by Dana Donovan
I entered, closed the door behind me and wiped my feet on the mat just inside the entry.
“Hello?” I called.
“Back here,” Jean replied, her voice booming from down the hall. “In the kitchen, please come in.”
I followed my nose toward the aromatic scent of pasta sauce cooking on the stove.
“Ms. Bradford?” I poked my head into the kitchen and found Jean sitting at the kitchen table, combing through the sports page.
“Oh, there you are,” she said cheerfully, though barely looking up.
I crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. She had been recording all the winning horses from the previous day’s races in a small notebook. “I see you play the ponies.”
It seemed like an undertaking, but she finally managed to peel her eyes away from her task to look up at me. “Yes, well, sometimes I do get caught up in it a bit, especially when I’m on a winning streak, as I am now.”
“Oh, are you?”
“My, yes, I should say so. Didn’t you see my new car out front in the driveway?”
“The Cadillac? Yes of course. Don’t tell me you won that?”
Her face lit up. “I did, or should I say I won the money at the racetrack to buy it. I put five hundred dollars down on a long shot. It paid sixty-to-one. Can you believe it? The horse’s name was Jean’s Turn. It felt like an omen. I had to bet on her.”
“Wow. That’s wonderful.”
“Thanks.” She winked and pointed to a seat at the table. I pulled the chair out and sat down. She refocused her attention on the sports page and continued making notes for that evening’s race. “Was there something you wanted to ask me, Detective?”
I watched her circle one of her picks: a horse named Wild Card. Ironic I thought, as I began to look at Jean in just that light. Something seemed amiss, not terribly wrong, but out of place just the same. A similar feeling crossed me back at Lilith’s place. I couldn’t put my finger on it then either, but somehow I knew she had been expecting me, and expecting questions about the bag.
“Yes, there is something I wanted to ask you.”
“All right.”
“Jean, I know you all left the workshop early the other night, after Doctor Lieberman became ill.”
She nodded, but didn’t look up. “That’s right. We all went home early because Doctor Lieberman suffered from a nasty headache. It seemed to come on rather sudden-like. It left him totally incapacitated. I offered to stay behind, of course, to help him in any way I could, but he insisted I not worry and sent us all home.”
Jean circled the name of another horse in the paper: True Lies. I nearly chuckled aloud and had to bite my lip to keep from doing so.
“I see. Well, what you say certainly agrees with what the others have all said. Not that I expected to hear anything different from you.”
She circled another pick.
I began looking about nonchalantly as I pulled the witch’s ladder from my pocket and maintained a low profile with my hands concealed under the table. “You know, there’s something else. It’s a little peculiar, but I need to ask you about it anyway.”
“Peculiar?”
“You see Officer Burke, the patrolman on duty that night, he reported that he saw everybody leaving the building at the same time around eight o’clock. Instead of leaving right away though, he said you all gathered outside in the parking lot to look at something. He said it was a—”
“A brown paper bag?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to know what was in it?”
I flinched at her frankness. Still, my fingers fumbled feverishly with the witch’s ladder under the table. I had not expected such a straightforward response about the bag, especially if it contained bloody towels, as I knew it did.
“Well…yes, that’s correct,” I said. At last, I could feel the knot beginning to loosen. “I did want to ask you. But before you answer, you should know that I already have an idea.”
“Oh, I figured you did. You seem to have a natural sense about these things.”
“But you’re going to humor me anyway. Aren’t you?”
“If it so humors you, Detective.”
Jean put her pencil down and peered into my eyes. Her stare reached deep within me, saturating my mind with visions of bloodied, tortured bodies. The images raced through my brain, quickened my heartbeat and shortened my breath. I thought of Lilith and what happened at her house when she glared so intensely at me in her kitchen—her knuckles white with rage, her fingers wrapped tightly around a long serrated knife. She had cast fair warning through gritted teeth for me to leave, which I did. That feeling of disquieted vulnerability consumed me then, and threatened to do so again. Though the witch’s ladder had allowed me an intrusive look into Lilith’s mind, I realized that this was something different. I had yet to use the ladder on Jean, and what’s more, the visions of bloodied bodies I saw were not her flashbacks, but visions of events past, random and unrelated, visions of no particular accord and unrelated to her. I imagined that a willingness of sorts allowed me to see like a psychic, perhaps through a residual energy still emitting from the ladder, though I couldn’t understand why I could sense it all then. I continued working the ends of the knot under the table. Finally, just as Jean volunteered her answer, the knot broke loose.
“Cookies,” she said. “I had a batch of cookies in the bag, Detective. If you must know, they were chocolate chip and they were very good.”
Her answer came quick and with conviction, so much so that I found myself almost believing her. I waited for the flashback concerning the towels, but strangely, it didn’t come. I shuffled my hands beneath the table, feeling along the length of rope to make sure I had properly untied the knot. In my mind, I knew I had.
“Cookies?” I said, stalling as I tried to untie another.
“That’s right. I meant to bring them up to the workshop earlier, but I forgot. Then after we all got outside, I remembered they were in my car, so I called everyone over to try some.”
“I see. And how many would you say you had in the bag?” I said, realizing the question was frivolous, but necessary for buying time and keeping Jean’s thoughts focused on the contents of the bag.
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s see now.” She pretended to count in her head. “I’d have to say about two dozen or so. I know the recipe yields about thirty, but I like to make them a little bigger you know.” With a wink she added, “That way I can eat fewer and still be satisfied.”
I smiled politely. “Two dozen?”
“Yes.”
At that moment, I finished slipping the end of the rope through the loop, effectively untying the next knot on the ladder. A gust of wind kicked up suddenly outside the window, blowing and whipping the trees into a frenzy of thrashing limbs and leaves. The curtains over the kitchen sink blew in nearly horizontal, tipping little flowerpots and Chia Pets straight into the basin. All this as I waited for a vision or a flashback from Jean. I felt certain she would form a vivid picture of the bloody towels in her mind, but if she did, the vision never materialized for me.
Within seconds, the wind graduated from a whistling nuisance to a howling menace, tearing through the window with great intensity. Once inside, it appeared to take on a mind of its own, forming a pattern of circulation in the kitchen like a mini tornado, scooping pots and pans and hurling them about like paper cups. I reached across the table and grabbed Jean’s hand.
Soon, the swirling torrent of white vaporous wind completely engulfed the room, tearing open cupboard doors, emptying shelves of dishes, cups and bowls, and sending them sailing through the air with the pots and pans, smashing them violently into the walls, ceiling and floor. In spite of the havoc, remarkably, the very center of the room remained free of flying debris, as Jean and I found shelter in the literal eye of the storm.
Over by the stove, sparks arced in blue and white flashes across the room. Jean saw that and screamed, but the crashing of glass and the roa
r of the wind made it impossible for anyone outside to hear her. I scooted my chair around the table, grabbed her other hand and pulled her in close. Bits of ceiling dropped down on our heads. The room darkened by degrees as the tornado grew stronger and more ferocious, feeding off the fresh stream of air sucked through the window with the force of a Boeing jet engine. Before I knew it, I found myself fighting just to keep balanced on the chair.
In a frantic, feeble attempt to keep from losing her notes, Jean threw herself on the tabletop, covering the papers with her body while keeping her head turned from the battering winds that gave flight to all things not tied down.
“What’s happening?” she cried, clinging to the table’s edge. “This isn’t possible!”
But I knew better. I knew what started it and I hoped that by untying another witch’s knots I might stop it.
“It’s closing in,” Jean warned, abandoning all attempts to save her newspaper. “The eye is closing in on us!”
I didn’t answer. My hands continued working the knots as the eye drew in incrementally, closing in so tight we both barely escaped the cyclone grip. Jean dropped to the floor at my feet. The wind picked up the table she abandoned and pitched it into the wall. It exploded in splinters and joined the swirling cluster of airborne projectiles hurling about.
By then, the eye had compressed to an intolerable circumference. Jean had nothing else to hold on to but the chair in which I sat, and even that she knew would soon succumb to the cyclonic stew. She huddled closer to me, clutching my leg as the rushing wind nipped at her heels, stripping the shoes off her feet.
“We’re going to die!” she screamed, and she closed her eyes tightly.
“Not yet,” I yelled. I pulled free another knot on the witch’s ladder and the tornado disappeared, leaving an aggregate of rubble momentarily suspended in mid-air. Then it all came down. Everything; bits of table, dishes, knives, forks, and hot pasta sauce rained down on us like fallout from a bomb blast.
When it was over, I helped Jean to her feet. I brushed debris off her head and shoulders and she wiped away pasta sauce from the side of my face.
“What just happened here?” she asked.
“I think we just lived through a real live tornado.”
I walked across the room, tiptoeing over broken glass and splintered wood to peek outside her window. Jean followed, peering over my shoulder expecting to survey the damage to the rest of the neighborhood. What she saw, I had fully suspected. The rest of the neighborhood remained completely untouched. The pristine beauty of the day had been compromised only within the confines of Jean’s kitchen.
“How did that happen?”
I shook my head and stepped away. “It beats me,” I said, as I walked for the door. “But you sure do cook up one hell of a sauce. I hope you’ll have me over for dinner sometime.”
Outside, I shook the clinging dust and debris from my coat, turned my face skyward and took a deep breath to savor the moment. Things were getting interesting, I thought, and I only hoped I might stay alive to see how it all ended.
My phone rang then. It was Carlos. He called to tell me that he was about to show me up in a big way. Sometimes I think that’s his true mission in life. It’s what brings him the most pleasure. I don’t care much when he does that, but what the hell if it makes him happy. I told him to hold the news until I returned to the station. Keeping him on pins and needles makes me happy, too.
Sixteen
I returned to the station and found Carlos waiting there with his usual bigger-than-life grin. He gave me the once-over, capping his mouth with his hand to conceal his widening smile.
“Holy cow! Tony, what happened to you? You look like crap.”
I glanced down at my coat and pants; both were in an obviously compromised condition. I knew that the boys would not let my appearance go unchallenged. I thought about having a story ready, maybe something about how I fell into a manhole or something. In the end, I decided to go with the truth. After all, it was more fantastic than any story I could fabricate.
“I got trapped inside the eye of a tornado,” I said, and immediately the gathering group of curious onlookers dispersed. “What? It’s true. I did.”
“Tony, if you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”
“Carlos, I am telling you the truth. I got caught up in—”
“No, really. Forget it. Here, this is for you.”
He handed me a small manila envelope. I snatched it with a grimace and shook it about curiously. I held it to the light, hoping to glimpse a clue as to its contents. “More fibers?”
“Better. More beads.”
“Beads? Carlos, mi amigo. Tell me you’re not putting me on.”
“I kid you not. We have five more and they’re all just like the others. They definitely came from the same lot.”
“That’s great. Where did you find them?”
He flashed his boyish grin again, a half-grin really, somewhere between a shy smile and a wisecracking smirk. He said nothing at first, appearing reluctant to reveal the source of his find. I wondered if his reluctance came out of pride for good detective work or embarrassment for bad. His answer proved a little of both.
“You’re not going to believe this, but after we pulled the first three beads from the plaster impressions, I decided to revisit the sites of the other murders.”
I listened while mentally kicking myself for not thinking of it first. A couple of beads: something seemingly so insignificant, but if we found more at the other murder sites it could offer something very important. My teeth were clenched in self-torment, but showed as a grin for Carlos as I indulged him, allowing him to embellish on every detail.
“The first place I looked was the back seat of Barbara Richardson’s car,” he said. “Mind you, it was an easy thing to miss the first time we searched. But this time, knowing what I was looking for, well it wasn’t so difficult. I just pulled the back seat out and there it was, this little rosary bead staring up at me so innocently.”
“Yeah right, innocent. If only that little bead could talk.”
Carlos acknowledged my remark with a quick nod and continued with barely a pause. He seemed eager to push on with the account of his brilliant detective work. Perhaps, I thought, because he so seldom got a chance to do that.
“Anyway, after that I went back to the Institute to do a little looking around. That’s where I found two more beads, one in the grass by the front entrance at the foot of the steps where the Webber boy died, and another in the gutter near where Walker got whacked.”
“With all the rain we’ve had, they weren’t washed away?”
“Gees, Tony. Let me finish.”
I shrank back in my seat and snarled jokingly. “You love it when you get one up on me, Carlos. Don’t you?”
“Well, it’s not often. So the least you can do is let me savor the moment.”
I gestured a wave for him to continue.
“All right then. As I was saying, after I found those two beads, I went out to Suffolk’s Walk to where the two homeless men were killed, and sure enough, two more beads. That puts the same person at the scene of all the murders.”
“That’s incredible, Carlos. Great work.”
“Really? You mean it?”
“Absolutely.” I stood and shook his hand. “That now links Doctor Lieberman’s murder to all the others.”
“Yes, but what I can’t figure out is what good this information does us when we can’t find the twins? I mean, if the beads weren’t Gordon’s, then they had to belong to one of the girls.”
“No. I’m afraid not. This conspiracy goes much deeper.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, we know from the plaster footprints that there were a number of people involved. I think we have to assume now that all these people were involved from the beginning, and likely played a part in all the murders. And as much as I hate to admit it, my hunch tells me that not only are Lilith and Michael in on this, but al
so Leona and most likely Valerie Spencer.”
“That’s the whole damn workshop.”
“That’s right, the whole damn workshop.”
I reclaimed my chair, dropping into it with a heavy thud. I sat back and took a moment to reflect on the situation while trying to imagine just how all the pieces fit together. “You know, something still doesn’t make sense to me,” I said.
“Oh?”
“If the entire workshop is involved in this mess, then why have only Leona and the twins gone into hiding?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I don’t know either, but I’m willing to bet that neither Leona nor the twins left town.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and if that’s the case we have to ask ourselves where are they? Is their disappearance something of their own will or have they become victims of their own conspiracy?”
“Good question. What’s your take?”
I thought about it and tried putting myself in either Leona’s or the twins’ shoes. If they hadn’t left town, where could they be? For Leona, a girl who bilocates, that could be anywhere. With the twins, I considered that sometimes the best place to hide is right in plain sight.
“The gazebo,” I said, springing to my feet and startling Carlos something fierce.
“The gazebo?”
“We have to excavate. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”
“What will we look for?”
“If my hunch is correct, I believe we’ll discover what happened to the twins. Get on the phone and call the Department of Parks and Rec. Have them line up a backhoe. I’ll call the coroner’s office and forensics. I want everyone out at the lake by eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Carlos made no comment. The look on his face told me he understood.
The following morning, Carlos and I met a city work-crew and a half dozen uniformed officers out at the lake with enough equipment to begin sifting through the charred ruins of the old gazebo. Once we removed the heavy timbers and larger sections of the collapsed roof, the workers were free to shift their attention to the more gruesome aspect of the job: searching for bodies by hand, one piece at a time. Almost immediately, one of the workers discovered what I had suspected he might.
