by Archer Mayor
For once, Frank didn’t even groan. Slim as it was, Kees’s conjecture about Harris’s killer had given him something to chew on besides his endangered reputation.
He muttered, “I bet he’s a government man.”
“A spook?”
“That, or a vet. Special Forces or something. He’s got to be on his own, though. Sure as hell that bug was stolen.”
“He might be the fetus’s father.”
“Sure, or even the real killer. It’s not impossible that since we missed him the first time, he’s renewing the invitation—the man’s obviously bonkers.”
I nodded. “I like that one.”
“The only problem with it is he doesn’t fit my image of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and according to Kees that’s who did her in. You ever notice Ski Mask having trouble breathing?”
“You mean asthma? No, from the little I’ve seen, he’s in good shape. Of course, Kees didn’t say it had to be asthma.”
“I know, and I’ve heard of crippled kids becoming gymnasts. But I can’t believe a guy who was so sick three years ago would be a jock today.”
The car in front suddenly swerved out of control and started slowly spinning around and around, working its way toward the opposite guard rail like a gyroscope losing power. I downshifted and pumped the brakes a couple of times, feeling the road slide out from under the wheels. I hit the accelerator gently and crabbed by the other car, which had come to a stop a few inches from the edge of the road. My tires finally caught and brought us back into line.
“Everyone okay?”
Murphy was looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah. No damage.” He settled back and we both watched an abandoned eighteen-wheeler lying in a ditch loom up and disappear like a half-remembered thought. “Interesting trip.”
I waited a couple of minutes for my heart to start beating normally. Maybe it was time to get some snow tires. “Of course, no one says he even had a humpback. Kees did mention he might have just had poison ivy or something.”
I shook my head. “Kees was just covering his tracks. I don’t say the guy had the hump necessarily, but he was seriously into this prednisone stuff or Kees wouldn’t have brought it up. I have the suspicion he thinks we have, or at least we had, a full-fledged Cushing’s victim on our hands. In any case, hump or no hump, a run through the local prescriptions ought to give us something.”
“Assuming he was local.”
And so it went, hour after hour, traveling through white space with only the occasional slipping of the tires to let us know we were attached to the road. The conversation lapsed now and then, but only long enough for us to come up with a few more weird ideas.
It was a morale booster if nothing else. By the time Frank took over the wheel in Hartford, I knew for certain my old friend was back where he belonged. We had never worked together on a case as convoluted as this, but we had shared lots of long, winding conversations that had eventually set us on the right course. After all the uncertainty and frustration of the past few days, that simple process, even without final answers, was a big comfort.
Night had fallen halfway into the trip, narrowing our already limited view to a hypnotizing funnel of onrushing snow. Coming from the space-like void, it blazed briefly in the headlights before careening off the windshield, without sound or trace. It was like flying through densely packed stars while standing perfectly still. I was no longer sure if we were moving, or if the earth was slipping rapidly beneath us. And we were utterly alone. North of Springfield the traffic had ceased to exist and we hurtled along in total isolation.
The illusion was shaken first by the dark, deep rumbling of a diesel engine coming up from behind—an oddly menacing sound that enveloped the car. Murphy muttered, “Christ, the son of a bitch must be flying.”
I looked around. The ice-caked rear window glowed with two shaking headlights from an eighteen-wheeler. The noise grew and became a vibration, tickling the soles of my feet and making my hands sweat.
“How fast are we going?”
Both of Frank’s hands were tight on the steering wheel. “Forty-something.”
The light was getting stronger, along with the noise.
“He’s got to be going fifty or better.”
The truck was abreast of us now, a mechanical monster looming like a nightmare.
“What the fuck’s he doing? He’s going to kill us.” Frank tugged at the window crank, fighting against the ice outside. The window suddenly came free. Blazing snow, wind, and the screaming of a diesel engine swept into the car, making us both shout in alarm. Across Murphy’s chest I could see the trailer’s side marker lights gleaming inches from his door; had he reached out his hand, he could have touched them. The wind blew the hat from his head, and in the demonic red glow his face was tight with fear.
“Let up on the gas,” I shouted.
He was ahead of me. The truck’s speed picked up as ours lessened, but too late. The riveted steel wall of the box veered closer and connected. There was a thump and a screech of metal. The car was lifted as by the wind. The smoothness beneath our wheels rippled loudly and then sent a punch that lifted us from our seats. Briefly, as in the flash from a camera, I saw the guard rail dead ahead, heard a sudden smashing and then all was quiet and darkness.
For a moment we were airborne, the headlights gone, the windshield a spidery web of cracked glass, the car filled with wind. The nose made contact first, throwing me against my seatbelt. The windshield blew out and we began to roll, slowly at first, then faster and faster. I felt my body float in harness amid an orchestra of noise. The end I don’t remember. There was a flash of light from deep behind my eyes, and there was water. The lovely sound of rushing water.
15
I WOKE UP in a hospital room, staring at a ceiling of pockmarked little tiles, complete with a brown water stain directly overhead. I can’t remember ever seeing such a ceiling without a stain like that.
I was flat on my back and my head hurt. I knew it was a hospital because of the smell, the whiteness, the drip bag suspended from a coat-hanger contraption to my right, and the fact that I’d been woken up by a voice paging Dr. Winters.
I turned my head slightly to better examine the drip bag and instantly closed my eyes against the burst of pain. A scraping noise made me open them again. Gail’s face came into view.
“Joe?”
“Guilty.” My voice had a canned sound to it, as if it came from the outside.
“How are you?”
“Not good, I guess.” My head pounded regularly now, in perfect time with my heart.
Her face came very close, and I felt her lips touch my own. They were soft and trembling. I had never felt so totally in love. I wanted the kiss to continue.
She touched my cheek with her hand. “You’ve been asleep a long time.” Her eyes were brimming.
“How long?”
“Two days.”
I lifted my right hand to rub my eyes and found an intravenous tube taped to my wrist. It was hard to concentrate. “Did we land in some water?”
“A river. You were half-frozen when they found you. You’ve had a concussion."
“Jesus. How’s Frank?”
She pursed her lips and a tear ran down her cheek. “He’s dead, Joe.”
The pounding got worse and was joined by a humming sound. I looked at her for a long time, feeling increasingly detached, as though the inside part of me could just get up and leave the room. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.
When I woke up, Brandt was looking down at me. “Welcome back.”
His face was serious, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if trying to guess what lay hidden just beneath my skin. I watched him silently from my hiding place.
“How do you feel?”
“All right.”
“How’s the head?”
I thought a moment. “Fine, I guess.” I moved it slightly and the bomb went off again. “Maybe not so fine.”
“The doctor says it’ll pro
bably hurt for a few days. It’s amazing you survived at all.”
“Where’s Frank?” Brandt blinked and looked away. He nodded at someone I couldn’t see—or didn’t try to see. He then took off his glasses and scratched the side of his nose. “You know Frank’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“We had the ceremony yesterday, Joe.” The pounding had faded to the background. It returned with a vengeance. “You could have waited.”
“We waited three days. We couldn’t any longer.”
“Three days? Gail told me I’d been out two.”
“You went under again.”
A deep rage gushed up inside me, making my entire body hot. I tried getting onto my elbows, fighting against the nausea. Gail appeared at Brandt’s side and put her hand on my chest. “What do you want, Joe?”
“I’m sick of staring up everyone’s nostrils.”
She placed a control box into my hand and pushed my thumb against a green button. The bed behind my pillow began to rise. The world slowly straightened. The pain in my head backed off a bit.
Brandt sat on the edge of the bed. “That better?”
I nodded to Gail. “Thank you.”
“What happened out there, Joe?”
“A truck ran us off the road.”
He frowned and reached into his pocket for his pipe. He sat there for a moment looking at it, turning it over in his hands. “What kind of truck?”
“An eighteen-wheeler. Wasn’t there a report?”
He shook his head. “As far as the Massachusetts State Police are concerned, it was a single-vehicle accident.”
“A single… Jesus Christ, didn’t they check the side of the car for paint? The son of a bitch sideswiped us.” I had to breathe deeply to keep the pain in check.
“There wasn’t much left of the car. I saw it myself.”
I stared at the opposite wall, trying to remember. Again, I saw Frank’s face in that red light, the side of the truck coming nearer. I looked back at Brandt. “The truck box was unpainted—plain metal. Still, there ought to be something to go on.”
“We’ll give it another look.”
“What about the road? Skid marks or debris?”
“Nothing besides yours. Of course, it wasn’t bare road. It’s hard to see skid marks on the ice, especially at night.”
It was hopeless. I was four days away from the event. The evidence had been snowplowed by now, the truck long gone. Suspecting nothing, they’d let it all slip away. “When can I get out of this dump?”
Gail spoke up from her chair. “Two or three days.”
“Take it easy, Joe. There’s no rush.”
“The hell there isn’t. What about Ski Mask?” Brandt glanced quickly at Gail, who to him was first and foremost a selectman. “She knows all about it. I told her. What about him? And what about the samples? What happened to them? Did you find them?”
“Slow down. Yes, we found them. The troopers were a little curious, to say the least, but we got them back. I returned them to Hillstrom. She told me the damage was slight—nothing crucial. And we haven’t heard a peep from Ski Mask since the accident.”
I slowly leaned forward and peeled the bed sheet back. Gail rose from her seat. “What are you doing, Joe?”
“Don’t get worked up. I just want to see if everything’s still functioning.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My head began to swim.
“I wouldn’t do that. Not unless you’re suicidal.” A young doctor with glasses and a pocket stuffed with the obligatory implements moved in from the door and lifted my legs back. “A concussion means blood gets loose in your head. That builds up pressure and you conk out. Build up too much pressure and you croak. You start running around now, you’ll start bleeding again and it’s bye-bye. Get the picture?”
I lay back against the pillow, partly happy for the interference. “How come all the doctors on television don’t talk like that?”
“They’re actors. They don’t think it’s real.” He pried back my eyelid and flashed a light in my eye.
“So how soon do I get out?”
“Two days at the soonest. You’ll be able to get around before that, but I don’t want you out of my sight until I know you’re okay. I know your type—pure John Wayne.”
“Give me a break.”
“All right—pure Jane Fonda. Take your pick.”
He finished his examination and had a nurse take my vitals. He said he’d see me the following day and left. Brandt took up his station by the bed. “Well, I guess I’ll let you be.”
“Tony, we got a lot of good stuff down there.” He patted my arm. “It’ll keep, Joe. Just try to relax and shake this thing off.”
“But what’s been going on?” Again, he glanced at Gail.
She took the hint. “You want me to step outside?”
“For Christ’s sake, Tony.”
Gail squeezed my hand. “He’s right, Joe—it’s good politics. What he says isn’t pillow talk, and that can be bad enough.”
Brandt smiled at her as she picked up her purse. “Thanks. I’ll vote for you next time.”
“Well,” she said, with exaggerated, tinny humor, “I should hope so.”
I waited for the door to close behind her. “So?”
“Nothing new on the Phillips killing. I think we’ve dead-ended on all possibilities except Ski Mask, and there we’re digging into Davis’s past with a microscope. I have managed to get Tom Wilson to stand between us and the board concerning the links to the Harris case.”
Wilson was the town manager and Brandt’s direct boss. “He’s lying to them?”
“Withholding information is more like it. I convinced him that if we let them know about the Harris connection, it’ll wind up in the next day’s paper; until we have something solid, it would be best to leave that hornet’s nest alone.”
“I can’t believe he agreed to it.”
“He’s so scared we may have jailed the wrong man, he’s damn near irrational.”
I closed my eyes and lay back against the pillow for a moment.
“You ought to get some rest.”
I opened my eyes again. “No, wait. So no state police?”
“Not yet. They’ve been informed—hell, they read the newspaper too—but so far they’re out of it.” He looked at me closely. “You look lousy. Get some sleep and I’ll come back later, okay?”
“All right. Thanks.”
I watched the door swing shut behind him. I felt a little like all this was happening to someone else; my concern with keeping the state police off our turf seemed incongruous now that I thought about it. Frank was dead, I damn near was, everything had gone to hell in a hand basket, and I was worried I’d lose the case.
My eyes were shut when Gail walked back in and resettled herself in the corner chair. I could hear her turning the pages of a book. “How was the ceremony?”
She put the book down and looked at me sadly. “There were a lot of people there. They had an honor guard—I think Frank would have been embarrassed.”
“How’s Martha?”
“Not well. She’s staying with her daughter somewhere in Massachusetts.”
“Wendy. I think she lives in Braintree.”
Gail nodded. “That’s it. She seemed very nice.”
“Where did they hold the ceremony?” I knew the ground was too hard for burial.
“At the cemetery—Martha insisted. They just put the casket on the snow. It was beautiful—cold, but sunny. When they played taps, it was like the sound would go on forever. You could hear it hit the mountain across the river.”
I could visualize it. I knew the plot he had chosen; he’d shown it to me one summer afternoon years ago. It was on the eastern edge of Morningside Cemetery, right at the crest of a slope falling sharply to the railroad tracks and the Connecticut River far below. We’d stood there for a few minutes, taking in the view of Wantastiquet Mountain across the river in New Hampshire, looming a good thousand feet above us. In
the middle of the river was a small wooded island that acted as midpoint to the bridge crossing there. At the turn of the century, it had been a permanent carnival area, the town’s hot spot all summer long, complete with merry-go-round, Ferris wheel, the works. Now it was just an island—a lover’s lane during the warmer months. Looking out over all that—the wash of green trees and the sparkling water—I had complimented him on his choice.
I could see it in my mind’s eye, but none of it really sank in—I didn’t actually feel anything. I knew he was dead, that I’d never see him again, that he now lay in a box in some refrigerator, awaiting the spring thaw. But I only felt bitter. “What killed him?”
“Tony said you’d ask.” She wasn’t smiling. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Professional habit.”
“He drowned, Joe. He was unconscious when you hit the river. The autopsy said he wouldn’t have survived anyway. You should have been underwater, too, but somehow you got tangled in your seat belt and it kept your head up.”
“Who found us?”
“A motorist called it in. He saw the hole in the fence and the fresh tracks and used the call box by the side of the road.”
The pain in my head stopped. Everything stopped. For a moment I flashed back to the last sensation I’d had that night: the rushing water and the cold—the sudden, numbing cold. “That caller didn’t leave a name, did he.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“No—he wouldn’t.”
She took up my hand. “Wasn’t this an accident?” Her voice was barely audible.
“I don’t think so.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. The other attempt kind of made sense—if you were a little nuts—but not this one. We thought he was trying to stimulate us—to get us interested in the case.”
She stared at me in shocked silence for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘the other attempt’? What does that mean?”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to get into that. “A few days ago someone turned on the gas in my apartment after I went to sleep. Ski Mask pulled me out.”
