by John Lutz
She managed a smile and sniffled. “But what you say is true-blood relationships mean something. Yesterday was harder than I anticipated.”
“Identifications of homicide victims are never easy,” he said.
She nodded. “But it’s over.” She drew a deep breath and smiled with a brightness that startled him.
They talked for several hours after that, about everything but Nora Noon and what had happened to her. They talked about each other. Fedderman learned that Penny had backpacked through Europe after college and wanted to return someday to Paris. Penny learned that Fedderman had been a widower for years but still awoke some mornings reaching across the bed for his wife.
Fedderman was still halfway convinced he was working. You never knew, he told himself, when something seemingly unrelated would strike a chord and prove useful.
“Why did you leave Florida?” she asked.
“It was paradise at first, but I got tired of it. So I came back here to do what I’ve done all my life.”
“Try to find the bad guys?”
“Find them and take them down,” Fedderman said. A little romance and excitement wouldn’t hurt here. He was getting his footing.
The waiter came over and refreshed their drinks. Penny dropped her soggy tea bag back in her cup and played with the tag and string, as if she were carefully maneuvering a tiny fish she’d just hooked.
“You never did answer me when I asked about what you did,” Fedderman said. “I’ll bet it’s something interesting. Maybe even dangerous.” He didn’t want her to think he was bragging too much, what with his taking down the bad guys remark.
“I’m a librarian.”
“Seriously?” He sat back and stared at her, immensely pleased, as if he’d never before laid eyes on a real librarian.
“I’m seriously a librarian. At the Albert A. Aal Memorial Library on East Fifty-third Street.”
“Right here in New York?”
“Uh-huh. I carpool in from New Jersey.”
“That explains it. You’re obviously smart.”
“Because I carpool?”
“No, no, the librarian part.”
“Ah,” she said, and sipped her tea. “I’m impressed that you’re impressed.”
“What exactly does a librarian do these days?” Fedderman asked. “I mean, what with all the electronic readers and such?”
“Sometimes I think we mostly sit around and wait to become obsolete,” she said. “People still do read paper and print books, and a lot of them. But once we computerized our system, librarians started becoming less necessary.”
“Damned computers,” he said.
“They must make your job easier.”
“Like they make yours easier.”
“I bet all those rich widows in Florida were always after you,” Penny said.
Fedderman fought hard not to blush. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
She fiddled around with her tea bag some more.
“I believe that if I were a rich widow, I’d notice you,” she said.
He smiled. “I’d be honored to be noticed.”
They sat silently for a while, Fedderman looking at Penny, and her staring in the direction of the window but obviously looking inward. The sun coming through the glass laced her streaked blond hair with highlights and lit up her eyes. Pensive eyes. So calm and considering.
Fedderman realized it didn’t really matter what they talked about. They were for some reason comfortable in each other’s presence. Dinner wouldn’t be a bad idea, he decided. A date.
“What are you thinking about?” Fedderman asked.
“The Dewey decimal system.”
“I miss it, too,” Fedderman said.
20
Hogart, 1991
Willis from the Quick Pick convenience store heard the screaming as soon as he stepped outside into the hot night. He knew right away the screams were coming from the woods behind the store.
He folded the LIVE BAIT sign he’d come outside to bring in and laid it on the concrete near the door. Would there be more screams?
The night was quiet now. He stood with his arms dangling limply at his sides, his head cocked to the left so as to bring his good ear into play, listening for sounds other than the buzz of insects in the woods and up around the pump lights.
The next thing he heard that was louder than the cicadas was a roar. It was uncertain and stuttering at first, rising and falling. Then, about a hundred yards away, he saw a motorcycle burst from the woods onto the county road. It turned away from him, running without lights until it straightened out and had a level stretch in front of it. It roared louder, as if its spirits were lifted by the black ribbon of road ahead. A big Harley-he could tell by the distinctive sound of its engine.
As it receded from his vision, he studied it in the moonlight. It was a dark-colored bike, ridden by a big hefty guy wearing what looked like jeans and a black T-shirt. He had on a dark-colored helmet. Willis saw long dark hair sprouting out from under it, and it seemed that the guy had a beard.
That was it, the image that stayed with Willis as the lone cyclist passed from moonlight into the darker night and was gone.
Then he heard another scream. A woman. He thought about Beth Brannigan, who’d left the store not that long ago, lugging a paper sack containing a six-pack of beer for her husband, Roy. Fearless young Beth, who might have taken the shortcut through the woods. Roy would be on the other side of the woods watching TV from his beat-to-crap recliner, like he always did when the Cards games were televised. Willis wondered if Roy had heard the screams.
The screams continued, ending in a keening wail almost like an animal would make.
Maybe there were others besides the man on the motorcycle. Maybe whatever was going on in the woods hadn’t stopped.
Willis ran back into the store and snatched the twelve-gauge Remington shotgun from where he kept it propped behind the counter.
After checking the gun to make sure it held shells, he went back outside, locked the store’s glass door, and headed for the woods. He found himself feeling oddly elated as he moved at a fast jog toward the source of the screams, holding the shotgun out in front of him crossways with both hands, the way he’d been trained to do back in ’Nam.
Thirty-two years ago. Not so long a time.
Sheriff Wayne Westerley kept the Ford cruiser’s accelerator flat on the floor during much of the drive to Willis’s Quick Pick convenience store. He wanted to get there before Beth Brannigan’s husband showed up. The big car seemed to chase the converging headlight beams probing the darkness out in front of it.
Roy Brannigan had a temper at the best of times. The fact that he was a religious fanatic didn’t seem to have influenced him to try settling matters peaceably.
Willis had carried Beth into the store before calling the sheriff’s department. When Brannigan arrived there and was told what happened, he might immediately go after his wife’s attacker and trample the crime scene even more thoroughly than Willis probably had, Roy having more at stake.
But Westerley didn’t see Brannigan’s battered old Plymouth anywhere as he pulled the cruiser into the Quick Pick’s gravel lot and parked near the door.
The inside of the store was brightly lighted. When Westerley tried the door he found it locked. It only took a few seconds for Willis to appear inside and open it.
Willis’s thinning hair was hanging over his forehead, giving his face depth and shadow in the overhead fluorescent lighting. He looked distraught.
“She’s in back,” he said.
Westerley had always liked Beth Brannigan. In truth he was kind of attracted to her, maybe especially so because she didn’t deserve a nutcase husband like Roy. A drunken Roy tended to preach all the more fervently and defend his view of the Lord with his fists. Westerley sometimes wondered if he used those fists on Beth.
She was in the storage room, reclining in one of the webbed aluminum lawn chaises that Willis sold in the summer. Beth
had a terry-cloth beach towel over her that featured a likeness of Elvis in his later-years Las Vegas regalia. The towel came up to her neck. Her bare feet and ankles showed at the other end, where Elvis’s head was. Beth’s feet were dirty on their soles and turned in toward each other. Nearby on the floor was a wad of rumpled clothing. Some torn jean cutoffs, a ripped T-shirt, and pink panties.
Westerley didn’t like Willis messing up the crime scene and its evidence, but on the other hand he couldn’t have left Beth suffering and unconscious in the woods. The clothes, though, might have yielded some clues. They might still.
Willis noticed the way Westerley had glanced at him.
“Well, hell,” he said, “I couldn’t leave her layin’ there on the ground. And I had to cover her up. The son of a bitch that got her’s the one that tore off her clothes.”
Beth didn’t say anything. She was staring straight ahead, probably in shock, trembling even though it was warm in the storeroom. A bruise was beginning to take colorful form below her left eye.
“I got an ambulance coming from Fulton,” Westerley said. He knew they’d use a rape kit on Beth at the hospital, begin the process of accumulating evidence, building a case that would hold up in court. If we can find the bastard. “Did you call her husband?” he asked Willis.
“Nope. I thought I’d wait till you got here.”
Westerley noticed a shotgun leaning against the wall near the storage room’s rear door. “Were you fixing to use that twelve gauge?”
“Would have if I could have,” Willis said.
“You gotta-”
“Willis! You in here?”
Roy Brannigan’s voice. Willis hadn’t relocked the door after Westerley had arrived. He and Westerley looked at each other. Westerley nodded.
“Back here, Roy. In the storeroom.”
Brannigan entered and looked around. He saw his wife in the lawn chair, barely covered by a towel. He aimed a dark and puzzled scowl at Willis and the sheriff.
“What in God’s name is goin’ on here?”
“Beth was attacked,” Westerley said. He could smell beer on Brannigan’s breath.
Brannigan stared at him as if he’d spoken Chinese. “What do you mean, attacked?”
“I’m sorry, Roy. Not long after she left the store to go back home, Willis heard somebody screaming in the woods. He went to see what was going on, and he found Beth on the ground and hurt. So he brought her here and called me.”
“She musta been taking the shortcut back to your place,” Willis said. “I was just about to call you.”
Brannigan’s intense features were bunched, but his eyes were huge and unbelieving. He was trying to comprehend what he’d just heard.
“What do you mean, attacked?” he said again.
“We’ll get her to a hospital, Roy,” Westerley said. “Then we’ll know more. We gotta find out how bad she’s hurt.”
Brannigan stared at his wife, who lay gazing at nothing as if she were alone on a distant island. Her teeth were chattering.
“I told her and told her not to take that shortcut at night,” Brannigan said. His anger was growing, simmering right now, but it might boil over. “They don’t listen. They don’t damn listen!”
Gravel crunched outside in the lot as another vehicle pulled in and parked. Westerley thought it might be the ambulance and paramedics, but instead his deputy, Billy Noth, appeared in the storeroom doorway. Westerley had told him what happened, so he wasn’t surprised to see Beth in her condition. Billy looked at Brannigan, then at Westerley.
“She okay?” he asked.
“We’ll find out soon,” Westerley said.
“Who did this?” Brannigan asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Westerley said.
“We’ll find the son of a bitch,” Billy said.
“God had best find him before I do,” Brannigan said.
“We’ll do the looking,” Westerley said, remembering Willis’s shotgun. He knew Brannigan owned several guns. Too many damned guns around here.
More gravel crunched out in the parking lot. This time it was the ambulance. Tight metal doors thunk ed shut almost in unison, and shortly thereafter came the sound of somebody entering the store.
“Back here!” Westerley yelled.
Two burly paramedics in white outfits came into the storeroom, making it suddenly seem small and cramped and very warm. Westerley was perspiring heavily and could feel the taut material of his tan uniform shirt sticking to his back.
He told the paramedics briefly what had happened, and they hurriedly set about bringing in a gurney and transferring Beth onto it. As they shifted her weight, the towel came half off her. There were leaves and dirt sticking to her nude body. One of the paramedics got a blanket over her in a hurry and kicked the towel to the side. Elvis’s eyes showed, somewhat rumpled, and seemed to be observing everything with mild interest.
“Lord, Lord…” Brannigan said in a choked voice. “I’m goin’ with her to the hospital.”
The paramedics looked at Westerley.
“He’s her husband,” Westerley said. For a moment he wondered how it would have felt to say he was Beth’s husband. Westerley’s own wife had left him three years ago, unable to stay married to a cop.
“You can ride in back, sir,” one of the paramedics said to Brannigan.
“Make absolutely sure they do a rape kit on her,” Westerley said softly to the other paramedic.
The paramedics rolled the gurney through the store and outside, handling it gently. Everyone followed. The night was dark but for the island of light where the convenience store stood. The ambulance’s flashing red and blue roof lights seemed inadequate, surrounded by all that vast darkness and silence. Moths flitted like stunned spirits before its headlights.
As the gurney’s wheels were raised and Beth was loaded into the ambulance, Brannigan walked about ten feet away and stood staring up at the sky. He suddenly howled, startling everyone. His jaws spread even wider and the tendons in his neck tightened like cables as he howled again, louder.
Then he calmly walked to the rear of the ambulance.
“The Lord doth have his reasons,” he said, and climbed into the vehicle after Beth.
One of the paramedics shut the ambulance’s rear doors. As he walked around to get in the passenger’s seat, he looked over at Westerley and rolled his eyes.
Westerley didn’t respond, thinking about Beth.
The three men stood and watched the ambulance spray gravel, then break from the lot. A couple of hundred feet down the road, its siren cut in.
“I’d like to know what those reasons are,” Billy Noth said. He turned his head off to the side and spat.
When the ambulance was out of sight and could no longer be heard, Westerley laid a hand on Willis’s bony shoulder.
“Take us to where this thing happened,” he said.
21
New York, the present
“I figured that sooner or later I’d see my good buddy Detective Quinn again,” William Turner said.
Quinn was back in the brownstone vestibule that smelled faintly of cat urine. Turner, the former manager and part owner of Socrates’s Cavern, had opened the door and was staring out at him, grinning. He didn’t look so much like Einstein today. With his meaty lips and gapped teeth, he had what could only be called a lascivious grin. It went so well with his former business that Quinn wondered if it might be practiced.
Turner wasn’t wearing a blazer and ascot today. He had on a shimmering purple silk kimono and the same fleecelined leather house slippers he’d worn during Quinn’s last visit. His curly gray hair still looked as if it would overwhelm any comb. His blue eyes were alight with amusement, as if Quinn had just told a joke. Or maybe Turner regarded Quinn simply being there as a joke.
“I heard on the news you found another Skinner victim,” Turner said, “so I suppose you’re here to ask me about Simon Luttrell.” The New York media had already tagged the killer the Skinner. He was g
oing to be valuable to them. Turner opened the door wider and moved aside so Quinn could enter. “Ask away, Detective.”
“Do you have a cat?” Quinn asked.
Turner grinned wider and appeared quizzical. “Pardon me?”
“A ca-”
“No, no. I don’t much care for them.”
Quinn didn’t tell him why he’d asked. The acrid scent in the vestibule that seemed to clog the bridge of the nose. Well, maybe it was some kind of antiseptic cleaning fluid.
He sat down as he had before on the flowered beige sofa, facing Turner’s pottery collection. “It didn’t take long for the news media to pick up the name Simon Luttrell.”
Turner stayed with his grin, but it became knowing as well as lewd. “Prompt coverage is what you might expect, considering the name was scrawled in blood on the bathroom mirror, like with the last victim. And we both know how the NYPD leaks information.”
“Not every compartment is watertight,” Quinn admitted, “but the ship sails on.”
“Poetic and true.”
“Do you remember Simon Luttrell?”
“Never laid eyes on the man, that I can recall. No surprise. Our membership numbered well into the hundreds.”
“He had a gold key.”
“Ah, you’ve been doing your research.”
“Do you recall him now?”
“No. Sorry. Gold-key membership also numbered in the hundreds. It wasn’t as exclusive a club within a club that the members assumed.” Turner strode to a chair and sat down, causing the kimono to work up and reveal thin, bluish ankles. The reflective purple material was so full of static electricity that it actually struck sparks. “Look, Detective Quinn, all Simon Luttrell is to me is ancient history that I’m not particularly interested in and don’t even remember. And as far as I know, he isn’t part of the New York S and M world now.” The gap-toothed, nasty grin again. It came and went so easily on his fleshy face. “What I think,” he said, “is that someone clever is playing with your mind.”
“We’ve considered that,” Quinn said.
“And we both know it isn’t me.” Turner shrugged his narrow, rounded shoulders beneath the kimono. “But, when you’ve got dead tortured women, one after the other, and sexually adventurous men like Philip Wharkin and Simon Luttrell, or someone pretending to be their ghosts, who you gonna call? An old porn king, that’s who.” He sighed. “Hell, I guess it’s only natural. But it’s misguided.”
