Behind him lay the door from Suite X into the morgue. It was less than three feet away. Was it locked? Everyone—even the troopers—stood immobile, like somebody had poleaxed them. Good, let them all be dumbstruck.
He inched backward toward the door and began talking.
“I can’t believe, Nelson, that you’d believe me capable of what Forester is suggesting.”
These fools weren’t going to stop him. Strange, but it seemed as if someone had turned up the volume on everything around him. He could hear the murmuring of all their viruses communicating.
“I think what you’ll find is that Dr. Forester planted a pre-taped video you mistook for live action. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
He was close now. The voices in his head were celebrating.
One of the troopers began approaching, the handcuffs ready.
“Dr. Witner, you have the right to remain silent,” he began. “Anything you say—”
“Nelson,” he said, nearly at the door now. “I doubt you’ll survive the backlash from this. I doubt this measly place will survive. Believe it or not, the time will come when all of you will wish I had succeeded. In the meantime, I’ve got some loose ends to take care off.”
“Good God,” Gail Scippino said.
He reached behind him and felt the knob, turning it carefully. It wasn’t locked.
The other trooper was the first to realize what was happening, but he wasn’t fast enough by half.
“Look out!” he yelled. “There’s a door.”
But Witner was through. He slammed it shut, and luck was with him. There was a deadbolt on the morgue side.
XL
Footprints In Blood
Within fifteen minutes of Witner’s escape, every security guard in New Canterbury Hospital was combing the medical center, assisted by the state troopers and a dozen city police officers, led by Chief Bedford. They stationed an officer in Witner’s office and another near his car.
By mid-afternoon, they still had not found the fugitive.
Time flew by for Jack. It seemed like every consultant in the medical center, from neurology to orthopedics, filed into Suite X to examine Dr. Gavin and discuss the bizarre turn of events. Dr. Wick arrived not long after Witner disappeared, and the toxicologic blood studies confirmed pancuronium and chlordiazepoxide. There was no doubt now that Gavin’s coma was medication-induced.
It was three p.m. before Jack remembered the letter. As he was rushing out of the building, he ran into Chief Bedford standing by a coffee machine in the ED lobby, speaking into a walkie-talkie. Bedford lowered it from his ear and shook Jack’s hand.
“Good work, young man.”
“Any luck finding him yet, Chief?”
“Jack, that man must be a magician. It’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth. But there are only so many places he can hide, and we’ll get him. But, I still can’t believe I had him pegged so wrong.”
“You and a lot of good people. Have you checked his house yet?”
“I detailed a couple of men to go out there in case he shows up, but he’d have to be walking. His car isn’t an option, and we’ve gotten no reports of any stolen vehicles. I think he’s probably still here somewhere. It’s just a very big place, a lot of beds to hide under and closets to hole up in. This could take days. How’s Jim doing? I heard he’s starting to wake up.”
“He is,” Jack said smiling. “Just a little, but he’s coming around.”
“Thank God.” Bedford blew on his coffee and took a sip. “I still can’t figure out Witner’s motives. Talk about somebody with a lot to lose. Goes to show how you can’t judge a book by its cover.”
Book cover. He had to get Zellie’s letter.
“Chief, I’ve got to run
Bedford again reached out and shook his hand.
“I am going to need a formal statement from you.”
“Later, please.”
“Your mom and dad would have been awfully proud. If you ever want to change careers, you give me a call.”
“With a little luck, I just might get my old job back. Chief, would you call me with any news?”
“Done,” Bedford agreed.
“Just ask the hospital to page me.”
A leaden overcast hung above the buildings, and the wind was picking up as he trotted to his truck, still parked in the handicapped spot, with an orange parking violation under the wiper blade. A few snowflakes fluttered onto the glass.
Tim Bonadonna ran up beside him.
“I’m coming with you, mate,” he said.
Tim barely had time to shut the door before Jack jerked the truck into gear and pulled out. Jack’s jaw was set, his lips clenched together. He accelerated through a light turning red.
“Where are we going?”
“Remember that letter from Zellie I told you about, the one I was going to pick up at the hotel until all this blew up?”
He zoomed through another changing light.
“Easy, partner.”
“I got a bad feeling.”
“Don’t automatically jump to the worst-case scenario.”
“Then why hasn’t she called?”
“Any of a million reasons, Jack. She might have gone shopping or—”
“Would you shut up for once in your life?”
Jack left the truck idling by the front door and tore open the small white envelope. He read it then looked at the clerk.
“I’m sorry I grabbed your tie this morning.”
“No problem.”
“Listen, did Ms. Andersen call this in herself?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Has anyone seen her today?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How about Mrs. Gavin?”
“The redheaded lady from California?”
“Right.”
The clerk shook his head and shrugged.
“Would you call Ms. Andersen’s room for me?”
The clerk did as he was asked. Jack reread the letter.
“I’m sorry. No answer.”
Back in the truck, Jack shut the door and sat for a moment, looking at the snow, which had now begun falling steadily.
“Boy,” Tim said casually, “if the rest of the winter stays like this, we’re in trouble. Aren’t you going to tell me anything?”
“It was called in last evening. Nobody’s apparently seen her or Daphne Gavin today.”
“Not what I asked. What was the message?”
Jack handed it to him, and Tim read it out loud.
“I’m fine, not to worry. Daphne and I have gone to stay with her friends for night. Have discovered absolutely vital information, you’ll be pleased as punch, miss you.” He hesitated for a moment, and then continued. “Please meet us tonight at five-thirty tonight on the dot, near the little bitty bridge by Deepwater Marina. Can’t wait to see you, handsome. Love, Zellie.”
Jack started the truck but made no motion to set it in gear.
“Sounds like good news,” Tim said.
Jack looked at him, and slipped the truck into drive.
Tim raised his eyebrows. “It doesn’t sound like good news?”
“Zellie’s an artist with words, Tim. She’d never write something that stupid.”
* * *
He stood with his friend on the little bridge near the marina. Beneath them in the darkness, Miller Creek gurgled. It was a little reed-bordered stream, flowing as it had for ten thousand years.
The floodlight in Hinkle’s parking lot glowed. The snow had turned to freezing rain shortly after dusk, coating the bridge’s metal grating. Jack checked his watch and stomped his feet.
“Quarter to six,” he said. “We’ve been here half an hour.”
“Without an umbrella.”
Only two cars had passed since they’d arrived, both of them police cruisers heading toward the west shore in the direction of Witner’s house. The second one had suddenly braked, backed up and stopped
next to them. The window rolled down, and a high-intensity flashlight jabbed into their eyes.
“It’s Dr. Forester,” the cop said to his partner. “How you doing, doc?”
“Fine. We’re waiting for someone.”
“Okay. Stay warm.”
That was twenty minutes ago, and nothing had come by since.
Then Jack saw lights coming down the western shore. They disappeared several times behind cottages then reappeared, much closer.
“Another car,” Tim said. “Maybe it’s them.”
It passed by Hinkle’s parking lot—it was another police cruiser. Jack’s throat contracted. The car pulled off the road just before the bridge, braking hard. The doors opened, and two men strode over. One was Armand Bedford.
“Hell of a night,” he said, moisture dripping from the brim of his cap. “One of the officers said he saw you two here. What the hell are you doing?”
Jack explained the message allegedly from Zellie about a meeting.
“Jesus, you should have called me. You don’t have to shoulder these things alone, Jack. But listen, we’ve been investigating a crime scene at Witner’s place, and I’d like you to come up there for a minute.”
“What do you mean?” Jack’s pulse quickened.
“We found two bodies. One is Fred Hinkle, but Jack, we might need your help…” His voice trailed off.
Jack felt like a hand had his vocal cords in a vise grip.
“No sign of Witner?”
“Still at large. Do you want to follow us, or would you rather ride with me?”
“We’ll drive,” Tim said, stepping closer to Jack.
* * *
There were two city patrol cars and one belonging to the state police parked in Witner’s driveway, and light flooded from every window, including the attic. Jack stepped over a yellow tape, and a few minutes later found himself standing by the body of Fred Hinkle. Hinkle was stretched out face downwards, a small pistol still gripped in his right hand, and the back of his head caked with blood. Spread around his head lay a huge pool of it, congealed and thick.
“Did he shoot himself?” asked Tim.
“No. It’s blunt trauma, Bedford said, pointing to a bloody hammer lying several feet away. “There’s the murder weapon.”
“Jeeze,” Tim blurted, “I thought that was a couple of old guys sitting there.”
“Yeah, it seems that Dr. Witner liked to play with life-sized dolls,” Bedford replied. “There’s more of them over on the other side of the furnace. They talk to you when you make a loud noise. Crazy.”
“Crazy—not a bad description,” Tim said. “But who killed Hinkle?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. By the way, aren’t you the one who’s been calling us about some drug company monkey business?”
Tim shrugged. “Once or twice, maybe. Guess I was off-base.”
Jack had been steeling himself. He didn’t want to ask the question, but he had to.
“Chief, you said there were two bodies.”
“This way.”
Bedford led them to the freezer. He lifted the lid and switched on his flashlight. Daphne stared up, her eyes milky.
A mixture of revulsion and relief flooded though Jack.
“Good God.”
“You know her?” Bedford said.
“Yes, and I think you do too. It’s Dr. Gavin’s daughter-in-law.”
“Daphne Gavin? The one who was married to Jim’s son?”
Jack nodded.
“Jesus.” Bedford swiped his chin. “Yeah, I only met her once, maybe ten years ago at some party. She was quite a looker. What in the hell was she doing here?”
“She and Zellie were together,” Jack answered. “Witner must have found out they knew. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless she and Witner were working together.”
“Holy smokes,” Tim said.
Jack swung toward Bedford.
“Is that all you’ve found?”
“That’s it so far, son. Our men are still working through the rest of the house. But, listen, come here and take a look at something.”
Back next to Hinkle’s corpse, Bedford played his flashlight over the floor.
“See that? And that?”
Jack dropped to a crouch and stared.
“Don’t touch,” Bedford said.
“They’re footprints,” Jack said, and the thought came to him that he had never seen Zellie’s feet without shoes.
“Got to be,” said Bedford. “Footprints in blood. They head for the back door over there.”
XLI
Frigid Skin
Zellie swung the hammer and felt the blow radiate up the handle all the way to her neck. Blood began pouring from his scalp, but Hinkle just stood there, straightening a little. One of the puppets was singing.
She lifted the hammer again, but he swayed, blood now oozing down his neck. Suddenly, his body arched, and he fell backward toward her. With a cry, she lunged and pushed him. His legs jerked, and he toppled forward in slow motion, making no effort to protect himself, his face slamming the concrete so hard she felt it on the soles of her bare feet.
The puppets stopped babbling, and she heard the ragged, gasping sound of her own breathing. She looked at the hammer. It was spattered with blood, as were her hands and forearms. Her fingers grasped the handle as if the hammer might strike her if she let it go.
What if he were still alive? What if he could still get up and grab her? But the longer she gazed at him, the more convinced she became that Fred Hinkle would never rise again. Nonetheless, should she bash his head a few more times to make doubly sure? Her stomach turned. She didn’t think she could force herself to do it—not unless the killer began moving.
The blood from his scalp and the massive gash on his face wasn’t flowing anymore, and she saw no sign he was breathing. She nudged his leg with her foot; it moved without resistance.
It was then she noticed he had a pistol in his right hand, the same one Daphne had pointed at her the night before. She crouched and tried to take it, but his fingers were locked around it. She recoiled at the thought of touching him. Was there any need for it?
She shuffled around the body and made for the basement door. Halfway there, she looked at the hammer, still gripped in both hands, and gave in to an impulse. Returning to the freezer, she lifted the lid and, with one blow, smashed the lock.
When she got to Hinkle’s truck, the keys were not in the ignition. They must be in his pocket. The thought of rifling through those was too revolting to contemplate. Now that she was outside, breathing the fresh air, even though the gray sky was sputtering snow, even going back in the house to look for Daphne’s purse and the keys to the rental was too awful to think about.
There was still the boat. She could see the other side of the lake. It wouldn’t take her long to get there. She returned to the basement door, opened it just enough unhook the keys from the nail, then shuffled to the dock. Thanks to a friend who lived on Long Island Sound, she knew how to start an outboard. The engine kicked over on the second try.
It wasn’t until she was far out on the water that she realized she’d forgotten to call Jack.
* * *
The cold rain had washed away any footprints that might have remained outside the back door. While Tim, Chief Bedford and two other officers methodically searched the lawn, moving toward the lakeshore, panning flashlights in front of them, Jack borrowed a light from one of the troopers and searched the woods, calling Zellie’s name.
Bedford came up, collar pulled around his neck, water dripping from the brim of his hat.
“To judge by the state of Hinkle’s body, she could have left here six or eight hours ago, Jack,” he said. “Or maybe more. Damn this weather. Two more years, and I’m heading for Florida.”
“This is not good.”
“Listen, we’re not going to give up until we find her. If I were the young lady, I’d have tried to get as far th
e hell away from here as possible and into some shelter. But I don’t think I’d have trusted the neighbors. I’d have tried to find a phone.”
An officer came bounding down the yard from around the front of the house.
“Chief! We just got a call from dispatch. They’ve found something.”
“So, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Jones and Simpson discovered a pair of shoes and a white coat with Witner’s name on it.”
“Where?”
“Out on the pedestrian walk of the Seneca River Bridge. About halfway across.”
“Jesus Christ. All right, tell them to call out a crew to start dragging. And have them send any available people out here to help search for a missing person.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jack, do you think Witner could have survived a plunge like that—ninety feet into swift current at forty degrees?”
“Not likely.”
“It would save a bundle of taxpayer money. We should be so lucky.”
They were walking along the lakeshore now. Jack studied the boathouse. It was the size of a one-car garage, and it hung out over the water next to a short dock. He knew Witner owned an old mahogany runabout; he had seen him on the water a few times, most recently late in the summer. Witner had zoomed past close enough to send spray into Jack’s sailboat.
The boat wasn’t tied up at the dock.
“Where are you going?” Bedford called after him.
“I’m going to see if Witner’s boat is inside.”
The dock was slick with ice. Skidding on the planks, Jack grabbed the side of the boathouse for balance.
“Don’t come out here!” he warned Bedford. “It’s treacherous.”
He opened the door and shone the light inside. Waves splashed in the rocky shallows. The beam reflected off the surface and shimmered on the walls where a few dusty life jackets and a coil of rope hung. No boat.
Tim had joined Bedford, and they were waiting at the dock’s edge.
“It’s empty,” he told them as he stepped onto solid ground. “Witner’s boat is gone.”
“Maybe he took it somewhere for repairs,” suggested Bedford.
“Wait a minute—look at this,” Tim said. He was shining his light on something dangling off the side of the dock. It was a rope. “Somebody left here in a hurry,” he said. “They untied the rope from the boat but left it tied to the dock.”
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