JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home

by Peter Spiegelman

  I let out a long, slow breath. The way I read it, they were in business together, Danes and Hauck. In violation of about a zillion securities laws and NASD rules, and who knew how many of Pace-Loyette’s company policies, they were in business together. Danes’s end of the deal, apparently, was to provide Hauck with advance copies of Pace-Loyette’s research reports. Hauck’s part, I assumed, was to use that information to place bets for his funds. Pace-Loyette’s reports might not have the same oomph in the markets these days as they once had, but with the size of the positions that funds like Kubera took, even small moves up or down could mean serious money. And Danes, in return for his faxing services, had apparently cut himself in for a piece of that action— and never mind conflicts of interest or little things like insider trading. I remembered what Anthony Frye had told me about Hauck— about the bumps in the road that his funds had hit, and about the magic he’d somehow reacquired over the past year— and I was pretty sure I knew where he’d found his sorcerer’s stone.

  I looked through the sheaf of papers again. The file was damning to Hauck and Danes both, and while it might not be the whole of their paper trail, it was enough to set even the most sluggish investigator on the right track. It was a smoking gun, and I wondered why Danes had compiled it. And then I recalled what I’d heard about Danes— from Irene Pratt and Anthony Frye and even from Neary— about his reflexive mistrust of people, his tendency to see conspiracy everywhere, and his habit of keeping a firm grip on his management’s balls. Whatever else Danes had intended the file to be, it was also an insurance policy. If he’d ever gone down for any of this, he wouldn’t have gone alone.

  I wondered if Marcus Hauck knew the file existed. He couldn’t have been sleeping well if he did, and it could explain why he’d mobilized Pflug and his army of contractors when Danes dropped out of sight. Having something this explosive in the hands of a co-conspirator as difficult and volatile as Danes was bad enough. Having the co-conspirator go missing was infinitely worse.

  There was a long rumble of thunder and a gust of wind, and the Dutch door blew open. I jumped. I looked at my watch; it was closing in on six o’clock. I took a last look at the papers and put them in the file folder, and another burst of light and shattering noise exploded overhead. The rafters rattled and glass chattered in the windows. The lights flickered— off and on and off again— and stayed off. I switched on my flashlight.

  Shit. I wasn’t going to get much more searching done in the dark, and in truth I thought I’d found what I’d come for. It was time to call the cops. It was time to go.

  I went to the car and slid the file folder back into the briefcase and closed the trunk. I pulled out my cell phone and tried to find a signal, but the ether was empty no matter where in the barn I stood. I put the phone away and headed for the door.

  The rain and wind were heavy when I stepped outside, and the rush of water and the cold ozone tang of the air were a shock and a massive relief. I took a deep breath and looked up at the sky and let the rain wash down my face and through my hair. I needed to burn my clothes and take a long hot shower, but this was a start.

  I stood there for a minute or two, and then I pointed my flashlight down and began to work my way along the side of the barn toward the house and the road. I wondered what the power failure had done to cell phone service, and if I’d find a signal down by the road. I thought about the cops who would come in answer to my call— assuming I could make one— and what they’d think about being dragged out on a night like this, and about finding me here, and about what I’d found. And I thought of Jane, and how she was doing in the storm. I stumbled on a stone but kept my feet. I rounded the corner to the front of the barn and smacked my knee on the bumper of the car parked there.

  I backed away and ran my flashlight over the car. It was a Chrysler— a K-car— twenty years old at least, and it was brown and heavy with rust. I looked around and reached into my waist pack for the pry bar, but I was too slow and too late and I didn’t see it coming.

  34

  Something like a two-by-four came down between my shoulder blades, and my flashlight went spinning into the rain and dark. He grabbed me by the neck and by the belt and I went spinning too, face first onto the hood of the Chrysler, with a sound that dwarfed the thunder. I slid to the ground and he grabbed my left arm and something popped in my shoulder and I was flying again, into the side of the barn. I didn’t register the impact or the pain until I was slumped in the mud, and by then they were abstractions.

  I didn’t black out, not completely, but I couldn’t move much— or not dependably, anyway— and my thoughts were slow and haphazard. I felt him grab me by the belt and drag me. I felt the stones and shrubs I was dragged across, and there was a jagged pain in my shoulder with every jolt. I felt the wind gusting and the rain sweeping over me in sheets, and I felt it stop as I was dragged across a threshold. I smelled the thick, cloying scent of death again, and a rank familiar odor much closer by. Then he swung me, and I skidded and tumbled on the packed earth floor and came hard to rest against something made of wood. And then I blacked out.

  There was light when I came to. It was from an electric lantern that was sitting on the roof of the Beemer, and it cast a milky circle around the car and a heavy shadow beyond it. I was crumpled in that shadow, in one of the open-ended stalls that lined one side of the barn. There was blood in my mouth, and maybe dirt, and the side of my face was swollen and numb. There was a faint ringing in my ears and my left shoulder was dislocated. My left arm hung useless beside me like an empty sleeve, and just inhaling caused it to throb and burn. I lay without moving and breathed slowly, and watched Paul Cortese pace back and forth beside the Beemer, into and out of the light.

  He was bigger than I remembered— at least six-foot-five— and broader, and he was more disheveled and crazed. His work boots were soaked and splattered with mud, and so were his khaki pants and threadbare brown sweater. His thin tangled hair was plastered to his head, and there was a week’s worth of dirty beard on his wide face. There was tape on his glasses and mud on the lenses and I could see nothing of his eyes. He made jerky splay-fingered gestures with his thick blunt hands, and I saw that they were covered with dirt and cuts. His small mouth was moving and I could just hear him over the storm.

  “You see? You see what happened? He left another. I see it, and I know you see it too. You see it all. He leaves them, and now I have to put them away.” His voice was quick and droning, and the rises and falls and pauses in it had to do with breathing and not with meaning. It was oddly liturgical somehow.

  “You know he did it, you know it. He left another— like the last one, but outside, at our car. He left him at our car. He looked at our car.” Cortese went still and stiff, and after a moment he twisted his face and shook his head, as if in painful denial of something. “I do— I do have to put them away now. I put them away before— I got it all out. So I have to clean now. He leaves it for me, so I take care of it.” Cortese resumed his pacing and wild gesticulating.

  I came cautiously to a sitting position and leaned against the back of the stall, and I bit back a gasp of pain when I put weight on my left arm. I reached for my waist pack, but it was gone. I felt around for it but found only dirt. Cortese slammed his fist on the Beemer’s roof and the light jumped and so did I.

  “We cleaned it all last time— all of it— the whole house. And now he left another. I have to take care of it now.” He assumed a wide ragged orbit around the car, and after a few circuits he walked stiffly toward the far end of the barn. He returned with a long roll of plastic sheeting balanced on his shoulder and a six-pack of gray duct tape in his hand. Shit.

  He leaned the plastic sheeting against the car and put the duct tape on the hood and disappeared into the shadows again. I got my feet under me and stood slowly in the darkness. My heart was pounding and my arm was throbbing. I heard Cortese rummaging somewhere off to my left, but with the bubbling sound of rain, and the wind in the rafters, it was
hard to localize. The lightning flashes only served to blind me. Cortese exclaimed something and it sounded far away. He was big and crazy and he had two good arms. I wasn’t sure I’d get a better chance.

  I kept low and kept quiet and headed toward the car, skirting the circle of light. I crouched by the front bumper and listened for a moment and heard only wind. I went around the car and headed toward the Dutch door— or where I thought the door was. The barn was black just a few feet from the car and I moved slowly and with my hand outstretched. My knuckles brushed wood and my fingers found the doorframe. I ran my hand along it, feeling for the latch, and heard a shuffling behind me and an angry mutter and an iron clamp closed around my neck.

  A spike of pain shot down my shoulder and into my arm and I kicked out and back and connected with something. There was a grunt of surprise but no loosening of his grip. I twisted and brought my right forearm around and banged it against his. It was like hitting a fence post, but his hand slipped off me. And then something came out of the dark and slammed into the side of my head. My knees sagged and he caught me by the belt and threw me into the side of the Beemer. The breath flew out of me in a stinging gasp, and I lost my footing and went down.

  Paul Cortese stepped into the circle of light. He was bent over slightly and rubbing the side of his knee and whimpering softly. Tears rolled down his big face and left pale tracks on his skin. I came up fast from a crouch and drove my right fist into his midsection, just below the sternum. He yelped and coughed and staggered back half a step and I stepped forward and threw my elbow into his windpipe. Or that was the plan.

  Cortese brought his thick hands up and caught my arm and grunted and pushed. I skidded into the car and hit it with my shoulder and yelled. Cortese looked down and rubbed his gut and made a mewling sound that chilled my blood. Tears spilled from his cheeks. He looked up, and his face was clenched and dark with rage. His eyes were black and full of madness. I turned and slid over the Beemer’s hood, and as I did I stretched out my good arm and knocked the lantern off the roof of the car. The barn went black.

  I rolled and scrambled in the dark and stopped when my back hit a wall. My heart was hammering and my breathing was ragged and the rushing in my ears blotted out the rain and the wind and whatever sounds Cortese might be making. I inhaled deeply to slow things down, and I stared into the blackness and strained to hear.

  Cortese was sniffling and crying and moving around, but he was near the car and he didn’t seem to be looking for me. I heard a clinking sound, like tools bumping together, and a click, and a thin white beam of light moved across the Beemer and onto the ground nearby. Shit.

  Cortese put a flashlight on the car hood and stood in its light. His shadow was huge and misshapen and he looked like a golem as he bent to his work. He lifted the roll of sheeting easily and unfurled a large swath on the floor. Then he reached into what looked like a tool bag at his feet and came out with a carpet knife and cut the plastic. He cut open the package of duct tape, pulled out a roll, and tore strip after strip of tape from it. It made a noise like static.

  I stood and leaned against the wall. Hitting Cortese was like hitting wet clay, and my right hand and arm were sore. I shook them out and thought about doors. To my right somewhere was the sliding door that was chained and locked, and that would get me exactly nowhere. Nearby to that was the ladder to the hayloft, where my chances were little better— assuming I could get up the ladder in any reasonable time. Somewhere to my left and across the barn— somewhere on the other side of Cortese— was the wide Dutch door. If I got out, it would be through there. If I didn’t, I’d be dead.

  I tucked my left elbow up against my ribs and tucked my left hand into my belt. I took a deep breath and began to edge forward. Outside, the rain and wind suddenly subsided and it grew quieter in the barn. There’d been no lightning for a while now, and the thunder was rolling away. I heard Cortese’s mutterings plainly, and the rattling noise of stiff plastic. If I could hear that, he could hear me— and the longer I waited the quieter it would become. I needed to move. I edged forward again and to the right— and I saw light.

  It was a hard blue-white color, and for an instant I thought it was lightning. But it swept in an arc through the barn’s high windows and across the walls and I knew that it was a car. And then I heard the engine.

  Cortese heard it too, and he stood very still and listened. The engine grew closer and the sound of tires on gravel came with it. Cortese picked up his flashlight and moved away from me, to the door, and I heard the scraping of the latch. And then the car horn sounded— once, twice, three times— each time a sonorous bark. It was the Audi. It was Jane. I rushed at him.

  Cortese heard me in the dark and turned, and I drove my right shoulder into his chest. He grunted and swayed and swatted me across the back, and his flashlight went flying. I stumbled backward, pivoted into a clumsy roundhouse kick, and caught him someplace soft. He made a surprised sound and suddenly his big hands were on my throat. He brought me close and what little breath I had was filled with the stench of him. My hand scrabbled across his face and my thumb found an eye socket, and Cortese squealed and threw me away.

  I landed on my shoulder in an explosion of pain, and rolled on my back, wheezing. Cortese’s flashlight was on the ground, maybe fifteen feet away, and he picked it up and pinned me in its beam and came closer.

  And then the lights in the rafters flickered and came back to life. Cortese looked up at them, and when he did I drove my heel into his crotch. He roared in astonishment and pain and staggered sideways, bent over. I held on to the Beemer and climbed to my feet, gasping, and the Dutch door swung in. I gathered my breath to shout to Jane— to warn her— and let it out in a long sigh when two Berkshire County sheriff’s deputies stepped in. My legs began to shake and I slid down the side of the car and sat on the ground.

  35

  One storm was passing, decamping to the east and dissolving at its trailing edge into icy stars and a crescent moon. And another storm was brewing, with Calliope Farms at its swirling center. I sat in the back of a sheriff’s department truck that smelled like old socks, and Jane sat in her Audi, and all around us a carnival had gathered, of big official vehicles, gaudy flashing lights, and bulky uniformed men. The last of my adrenaline was seeping away and I felt vaguely nauseated. I fiddled with my ice pack and my sling, but the pain in my shoulder was relentless.

  The two deputies who’d been first on scene were young— no more than twenty-five— and they were sodden despite their rain gear. They’d come into the barn looking irritated and tired, but that had all changed when I told them what was in the car and when Paul Cortese made an incoherent noise and a clumsy lunge for the door.

  They’d wrestled Cortese to the ground, and cuffed him, and walked us to their SUVs. I’d seen the Audi on the lawn, and Jane’s tense, pale face in its rain-spattered windshield. I’d waved to her but gotten no response. The deputies told me to keep still and keep quiet, and they’d put Cortese in one truck and me in the other.

  I’d watched the vehicles arrive in ones and twos: Lenox PD cruisers, another sheriff’s 4 x 4, a fire truck from Lee, and the Pittsfield EMS. The EMS techs climbed into the back of the sheriff’s car to look at Cortese, who had apparently lapsed into something like a catatonic state. Afterward, a deputy motioned me out of the truck and the techs had looked at me. They’d flashed lights in my eyes, cleaned the cuts on my face, and rigged a sling and an ice pack for my shoulder. Then the deputy put me back into the truck. No one had questioned me beyond name and address and a few other basics. They were waiting for the boss. I hitched up my sling and rearranged the ice pack again, and finally he arrived.

  A caravan of cars and SUVs pulled onto the lawn behind the Pittsfield EMS wagon. They were gray and dark blue and bore the seal of the Massachusetts State Police. A heavyset fiftyish guy got out of the first car and came up the small hill toward the house, and a squad of troopers and crime-scene techs followed. The local cops greeted him d
eferentially.

  He huddled for a while with them and with his own people, and he seemed to do more listening than talking. He was about five-ten, with a big head of wavy gray hair that needed cutting. His face was broad, with drooping features, an unkempt gray mustache, and a day’s growth on the jaw. He wore a tan baseball jacket, zipped up, and jeans, and he kept his hands in his pockets as he listened and nodded and occasionally glanced in my direction.

  He dispatched one team of troopers and crime-scene guys to the barn and another to the house, and he sent a remaining trooper back down the hill to the cruisers. He stood alone near the farmhouse and looked around at the men and cars and lights until the trooper returned and handed him a large Styrofoam cup. Then he went to the Audi and knocked on the glass.

  Jane ran the window down and the man bent his head and offered his hand. They shook and spoke and he proffered the cup. Jane took it and the man climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. I saw Jane sip at what was in the cup and nod her head, but soon the windshield fogged and I could see only shadows. After forty-five minutes, he came to talk to me.

  He climbed into the front passenger seat and brought a smell of pipe tobacco with him. He looked at me through the metal grate. His dark eyes were weary, but even so, and even through the grate, he managed an avuncular twinkle.