Sobotny actually hadn’t driven to the Austin house that morning, because her car’s water pump was out, and Davis had driven her to the Austins’. After the killing, they’d hastily cleaned up with paper towels and some “cleaning stuff” taken from the broom closet, which made good the crime-scene lab reports on the floor. Then they’d loaded the body into the wrecker, and Davis had taken it out a few miles and pitched it in a ditch. Sobotny had driven Frances’s car back to Frances’s neighborhood, and parked it, in an effort to conceal the fact that Frances had been at the house that afternoon.
“Honest to God, I was so freaked out that I didn’t know what I was doing,” he said. “She was telling me what to do, pushing me around, and by the time I got to thinking about it, it was all done and I was in the shit. I knew it wasn’t gonna work. My dad said, ‘If you ever do anything crooked, the ’thorities will get you.’ He said that all the time, and we kids all believed it, and here it is, the proof.”
“If you didn’t plan to do anything bad, what about the money?” Lucas asked. “You had to plan the fifty thousand dollars.”
Davis’s tongue flicked out. “Yeah. I guess. I just kept thinking about them birds. No cholesterol, no fat. Them birds were gonna be my career.”
He said he was sorry, that he would never do anything like that again, and asked who would feed his birds. They had to be fed that evening and again the next morning. Del called the Goodhue County Humane Society, and the woman who answered the phone said that one way or another, they’d take care of it.
The statement was recorded.
Lucas, Del, and the Goodhue cop made statements about the arrest procedure, the reading of the Miranda warning, which was critical, because Davis had simply blurted out the confession.
And when they were done, Del said, “I think we’re good.”
The Goodhue deputy, a cheerful farm boy with a blond flattop, slapped Del on the back, hitched up his gun belt, and said, “Man, I was in on a murder arrest. First time for that, eh? You’re looking at the deputy of the month.”
By the time they got out, it was nine o’clock, a small, cold-looking moon coming up in the east, with clouds ripping across it, almost like at Halloween.
They stood together in the parking lot while Lucas talked to Jenkins, who’d relieved Shrake at the drugstore apartment, watching Heather.
“She took a long hot bath tonight,” Jenkins said. “Now I gotta find another woman.”
“What happened to the last one?”
“Wore me out,” Jenkins said. “And she always listening to that fuckin’ piano music, that Well-Tempered Clavier shit. Enough to drive a saint to drink.”
“But nothing going on.”
“Well, I’d call that bath something, but in your cop frame of reference, no. No sign of anybody,” Jenkins said. “But you know, I got the feeling that she’s doing this on purpose: she’s holding us here.”
“She’s a performer,” Lucas said.
“She’s a goddamn snake,” Jenkins said. “Though I gotta say, that’s the kind I like.”
Lucas had called Weather to tell her about the arrests, and she was waiting to hear more when he got home. “I couldn’t believe it—the case was like an egg that got broken. All of a sudden, crack,” she said. “What did Alyssa say?”
“I haven’t told her,” Lucas said. “I’m going to call her now, I’m going over there. I’d like you to come along.”
“Me?”
“Won’t take long,” Lucas said. “You’re cutting tomorrow morning? ”
“Yes, but nothing big. I’ve got to graft some skin on a tumor site. I could do it in my sleep.”
“So come on with me to Alyssa’s,” Lucas said.
Lucas called ahead, and told Austin they had some news, and that he wanted to come over. She’d be waiting.
They took the Porsche, and in the car, Lucas said, “When we get there, I’m going to leave you alone for a few minutes . . . maybe, I don’t know, I’ll think of something. Anyway, when it’s just you two, I want you to suggest that I come back and get you, that you want to talk for a few minutes. Then, I want you to find out how she feels about these other three killings. About the three we don’t know about.”
“You don’t think these two jerks did it?”
“I don’t think so. And I don’t think Frank Willett did it, either. I just don’t have that feeling,” Lucas said.
“So why . . .” Weather began. But she was no dummy. “Oh, no— you don’t think Alyssa had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “For Christ sakes, don’t ask her. If she’s involved, she’s nuts. You’ll be okay, but I’d like you to get her to talk about it, and tell me what she says. She’s gotten a little wary with me. I think with you, she’ll open up.”
“Because I’m a friend,” Weather said.
“Yeah.”
“So I can betray her.”
"C’mon, Weather, you’re not betraying her,” Lucas said, turning to her in the dark. “You’re helping out in an investigation. I want you to bullshit with her a bit, and tell me what you think.”
Austin came to the door in sheepskin moccasins and an ankle-length white sleeping gown of a soft fine white cloth that might have been made from unicorn hair, and let them in with a blast of cold air. Lucas said, “I’m sorry, you look like you’re ready for bed.”
“I’d just gotten out of the bath when you called,” she said. “What happened now?”
“We arrested Helen and Ricky for Frances’s murder,” Lucas said. “Helen won’t talk to us, but Ricky has given a statement. There’s not much question—Helen stabbed Frances when Frances accused her of taking the fifty thousand dollars, and Ricky helped cover up.”
Tears began running down Austin’s face, and as she backed down the hallway toward the living room, she said, “Why? Why would she do that? She was like a member of the family.”
“Greed, basically—they were trying to start a business, and needed the money, and when Frances figured it out, she confronted Helen and there was a blowup. Helen stabbed her.”
They sat down and Lucas took her through it, step by step, and she got up once to get some tissues and blow her nose, and at the end, she said, “So it’s all done.”
“Not quite done,” Lucas said. He looked at his watch and said, “Shoot,” and then back up at Austin and said, “I don’t think that either Ricky or Helen, or Frank Willett, had anything to do with the other three killings—but I do think that the three killings are tied to Frances, somehow. And maybe Willett and Ricky and Helen are pulling my weenie, but I’ve been doing this for a long time and that’s not the feeling I’m getting. We’ll see.” He looked at his watch again, and then said, “Uh, I’ve got something else going on. We’ve got a big dope guy coming through town, we’ve got a surveillance going, with all this excitement with Ricky and Helen, I forgot to check. I need to use your kitchen phone?”
Lucas stood up and Austin, blowing her nose again, said, “You know where it is,” and Lucas left them, going down the hall toward the kitchen. Weather said, “It’s over now. I really don’t know what else to say—God, if I lost one of my kids . . . but you don’t want to hear that. Now you’ve just got to hold on. If you need anything . . .”
They could hear Lucas down the hall on the phone, and Austin said, “Some big dope dealer?”
“You wouldn’t believe what’s going on with that—I can’t tell you now, Lucas would kill me, but when it’s over, we’ll get a cup of coffee,” Weather said. “Some of it’s awful and some of it’s hilarious.”
“Unlike what happened with Helen,” Austin said. “I can’t get over it—why would she do that? I loved Helen.”
Weather said, “My relationship with Lucas started—really started— when a little girl shot him in the throat and I was there to keep him breathing. Since then, we talk about his cases, and I’ll tell you, the craziest stuff happens all the time. I always thought crazy stuff happens in medicine, bu
t if you’re not a cop, you can’t even begin to conceive how weird people get. Lucas arrested a man who borrowed money from a neighbor, and then murdered the neighbor so he wouldn’t have to pay him back—two hundred and twenty dollars that he used to get his snowblower fixed. He killed him.”
“That’s not even crazy,” Austin said. “That’s beyond crazy.”
Weather didn’t want to get into crazy cop stories—Lucas would kill her—and so she asked, “Is the funeral still on Saturday?”
“Yes. They’ll release her, and it’s Saturday morning. I just . . . I just . . .”
Weather said, “She’s in heaven, now, Alyssa. She’s fine.”
Austin’s chin trembled and she used another tissue on her nose and said, “I really don’t believe in heaven, I’m afraid. She’s been released from this incarnation into the next; I hope she found a good spirit guide. Maybe her father, if he hasn’t yet been reborn. She was a good girl; she took care of people. I think her karma, her energy, will take her higher yet.” She snuffled some more.
Weather said, “Well.”
This time, Austin produced a small smile and said, “I know what all you good Christians think, and I just don’t think that way. I think her spirit may still have been out there, waiting for satisfaction. I never conceived of the possibility of Helen . . . I just can’t grasp it. Lucas is sure?”
“He got a detailed statement, and he tells me that it’s all supported independently by laboratory evidence. They’re sure.”
“I was so sure those other three . . . there was negative energy about them, a black karma, I was sure they were involved.” Austin had changed, and Weather sat back, disturbed by the look on her face.
“I have a friend, my friend Loren, who has, well, he’s in a space that intersects with another plane, and he tells me that boats take our souls to the next life; and some boats are glorious, and some boats are dark and dank, like slave ships, going down the Mississippi. They load right there on the St. Paul waterfront, at night. . . . Oh, shit.”
She began weeping, rocking back and forth in her easy chair, and Weather stood up and sat on the arm of the chair and wrapped her arm around her and hugged her, and they both cried together for a bit, then they heard Lucas coming back, and Lucas stopped and looked at them and finally said, “Guys—this was a good thing that happened tonight. ”
“I know,” Austin said. “But I’m sorry about Helen and Ricky, too. Oh, God.”
“Should I call your parents?” Lucas asked.
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m better, really. It’s over. It’s all over. I’m going to go ustairs, take a couple of pills, and I think I’m actually going to get a good night’s sleep for a change. God, I’m so tired. I’m so tired it feels like my heart is caving in.”
Back in the car, Lucas asked, “Well?”
Weather looked out the passenger-side window and didn’t say anything for a bit, then, “I’m like you. I get a bad feeling. She thought the other three had black karma that indicated that they were tied to the murder of Frances. And she had a friend who thought the same way. If that’s true, and if they were looking for revenge . . .”
“Revenge works as a motive. It’s not as common as it is on TV shows, but it happens,” Lucas said.
“She said this friend—she said his name was Loren—said there were riverboats of souls going down the Mississippi, and some of these were glorious riverboats, and some were like slave ships. The bad souls, obviously. She thought Frances might still be here, but on a different plane. Not on a boat yet.”
Lucas interrupted: “Her friend was named Loren?”
“Yeah, that’s what she said. A male Loren. She said, ‘he.’”
“Her friend Loren is dead,” Lucas said.
He explained in a few words, and Weather said, “She said he was in a different space. One that intersects with the plane of death. He’s the one that sees these riverboats.”
“I think Alyssa has a problem,” Lucas said. A moment later: “She has a problem, and damned if I could prove it.”
25
All of alyssa’s nights were bad, even when there was only one of her. When there were two, and a ghost in the mirror, they were beyond nightmares. She struggled with the blankets, first too hot, then too cold. She fought the pillows: first they were too hard, then too soft, then too hot, and flipped over, blessedly cool, but only for a few moments. And she woke every few minutes to stare at the clock, where the hands moved at a snail’s pace, grinding out the minutes, with hours that never ended.
The conversation went on endlessly, raging arguments—Loren, pushing to kill Davenport, to get rid of him. “He knows, he knows, he knows . . . Do you think Weather was gushing at you out of sympathy? Bullshit. She was doing it for him. And if she tells him that I believed that the other three were the killers, that Loren did this and that Loren did that, he’ll remember that name. He will remember that I am dead and he will conclude that you are a psychotic. Once he convinces himself that you’re guilty, he is the kind of man who will manufacture the evidence he needs to arrest you. He is crazier than any of us, he will do anything to win the game. He has to be eliminated. He’s too dangerous to let go.”
Alyssa resisted: “No. No, he’s a friend of mine, he wouldn’t do that to me. He’s got no evidence.”
“He will manufacture the evidence if he’s convinced you killed the three.”
“No, no, no . . .”
Fairy took Loren’s side: “If we do it right, if we kill him, who’s to know? A lot of people must want him dead. He must have enemies all over the Cities, all over the state. Killers. Drug dealers. Gang members. If we did it cleanly enough, who’d know? With a gun, not with a knife. In the dark. One shot in the heart, and run.”
“I won’t do it,” Alyssa said.
“I will,” Fairy answered.
“She will,” Loren said.
“I know she will. She likes killing. She likes the taste of blood, for God’s sake. She puts it in her mouth, sucks it off her fingers.”
“It’s self-defense,” Fairy said. “As simple as that.”
Alyssa woke once, in the middle of the night, shivering, and found that she’d thrown off the covers. Her mind was clear as glass—the clarity of insomnia, when she knew that immediate sleep was out of the question. She got up, turned on the light, got her tarot cards, shuffled them, laid out a Celtic cross, tried to focus: What would happen if ?
The cards failed her—the answers all seemed obscure or trivial or irrelevant. She yawned, and thought about going back to bed, but knew better: the insomnia was trying to trick her. She had to be yet sleepier, to get any sleep. Had to seek exhaustion.
Downstairs, she had some milk. Thought about watching television, gave it up as a bad idea: she wasn’t interested in television, she was interested in what she had to do.
Loren, reflected out of a window overlooking the lake, said, “You have no choice, Alyssa. I don’t think you’d do well in the women’s prison. You’re not cut out for being locked in a cell, for that blue-collar misery, washing floors and working in a laundry. Year after year after year, until you turn into a hag. We have to kill him.”
“Go away,” she said. “You got me into this, you asshole, now go away and let me think.”
Back upstairs, she stopped at the door to Hunter’s bedroom, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. She could still smell him. He used an old-fashioned aftershave—Bay Rum, like that—and it clung to the room, as long as he’d been gone.
She noticed, in the dark, the small amber lights on the stereo: had they always been on? Maybe. She’d never been in the room for more than a few minutes at a time, after his death. On impulse, she picked up the remote control, clicked Play. After a few clicking sounds, Paul Simon came up: “Still crazy, after all these years . . .”
With the music playing softly in the background, she sat on Hunter’s bed, not knowing exactly what she was up to. Closed her eyes, and let the karmic energy flow over her, t
hrough her, tell her what to do. The song ended, and she opened her eyes, and opened the bottom drawer on the bedstand.
The gun was there—a .38, with hollow-point bullets. When concealed carry became legal in Minnesota, Hunter had been one of the first to qualify for a permit. Then he carried for a while—the .38, a Beretta 9mm, a .45, and then it all just got too heavy, and he started leaving the guns at home.
He took the .38 with him, though, when he and his biker buddies rode out to Sturgis—they actually cheated, and shipped the bikes to Bismarck in the back of a couple of Chevy vans, driven by wives sworn to secrecy, and rode into Sturgis from there, greasy jeans and leather chaps and dirty boots and four-day beards, aging Brandos right out of the executive suite. The .38, he told her, was a necessity should there be trouble: “Nobody knows that I’ve got it,” he said with a grin, over breakfast. “Nobody knows where it came from. If I gotta use it, I can ditch it and be clear.”
She’d said, “For Christ sakes, Hunter, you’re a mechanical engineer, you don’t shoot people. Leave the gun at home—it doesn’t make you look like a gunman, it makes you look like an idiot.”
That had annoyed him, and he hadn’t spoken to her for a day or two; and he’d taken the gun.
She lifted the gun out of the drawer, hefted it, put the muzzle to her temple, closed her eyes, started to squeeze, and Loren said, “Don’t do that. Alyssa, please. The gun could go off, you might not even kill yourself, you could leave yourself with half a brain. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Don’t hurt me,” Fairy pleaded.
Alyssa chuckled, and took the gun down, and now put the muzzle in her mouth—but it tasted bad, and she took it back out.
“I’ve got to think about this,” she said.
“One shot, at night, and the Davenport problem is gone,” Loren said. “We don’t even have to hurry—just watch his place. If everything isn’t perfect, we pass.”
“Maybe he goes to bed at eight o’clock every night,” Alyssa suggested.
“I don’t think so—he’s talked about working late. Weather says they’re mismatched that way. She gets up early every morning, he stays up late.”
The Lucas Davenport Collection, Books 11-15 Page 97
