could hear… a boat… out in Wilson Cove… but I couldn’t see it. It took me… five minutes… to get down to… the marina… and out… in the police boat. Maybe another five… sweeping the cove… with a spotlight… before I picked… up a boat… drifting dark.”
“Anyone on board?”
“Not that I… could see. It took me a while… to get there. Even with… the halogen spot… you’ve got to… be careful of rocks… in that place. When I got close… I heard a thud… and then… a few seconds later… a splash. It was a big… wooden cruiser… like the Pearce’s… so I yelled. But no one answered.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” whispered Mary.
“There was no one… on deck… when I pulled… alongside, and when I checked… the cabin… was empty.”
Tom’s and his mother’s stares triangulated on Joe’s moist, chalky face.
“Then I heard… another splash… off the stern. And I went to see.. . what it was. There were more… splashes… so I yelled… and shined a light… on the water. Then out of the dark… and up to the side… of the boat… swims you know who. ‘Hi… ,’ she says. Perky… as you please.”
Mary groaned.
Tom locked eyes with his brother. “Let me guess. She’s got on this modest, one-piece swimsuit?”
“Not a stitch.”
Mary’s face went from ghostly to livid in a nanosecond. Had she been strapped to the same machines as her son, the electronics would have imploded. “And so you forgot what you were there for, didn’t you? That you were a police officer investigating a murder!”
Joe shook his head. “I didn’t know… I was investigating… a murder. No one knew there’d been one… until the Dooley twins… fished Billy… out of the lake… the next day.”
Tom continued to stare at his brother. “Did you ask her what she was doing out there? And did she know that Billy was gone?”
“Eventually.”
“What did she say… eventually?”
Joe released a lung full of air. “She said Billy… was fine… when she got home… but gone when… she went down… to the boathouse later. That she’d heard… a boat driving… away and tried… to follow it. But she lost it.”
“Did you ask about the bird?”
“Or the mess the place was in?” asked Mary.
“Not right away.”
Mary groaned.
Tom shook his head. “This is what you police types call a modus operandi, isn’t it? Girl distracts over-sexed cop by taking off her clothes? She’s got you figured out pretty good little brother.”
Joe’s voice regained a measure of strength and volume. “I’m going… to beat… the crap… out of you… when I… get out of here.”
Tom hooted. “You know what that first splash was, don’t you?”
Joe closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the ceiling.
Mary looked at Tom like he’d abruptly changed the subject and that it didn’t promise to be good.
“Billy. In a weighted sleeping bag. Still alive.”
“Oh, no!” Mary’s hands leapt to her mouth. Joe surrendered a long, reedy groan.
“You’re going to need a damned good lawyer, little brother.
“Don’t know any.”
* * *
A phone rang in a nearby patient’s room. A rasping voice audible through the wall began to recite symptoms to an unseen listener. The pulse at Tom’s neck throbbed. The smell of hospital disinfectant seeped into his nostrils. Down the hall, a sobbing child called for its mother.
“I don’t understand,” said Mary, breaking the silence. “She killed her brother?”
Tom nodded. “It looks that way. Or rather, she sped up something that was already underway. My guess is that when Joe called her about getting Billy to the hospital, she went home and found Billy near dead anyway. I think Frankie Heller was there first, and that’s why the boathouse looked a wreck and that’s how that bird got its leg whacked off. But Frankie just beat the stuffing out of Billy. He didn’t kill him.”
“Then how did he die?”
“He drowned,” Joe moaned.
“Frankie must have left in a hurry when he heard Susan come home. She knew Billy was sick, and the abrin bit says she knew what from. Father Gauss said that he’d heard Billy was trying to get Susan to sell the family estate and that he was making her life miserable because she wouldn’t agree. Billy’s Canadian pal confirmed that. My guess is Billy flaunted what he was doing for Frankie and Dr. Hassad. And that doing it right out of the boathouse under his sister’s nose was part of his campaign to get her out. The abrin must have been a recent addition, and he must have contaminated himself almost immediately.”
“What makes… you think?” Joe’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Because if he hadn’t, once Susan had found out that he’d graduated from pot to poison, she would have turned him in. Brother or no brother. She’s a scientist, not a terrorist.”
“But if he was already dying, why give him the poison from that Rosary Pea?” asked Mary.
“To speed things up. And to do it in a way consistent with accidental exposure. She must have reasoned that even if the abrin were detected, there would be evidence that Billy had quite a bit of it about and that it would be attributed to the same source. A source that certainly wasn’t going to come around and dispute the connection. It was good, quick thinking.”
“That seems to be Miss Pearce’s specialty,” Mary observed.
The brothers’ eyes stuttered past each other like wrong-way magnets.
“So why… did she need… to speed it up?” asked Joe. “If he’s… already dying?”
Tom glanced at his mother. She was staring off into the middle distance, isolated, but still listening. His answer was unsparing. “Because Super Trooper was coming to the rescue and the striptease gig might not work with Billy throwing up blood all over the place.”
“Tommy!”
“Think about it.” Tom spoke directly to his brother now. “This low life, scum-bucket had just about finished killing off his sorry self. And whatever misery he’d been heaping on Susan and whatever threat he posed to her work and reputation was within hours of coming to an end. Not to mention the bigger threat of this toxin and the people who paid Billy to mix it up in batches. But Super Trooper is on his way and there’s no time to stop him.”
Joe said nothing.
“When you called her, did you happen to say something manly, like that if she didn’t get Billy to the hospital by the time your shift was over, you’d come and drag him there yourself?”
Joe wouldn’t look at him.
“Did you?” Tom demanded.
Joe bowed his head.
“So she poisoned him?” asked Mary, wanting it spelled out plainly.
“From what the CDC doctor told me,” said Tom, “she would only have had to crush one of those beans in a cup of liquid. Maybe she crushed a handful to finish him off fast. He was at death’s door anyway, it was just a matter of hours. When it looked like the potion had worked, she must have zipped him up in that sleeping bag. Maybe he was using it as a bed cover or something and was already lying on it. It gets pretty cold at night on the water, and there was only a sheet on the bed when I went there yesterday. Then she dragged the bag with Billy in it down the steps and into the boat.”
When Tom finished speaking, the family Morgan fell into an exhausted silence. Each stared off in a different direction like strangers in a crowded elevator. Mary was the first to snap out of it. “That’s quite a story, Tommy. But isn’t it what they call circumstantial? You can’t prov
e any of it. Can you?”
Joe answered for his brother, his voice a feeble gasp. “I think… we’ll find pieces… of Frankie Heller… under those bird claws. I took… a lot of stuff… from Billy’s room… right after we found… his body. Maybe we’ll get… some abrin… out of a mug… or something. We’ll get more… of Billy… from the boat. It couldn’t have… been easy… dragging him… over the side… in and out. We’ll get fibers… from the bag… at least.”
Tom paced in the space between bed and door. “The first story Susan tells after she gets hit with this is going to be the best chance of getting anything near the truth. You’ve got to tell your pal Grogan to bring her in before she has a chance to polish some fairy tale.”
Joe struggled to speak. “I know I’m compromised, Tommy. But I can’t…”
“It’s not just Susan, Joe. What about Hassad and what he was up to with Billy? Who’s going to stop him before he skips town? You? Me?”
CHAPTER 26
Tom pulled up beside Susan’s dented BMW sat at the far end of the NeuroGene parking lot, and there had another of those ‘what am I doing here?’ moments, conscious that he was having a lot of them lately, with Susan Pearce as the common catalyst. This time the answer came easily. He had come for the truth.
Willow leaned unsteadily on the edge the reception desk, flanked by a young man in an un-pressed white shirt, clear plastic pocket protector and about three inches and a hundred pounds on Tom. “Leave,” said Willow.
Tom addressed the hulking youth at Willow’s side. “He pay you to get hurt, too?”
The young man turned to the receptionist. “Amanda, call the police now.”
“Go ahead. It’ll make his day.”
While the receptionist called the Coldwater police station, the door behind her desk opened, and a mixed group of business suits and lab coats came through it. Tom sidestepped the group and entered the corridor behind them.
Hustling down hallways, room-to-room, focused and fast, he paused at a metal door where a thick glass porthole framed a long white lab coat and a mane of honey hair draped like a lampshade over a polished microscope. Coherent thought dissolved until he remembered that he was looking at a probable killer who may have poisoned and then drowned her own brother. The Apostle Paul had warned that ‘he who increases knowledge increases pain.’ Tom opened the door, hoping that Paul was wrong.
