It Happens in the Dark - M11

by Caroll O'Connell

  “You always knew about Alma’s drugs,” said Mallory.

  Buckner turned around, saying softly, “No talking backstage. I told you—”

  “Then you better start whispering fast,” she said, making no effort to tone down her voice.

  “It was a gradual thing,” said the stage manager, barely audible. “I didn’t see it in the beginning. Alma didn’t drop lines at first, but Dickie was on her—”

  “Who got stoned first, Dickie or Alma?” Mallory rolled one hand to say keep talking—or she would do the talking, and she would be loud. This threat worked better than bullets.

  He whispered, “Dickie. The first time he got high, we were starting the second week of rehearsals.”

  “Yeah,” said Bugsy, “then Alma went nuts a few days later. That’s when she saw the first threat on the blackboard.”

  So Axel Clayborne had lied. He had not gone after Alma from the beginning. Everything hung on that second week.

  Only a few lights burned backstage. Soon all of them would be turned off. The slightest light would blind them during the blackout scenes. All of this was explained to Mallory when Buckner learned that every detective out in the audience and those backstage carried flashlights. “Don’t cripple us, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

  Mallory was not listening. Eyes on the louvered slats, she watched the twins exit by a door on the far side of the stage, where Detective Washington would pick up the surveillance. The play had already gone on for too long. What was keeping Janos?

  • • •

  Riker checked his watch. Damn. The timing would be close.

  Where the hell was Janos and their witness?

  The Rinaldi brothers stood by the window in the scenery, and the actor on the bed explained that they were gathering dead flies from the sill. “Every boy needs a hobby,” said Clayborne.

  Riker’s cell phone vibrated. He glanced at the small screen, and then turned to see Janos coming through the lobby doors.

  Preceded by a flashlight beam, the large detective made his way down the aisle, pushing a passenger in a wheelchair toward the front row. Janos parked the chair next to the sheriff’s aisle seat. And then he made a production of fussing with a lap rug, draping it over the Nebraskan’s withered legs. The young man’s wan face bore a passing resemblance to the Rinaldi brothers.

  The sheriff turned to the invalid. Each nodded to the other in the way of old acquaintances passing on the street.

  Onstage, one of the twins was watching. With no prompt of a word or a nudge, his brother turned around to stare at the new arrival in the audience. And Riker smiled. These two had silently identified their Nebraska cousin, Wheelchair Boy, who now returned this favor with a look of fear.

  Janos, the consummate deal closer, whispered to the young man in the wheelchair, “They’re still scary, aren’t they, Billy?”

  And the invalid nodded.

  Close enough.

  They now had a positive identification. As the twins made their stage exit, Riker texted his partner a simple message, GREEN LIGHT. This was her cue to execute the John Doe arrest warrants.

  The stage lights went out. A spotlight came on over the brass bed. And the detective settled back to wait for the scene with the baseball bat—and the arrest—with no worries.

  • • •

  In the blackout darkness, a uniformed officer stood by the fuse box, listening to sounds, tiny ones. Clicks? He had the sense of someone close by, and he reached out into space, but touched nothing. The feeling passed off.

  Cyril Buckner, in night-vision goggles, rolled Nan backward into the wings. Bugsy replaced her onstage with the mannikin in the second wheelchair. After locking the wheels with a stage brace, he ran back to the wings and whipped off his own goggles. And now the three of them watched the stage lights come on, flickering through the slats in the scenery doors. Onstage, Axel Clayborne swung the bat. The mannikin’s head went flying, and the audience cheered until they were plunged into total blackness once more.

  Behind Nan’s wheelchair, the stage manager and the gopher put on their goggles again. Now a bright light was trained on their eyes, and they stifled cries of pain.

  The goggles were ripped from Bugsy’s head. All he could see was the afterimage of twin suns scorched into his retinas.

  Cyril Buckner’s goggles were also stolen. Eyes on fire, his blind, probing hands found the wheelchair. He felt his way down Nan’s arm and pressed a cigarette lighter into the palm of her hand, saying, “You have to collect the bat and the mannikin head. Get another pair of goggles from the prop box. Run!”

  She flicked the lighter, and by that little flame, made her way around the stage set.

  Onstage, the bat was ripped from Axel’s hand. On this cue, and by memory of pace, the sightless actor turned and counted his steps back to the brass bed.

  The only light was green, a wavelength seen through the night-vision goggles as the twins flew down the steps, armed with a metal pipe and a baseball bat. The audience sat in darkness, facing the stage, their unseeing eyes wide with anticipation, waiting for the light, oblivious to the goggled predators closing in on the young man in the wheelchair.

  Hello, Billy boy. Long time no see.

  Weapons rising, another thought was shared between the twins: Oh, won’t he be surprised?

  One brother could not help himself. He giggled.

  The lame cousin, stone blind in the dark, turned his face toward them. Startled. Frightened. He knew that sound.

  Another beam of green crossed theirs, and the twins turned to see Mallory wearing goggles—and holding a gun on them.

  The detective watched the backs of them running off in the quick-scrabble way of insects—down the front row of seats—up the stairs to the stage. She ripped off her goggles and yelled, “Runners!”

  Five stalks of yellow light appeared in the audience, and detectives ran down the aisles.

  Riker flashed a strong beam on the sheriff. “Wheel Billy into the lobby. Make sure the uniforms got the top of the alley covered. Run for it!”

  Backstage, Mallory yelled, “Gil! Lights!”

  Gil Preston flicked on a penlight and madly flipped the switches on his board. Nothing worked—zip! He grabbed the rail of the catwalk and looked down on yellow beams crisscrossing the stage. It had to be the fuse box. Penlight in his teeth, he climbed down the catwalk ladder.

  Ushers in the aisles were also brandishing flashlights, and the sheriff grabbed one as he pushed the wheelchair into the lobby to see uniformed officers standing before the street door. “You got the alley covered?” And one answered, “We got a man inside the alley door. Big guy. Nobody’s gettin’ past him.”

  One man. An inside man.

  Backstage, Gil Preston approached the rear wall, and a uniformed officer waved a flashlight to ward him off, saying, “Nobody touches the fuse box!” And Gil said, “Are you nuts?” Oh, poor choice of words. The cop shoved him.

  Bugsy’s fingers were pressed to his eyes, no relief from the balls of light that killed his vision. He felt a blow to his back, and lost all the air in his lungs. His legs were hit with something hard, and he heard the sound of his own bones breaking. Hands were on him, dragging him across the floor, and he was sliding into shock, no thought of calling out. Over the floor, under the hanging clothes of the wardrobe rack, out the other side by the wall. Another crack to his legs. Fresh pain! Oh, God! Now his arm. Crack and splinter. His head was awash in a warm flow of blood. It ran down his face. Into his eyes. His mouth.

  “Scream,” said a whispered voice in his ear. “Scream loud,” said the other Rinaldi brother.

  And Bugsy howled.

  Footsteps—so many. Pounding, pounding. They all came running.

  The uniformed officer who blocked the stage door left his post, and so did the cop by the fuse box. Well, finally. Gil popped the metal door open and flicked all the levers, resetting every fuse. Now the wall switch. And there was light.

  The wardrobe rack w
as pushed aside. Mallory looked down at the writhing gopher. Bleeding. Broken. Crying.

  Eyes closing.

  Quiet now.

  • • •

  The sheriff stood alone at the mouth of the alley. He had never drawn a weapon in the line of duty, only on the firing range, and he was no great marksman. But it might not come to that. His hand rested on the grip of his sidearm. Ready. Waiting. If they got away—they’d come this way.

  At the other end of the alley, a door flew open. The twins ran out. The sheriff drew his gun and hollered, “Hello, boys! We got a plane to catch!”

  What the hell was wrong with those two? They were grinning at him. Daring him to fire? Damn boys and their games. One skinny runt held a baseball bat, one held a pipe—red with blood, and there was splatter on their clothes.

  What have you done?

  Both their weapons raised to swing, they walked toward him, shoulder to shoulder, like they planned to come right through him. For a second, he thought maybe they could. Little monsters, scary like the dead of night when a cockroach twitches out of a drain in a bathroom sink—ice-for-blood scary. “That’s far enough.” They kept on coming, grinning, slow stepping. Coming to get him. One made a practice swing with his bat.

  “Stop!” yelled the sheriff. “I’ll drop you if you don’t—”

  Oh, hell! Where did she come from?

  There was Mallory creeping up the alley, witched up out of thin air. And where was her damn gun? He had no shot. She held no weapon. And the young cop was in no hurry, either.

  Damn it, girl.

  The twins were closing the distance, bat and pipe at the ready, fixing to strike him dead. He looked down at his gun—useless till they got within a safe range for placing two bullets and missing the girl. If they put on some speed, one of them would get him for sure.

  The young cop was right behind them! A tall one, she had some size on them, but girls had no muscle for—

  Mallory raised both hands. No—call ’em claws. The sheriff thought his lungs would burst, and still he did not draw a breath. His firearm was on the rise. Steady, steady. Taking aim. No shot. The girl was too close, right on top of them, her face full of hate. In a move almost too fast to follow, she ripped the baseball bat from the hands of one twin. And now, in a rage unholy, she made a mighty swing—and slammed both their skulls with one crack.

  A sick sound.

  They dropped like dead weight at her feet.

  The bat clattered to the pavement.

  Past anger now, she watched them for an idle moment as blood pooled round their broken heads.

  Satisfied, girl? They’re not goin’ anywhere.

  Yes, she was done with them, strolling back down the alley, calmly issuing orders into her cell phone—just another night in New York City. And the sheriff’s heart was hammering. Oh, my. He had to get out of this town.

  SUSAN: When?

  ROLLO: I didn’t think you’d want to know. . . . I wouldn’t.

  —The Brass Bed, Act III

  There were no screams on this floor of the hospital. The patients of the intensive care unit were the quiet ones, the critical cases who might live. Most of the civilian visitors had left the waiting room, gone off to sleep in beds provided for family members.

  No sleep for the police.

  Riker sat down beside the sheriff’s chair and leaned back. Easy does it. Janos and Washington remained standing; they had other rooms to visit, other traps to spring.

  Sheriff Harper closed his magazine. “Did she have to crack their damn skulls?”

  “You think she should’ve used her gun?” Riker shook his head. “Naw, Mallory’s no backshooter. Too much paperwork. You got no idea what cops go through to spend a bullet in this town.” And Internal Affairs would have confiscated her weapon pending a hearing. But one cop up against two armed killers? Breaking skulls would probably get her a commendation for restraint. “Hey, the damage looked a lot worse than it was. No brains leakin’ out, nothin’ like that.”

  “So the twins are alive.”

  Janos smiled. “Oh, better than that, Sheriff. They’re awake. Our guys are taking their statements right now.”

  “Yeah.” Detective Washington also smiled down on the out-of-towner—as if that might be true, though it was only half a lie. The Rinaldi brothers were awake, but they lacked the proper incentive to incriminate themselves.

  Riker’s head rolled back. He closed his eyes, playing harmless when he said, “Looks like we’re gonna wrap up your massacre tonight. . . . The boys were what—twelve when they killed their family? Damn shame. They’ll get tried in kiddie court for sure.” Eyes only half open, he turned to the sheriff. “I got twenty bucks that says you can’t nail ’em for more than six years’ jail time.”

  Harper seemed more relaxed. And relieved? Oh, he was definitely buying into the idea that they might actually let him take those monsters home to stand trial in Nebraska. The man lightly slapped one knee in a silent hallelujah. “So where’d you stash Billy?”

  “Wheelchair Boy? He’s in good hands.” Riker loosened his tie, as if he might be winding down for the night. “Billy’s the one you really care about, right?”

  The sheriff sat up straight, eyes narrowing. “Exactly what did my ex-wife tell you?”

  “She said Cousin Billy wasn’t in a wheelchair back then. He was bedridden.” Riker had enjoyed that cozy interview. The lady’s obscenities were colorful, and her memory was long. “So, after the massacre, you put him up in your guest room. But your wife was the one who had to nursemaid Billy. And she was the one who got that kid into physical therapy—so he could use a wheelchair—and wheel it the hell out of her house.” Though the woman had not used any four-letter words as tame as hell. “But even after she got Billy a job and a place of his own, she still had to cook him dinner every damn Sunday for years. Your idea.”

  “Did she say anything else?” The sheriff, a man still in love with his ex, had a lot riding on that long-distance conversation.

  “What could she say?” Riker picked up a magazine and slowly turned pages. “You never told her the houseguest was a stone killer.”

  The sheriff was silent. And this was as good as a guilty plea with respect to the cousin’s part in the massacre. Riker gave the nod to Janos and Washington, and the detectives strolled down the hall on their way to interview the twins—to play them against their wheelchair-bound conspirator.

  Riker tossed his magazine on the table and picked up another one. “The twins weren’t all that smart. But their cousin spent two years in that bed, spinning his plans. . . . It was the perfect alibi that got to you, wasn’t it?”

  “That did get my attention,” said Sheriff Harper. “Billy hadn’t been out of that house in years. And then, that night of all nights—”

  “Yeah, you knew he was in on it.”

  “Damn right. Little kids don’t kill for insurance money they can’t spend, a house they can’t sell. But their cousin had just turned eighteen, old enough for guardianship status. I guess he didn’t count on another relative popping up outta nowhere to claim the twins. Who’d want ’em, right? Billy thought he’d get control over all the—”

  “And Billy could stand trial as an adult. But you needed his cousins to rat him out in court.” And now for the bad news. “You’ll have to wait a few years for the twins. New York’s got first claim.”

  “That ain’t right!” An angry Sheriff Harper rose from his chair. “Mass murder trumps assault any day. They only beat that man tonight.”

  “The charge is assault with intent to kill,” said Riker, “and the night’s not over yet.”

  • • •

  The sheriff had departed for the station house in SoHo. As a courtesy, he would be allowed to sit in on an interview with the twins’ cousin—while the NYPD wrapped his old murder case.

  The hospital waiting room was littered with cast-off coats, paper cups and candy wrappers. Mallory’s shearling jacket was draped on the chair next to Rik
er’s. He glanced at the white envelope protruding from a pocket, surprised to see the seal still intact. Heller had personally delivered this illicit lab test on Alma’s hair. After extorting the man to get it, how could his partner have forgotten to read it? She was not in the game anymore—barely present. She had taken to haunting a stretch of the hallway outside the doors to the intensive care unit.

  Charles Butler had arrived only to discover that Bugsy would be allowed no visitors tonight. And so he was given another job, translating medical jargon for the police. The psychologist stood at the center of the room, scanning a chart borrowed from Alma Sutter’s berth in the ICU. “She’s listed as critical. It might be hours before they know if the brain damage is permanent. She has to be awake for the—” Charles looked up from the chart. “There’s a possibility that she’ll never wake up.”

  This was not what the detectives wanted to hear, and five men finished the dregs of their coffee in silence.

  Leonard Crippen was another visitor turned away from the gopher’s bedside. He sat in a far corner of the room with only a potted plant for company. By Riker’s lights, this man had taken the news of Bugsy’s pain and suffering all too well. The theater critic rose from his seat and tried to introduce himself to Charles Butler—the perfect gentleman—who turned his back on the old man’s extended hand and walked away from him to stand beside Riker’s chair. The tired detective looked up to ask, “What’s that about?”

  Charles would not say. He only shook his head. It was an easy guess that the man’s silence must be on Mallory’s account—another damn game of keep-away. What did she have on that critic? What might she be holding back tonight?

  She drifted into the waiting room, pausing now to watch snow falling past the window, and then she aimlessly wandered on.

  “We’ll stay,” said Riker, “me and Mallory. You guys go home. Get some sleep.”