The dirt road, barely wide enough for the van was deeply rutted and clumps of weeds poked out of the earth. Fifty yards farther on, the road made a gentle bend so the paved county road behind him, was no longer visible.
He crept along at less than five miles an hour, following tire tracks that his van had made when he had explored the road two days before. At one point he got out and examined the tracks, was satisfied that there were no fresh marks over the ones he had made before. Two days ago, when he had first scouted the area, he had driven along the dirt road to its terminus, two miles further on. It led to a pile of charred wood and an open pit lined with a few cement blocks, the foundation of a small, burned-out farmhouse.
Now, he checked his odometer, decided he did not have to go any further. Trees and thick bushes surrounded him. A few yards further on, he came to a place where there was enough room on either side of the road to turn the van around so it faced the way he had come in.
He climbed into the back of the van and slid the side door open. The rays of fading sunlight that filtered through the forest, reflected on the bright chrome handlebars of the motorcycle that leaned against a wall inside the van. He lifted a wide plank from the floor and placed it from the doorway to the ground, so it served as a ramp. He carefully guided the motorcycle on to the ramp and standing alongside, balanced it the short distance to the ground.
He walked alongside the cycle, steering it through narrow gaps in the underbrush, moving away from the van, until he was twenty yards from the road. He placed the cycle on its side under a bush and went back to the van for a black plastic tarp, which he used to cover the motorcycle. He scattered loose branches and leaves on the tarp and stood back examining it, satisfied that his cache was well hidden. He’d be back for the cycle tomorrow—but not in the van. Tomorrow he’d be here as a passenger guiding his driver along the dirt road. Prodding the back of his head with the barrel of his gun.
Dusk was rapidly settling as he started the van and slowly drove out of the woods. When he reached the paved county road, he drove toward the freeway, but stopped after he had gone a hundred yards. He got out and walked back to the dirt road carrying with him a whiskbroom. He used the broom to obliterate his tire tracks for ten yards into the dirt road. He retraced his steps to the paved road walking alongside the dirt road to avoid leaving footprints.
Ephraim Rankins hummed and he talked to his invisible friends in the back of the van as he drove back to Massillon.
He was already feeling the flush that he experienced before each of the previous sacrifices. This was the one they had all led to. This was the one that really counted.
THIRTY
The sign on the door of Peterson’s Mortuary read: “In case of emergency please call 836-9976.” Vandergrift, squinting in the rapidly fading light of day, read aloud to Maharos who stood alongside.
They turned to the sound of car tires on the gravel driveway. A gray and blue patrol car with a yellow “Massillon Police Department” decal on the door, pulled up and parked. A tall, lean police officer stepped out and approached. “Hi. I’m Matt Clemens. You the guys Sergeant Laufer talked to?”
Maharos said, “Yeah. Know where we can find Peterson?”
“He lives next door.” Clemens pointed to a two-story red brick house just visible through the hedge that separated Peterson’s house from the funeral home parking lot.
The three walked up to the front door. Maureen Peterson in a flower print housedress answered the doorbell. Through the screen door, she glanced from Maharos to Vandergrift. Spotting Clemens, she smiled in recognition. Clemens had told Maharos he had moonlighted for the Petersons on a number of occasions, driving an escort car at funeral processions. “Hi, Matt. What’s up?”
Maharos had his shield in his hand and answered. “We’re trying to locate one of Mr. Peterson’s employees. I believe you know him as Wiliams.”
She opened the screen door. “Would you like to come in?”
She led them into a spacious center hallway. Jason Peterson, dressed in slacks and a sport shirt, a newspaper in his hand, appeared at the entrance to the living room that led off the center hall. He saw Clemens and greeted him. “Anything wrong, Matt?”
“These officers are looking for the guy who works for you.”
“Jackson Wiliams?”
Maharos said, “Yes sir.”
“Anything wrong?”
“We’d like to ask him a few questions. Part of an investigation we’re conducting. Know where we can find him?”
“I imagine he’s home. Maureen, do you know his address?”
Maureen Peterson said, “It’s that small red brick apartment building corner of Bridges and Fern. It faces on Bridges but I don’t know the exact address. It’s just about three blocks from here.”
Vandergrift said, “Could we look up the address in your phone book?”
Peterson said, “I don’t think he ever put in a phone. Matt, you know the building, don’t you?”
Maharos’ brows went up. No phone? Who didn’t have a phone this day and age? Peterson noticed Maharos’ expression. “You’re thinking about the phone? I know it seems odd, but Jackson—well, he’s a very private person. Wouldn’t you say, dear?” He looked at his wife for confirmation.
“Yes, I’d call him a very private person.”
Vandergrift said, “Mr. Peterson, when did you see him last?”
“A little after five this evening when he left work.”
“So you wouldn’t expect him back until tomorrow morning?”
“Well, yes—except he won’t be in tomorrow. He’s got the day off.”
Maharos said, “Tuesday is his day off?”
Peterson smiled. “In this business we don’t stick to regular days off. If we have a funeral on Sunday, he would work that day and take off another day during the week instead.”
“Is that why he’s off tomorrow?”
“Yes—well, partly.”
Maharos kept looking at him for an explanation.
Peterson went on. “We did have a funeral Sunday and he worked. But, actually, he had requested tomorrow off several weeks ago. Wasn’t it a few weeks ago, Mo?”
His wife nodded.
“Did he ever request a day off in advance before?”
Peterson thought for a moment. Looked at his wife for the answer.
Maureen Peterson touched her husband’s arm. “Yes he did, dear. Last month, remember, he wanted to be sure he could be off—I don’t remember the date but I could look it up.”
Peterson smiled, “That’s right. Now that you mention it, I do remember that there were several other times in the past few months. He told me a few weeks in advance that he wouldn’t be coming in on such-and-such a day.”
Maharos said, “Was it always the same day or date each month.”
Peterson thought a moment. “I’d have to look it up.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
Mrs. Peterson said, “I was just working on the books. I’ve got it right here on my desk.”
Maharos said, “I’d appreciate that.” He watched as she went into the small study off the center hall, and turned back to Peterson. “How long has he been working for you?”
Peterson puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly, thinking. “Let’s see. It’s almost three years now I think. I could look up the records, if you want.”
“Maybe later. Is he a licensed mortician?”
“Mortician assistant, we call him. He isn’t licensed. I am, of course.”
“How did you come to hire him?”
“He answered an ad.”
“Do you know what he had done before he came to work for you?”
“I think he had been working on a farm. To be honest, I never checked the references he gave me. When I hired him, it was as a janitor. At the time, I had another man who helped me preparing bodies, but he became sick. Wiliams filled in for him and did such a good job that I trained him myself rather than hunt aroun
d for a regular mortician.”
Maharos said, “By the way, what kind of car does he drive?”
“As far as I know he doesn’t have a car. He only lives a few blocks away and he always walks to and from work.”
Maureen Peterson was walking back toward them carrying a ledger book. Peterson asked her, “Have you ever seen Jackson drive a car, Mo?”
Maureen Peterson shook her head. “Only the hearse. I guess he takes buses if he has to go any distance. Funny, I’d never thought too much about how he gets around before.” She opened the ledger. “Here are the days he’s had off this year.”
She pointed to the dates. He was off usually one day each week. Since January, Wiliams days off included the seventh of each month. Maharos took it in, said nothing. He said, “Do you have last year’s record of days off?”
She flipped the page. In the previous year the dates on which Wiliams was off, were random.
Vandergrift said, “Mrs. Peterson, you just said that Mr. Wiliams drives your hearse. Then he must have a valid license, right?”
Mrs. Peterson looked at her husband. Both appeared flustered. Finally, Peterson said, “I—I’m sure he has one. He certainly knows how to drive.”
Vandergrift said, “Have you asked to see it?”
“I must have at one time.”
Maharos said, “Do you actually remember seeing it?”
Peterson’s face turned red. He looked from Maharos to Vandergrift, then back to Maharos. “I don’t understand what this is all about.”
Maharos didn’t care whether or not the guy was driving with a valid license. Probably it had never been renewed. That explained why his current address had not been filed with the BMV. He tried to sound casual. “We just want to ask him some routine questions. It’s in reference to an investigation we’re conducting.”
“You already said that. What kind of investigation?”
Maharos hesitated. Although the evidence against the man was piling up, until he was certain Rankins was the person they were hunting he was reluctant to make a definite statement. “A homicide investigation. I can’t go into any more detail at the moment, but I’ll be glad to answer all your questions after we’ve talked to your employee.” He turned to Clemens. “Could you take us to the apartment building where he lives? We’ll follow you in our car.”
He followed Clemens and Vandergrift out of the door and walked rapidly down the steps. The sooner he got away, the fewer questions he’d have to answer. Peterson stood at the open door, the newspaper hanging from his hand, a perplexed look on his face.
Rankins lived in a square, red brick, two-story, corner apartment building. Sturdy oak trees lined the curbs on either side of the street, their branches forming an arbor over the roadway.
The building contained four apartments, two on each of the two floors. Clemens pulled the patrol car to the curb on Bridges Street, in front of the building. Vandergrift, driving an unmarked Ford, parked on Fern, along the side of the building. It was half-past eight but still light. Clemens remained in his patrol car.
Maharos waited at the car while Vandergrift walked around to the back of the building. In a few moments she came back. “There’s no fire escape,” she said. “There’s a back door but it’s locked. It looks as though it leads to the basement.”
Maharos and Vandergrift walked to the front of the building. The outer door led to a small vestibule with an inner door that was locked. Inside the vestibule, they read the names next to the row of four bell buttons on a brass plate mounted on a wall. Wiliams’ name was opposite the top button. Maharos pressed the bell button and they waited but there was no response. Twice more he rang without an answer.
Vandergrift said, “Let’s try one of the others. Maybe one of them is the caretaker.”
The name card opposite the lowermost button read “Warner.” A few moments after Maharos had pressed the button, a man’s metallic voice came through the flutes of a small amplifier set in the bell button plate. “Yes?”
“Mr. Warner?”
“Who is this?”
“Police. Can we talk to you?”
A few beats of silence, then, “Wait a minute.”
They heard a door open and a moment later a form appeared at the thick glass panel set into the door separating the vestibule from the inner hallway. A man was shielding his eyes looking out as he pressed his face against the glass.
Maharos held up his shield and Vandergrift pointed to the star badge pinned to her shirt. The door remained closed. “What is it you want?” His voice was muffled behind the thick glass.
Maharos called, “We’re trying to find Mr. Wiliams.”
“His apartment is upstairs. Ring his bell.”
“There’s no answer.”
“Then he’s not home.”
“Who’s the caretaker of this building?”
“I am. I own the building.”
“Can we come in? We’d like to talk to you.”
“What about? I thought you wanted to talk to Wiliams.”
Maharos was becoming irritated. “Mr. Warner, why don’t you open the door so we can talk without shouting.”
“How do I know you’re who you say you are? There’s been a lot of robberies around here.”
Vandergrift stepped outside the vestibule and beckoned to Clemens seated in his patrol car, elbow resting on the window frame. He came up the walk. “What’s the problem?”
She explained that Rankins did not answer and the owner-caretaker would not let them in. “Maybe you could talk to him.”
Clemens stepped to the glass vestibule door. Warner appeared to recognize the Massillon P.D. uniform. A moment later he opened the door and stood scowling, while the three filed in to the small inner lobby.
Maharos said, “Mr. Warner, show us which Mr. Wiliams’ apartment is. Maybe he’s not answering the doorbell.”
Warner said, “What’s he done?”
Maharos said, “We’re investigating a case and we need to talk to him.”
Warner hesitated, then shook his head slowly and led the way up the stairs. He pointed to the door on the left at the head of the stairs. “That’s Wiliams apartment.”
Maharos stood to the side and knocked. When there was no response, he called, “Mr. Wiliams?”
Silence.
He turned to Warner. “Do you have a key to his apartment?”
“Why?”
“We’d like to take a peek inside. See if he’s asleep or something. Maybe he didn’t hear us.”
“Now, wait a minute. I can’t let you in. You should know that’s against the law.”
Clemens said, “We could get a warrant…”
“So get a warrant.”
“If I have to go to all that trouble I won’t be happy.”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re happy or not.”
Clemens glanced around the hallway. “When were you last inspected for termites?”
“Termites! Where do you think you are, California? We don’t have no termites here.”
Clemens brushed his hand over the wood molding halfway up the wall. He looked at his fingers. “Looks like termites to me. I’ll have a building inspector out in the morning. You can bet your ass he’ll want a termite inspection. Probably have to do a full fumigation. Everybody’d have to leave the building ‘till it’s over.”
Warner took a deep sighing breath. “Wait here. I’ll get the master key.”
* * *
Ephraim Rankins was still humming as he turned the van into Bridges Street. He passed Beech, Cedar and Daphne. As he approached Fern, the next cross street, he saw against the darkening sky, the profile of the overhead light rack on the car parked in front of his apartment building. The danger flag in his head shot out like a banner in a high wind. His foot gentled down on the brake and he turned right on Fern, away from the apartment building.
He drove for a little more than a block, then stopped at the curb. He was breathing rapidly. So close to his goal now. Couldn
’t take a chance on being stopped. Just one more day, that’s all he needed.
For ten minutes he drove around aimlessly, then turned back and passed the apartment building. The patrol car was still there. He kept going.
* * *
In Rankins’ apartment, Matt Clemens said, “Want to toss the place?”
Maharos shook his head. “Not without a warrant.”
Warner said, “You shouldn’t even be in here.”
Clemens said, “Hey, we’re just checking out a report that there was a suspected break-in. We’re just protecting our citizens, for Christ sake.”
“Some protection.”
Warner stood by in Rankins’ apartment while Maharos and Vandergrift looked into each of the rooms, carefully avoiding touching anything. Clemens remained in the living room, his legs apart, thumbs hooked into his gun belt.
Warner said, “What the hell are you looking for? You can see he’s not here.”
No one answered him.
The apartment was uncluttered and spotlessly clean. The living room was furnished with a maple couch upholstered in a plaid tweed material. Early Sears. In addition, there were two matching chairs and a small drop-leaf table. Maharos was struck by the barrenness of the room. He looked for newspapers, magazines or books. There were none. There were no pictures on the walls, no carpeting on the floor.
From a small vestibule off the living room, doors led to a small bathroom and the bedroom. In the vestibule there was a linen closet, the lower half of which was taken up by a small washer-drier combination. Maharos pointed to the unit. “Does this come with the apartment or do the tenants buy it?”
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