Second Horseman Out of Eden

by George C. Chesbro

  “Damn, Garth,” I said, my heart starting to pound with excitement. “He damn well knows where the girl is. We’re going to find her.”

  “I’d say so,” Garth replied flatly as he stared at the closed door.

  A minute went by, then two. The running water could clearly be heard, but there was no sound of retching. “He’s had enough sick leave,” I said tightly. “Let’s go get him.”

  “Right.”

  We were almost to the door when we both stopped suddenly, virtually paralyzed for an instant by the sounds that came from the other side of the closed door. The voice was clearly Craig Valley’s, but there was something inhuman, animal-like, in the eerie, ululating howls that were a mixture of shrieking and thick-syllabled words I knew instinctively were not a part of any language spoken on earth.

  Garth hit the door with his shoulder, smashing it off its frame and inward at almost the precise moment that the howling turned into a wet, wordless, gurgling sound. Blood sprayed and spurted over our faces and clothing. I gazed past Garth in horror at the figure slumped backward on the toilet seat over the water bowl, and knew that there was going to be no saving Vicky Brown this day, because there was going to be no saving Dr. Craig Valley.

  Valley had really done a job on himself. One edge of a double-edged razor blade was embedded in the index and middle fingers of each of Valley’s hands, the result of the force he had exerted to punch two holes in the carotid arteries in his neck, one on each side of his jugular. He’d certainly known what he was doing when he’d decided to leave this vale of tears, for there was no way a team of surgeons, much less my brother and me, could have found a way to stop up those spurting holes before his life leaked out of him. There was a last spasm of heartbeats, causing more blood to spray over us, the floor, walls, and ceiling, and then he was dead.

  With trembling hands, I wiped at the warm, sticky blood covering my face, but only managed to smear it. And then the air in the bathroom was suddenly filled with the thick, green odor of feces as Valley’s sphincter let loose and his bowels emptied; brown stains began to darken the legs of his slacks. I wanted to look away, and couldn’t; I was transfixed with horror, strangely fascinated by the fact that a man could actually will himself to use his bare hands to punch holes in his neck with razor blades. He was a man who’d been in a very big hurry to die, and he’d certainly taken care of business.

  Garth was also taking care of business. If I hadn’t been so shaken by the horror of what Craig Valley had done to himself, I’d probably have seen the blood-coated, cordless telephone that had dropped onto the carpeted floor beside Valley’s left foot. But it was Garth who had seen it first, and now he rudely kicked the head botanist’s foot to one side, picked up the telephone and examined it. Then he held it out for me to examine its face.

  The mode control button was switched to talk; the line was still open.

  “Hello,” Garth said evenly into the mouthpiece. “Who’s this? Anybody there?”

  Even from where I was standing, I could hear the dial tone suddenly come on. Garth cursed with disgust, then hurriedly punched the REDIAL button. I moved closer, listened as the handset whirred and clicked, automatically redialing the last number that had been called. The noises stopped, and a phone at the other end of the line began to ring. A woman answered on the third ring.

  “Nuvironment. Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

  Garth glanced at me, raised his eyebrows slightly. My heart was pounding even more rapidly, and I imagined that if I’d tried to speak my words would have caught in my throat. But not Garth.

  “This is Dr. Craig Valley,” my brother said evenly. “I called a few minutes ago, and my party and I were cut off. Please reconnect me.”

  There was a pause, which to me seemed ominous. When the woman spoke again, suspicion was clearly evident in her voice. “Dr. Valley? Craig? You sound very different.”

  “I have a sore throat.”

  “I see,” the woman replied coldly, and from the tone of her voice I was afraid that she did. “Whom would you like to speak to, sir?”

  “Just reconnect me to whoever I was speaking to before.”

  “You have to give me a name.”

  “Let me talk to Mr. Blaisdel.”

  “This isn’t Dr. Valley,” the woman said tersely. “Who is this? I demand to know who this is.”

  So much for cute private detective tricks. Garth pressed the HOOK button, got another dial tone, and called the police.

  While we waited for the police to arrive, we took turns availing ourselves of Valley’s kitchen sink to wash the blood off our hands and faces as best we could, drying ourselves with a roll of paper towels we found in a cabinet. I was still trembling, but Garth seemed more outraged than shaken. We didn’t talk much, probably because there didn’t seem much to say; there was no question in our minds that Craig Valley had opted to kill himself rather than risk supplying us with information under the duress Garth had guaranteed he would supply. As obviously mad as Valley had been, suicide still seemed a rather dire means of trying to keep one’s mouth shut. It had to make us both wonder just how much else was involved besides the sexual abuse of a child.

  Craig Valley hadn’t punched holes in his throat because he’d been worried about a load of dirt, or because we’d labeled one of his religious idols a child molester; he had to have been afraid of us finding out something else—a secret he had given his life to protect. All we’d wanted to know was the dump site of a load of Amazon rain forest soil, and Valley’s decidedly bizarre response to our inquiries made me strongly suspect that when we did get to the site we were going to find a lot more than just a big pile of bug-infested dirt.

  It certainly appeared that something big and complicated was afoot, as it were, and that didn’t bode well for our relatively small and simple quest.

  “Shit,” Garth said dispassionately as he tossed a wad of paper towels into the garbage can beneath the sink, then glanced at his watch.

  “Yeah, shit,” I said in agreement. More than twenty minutes had passed since Garth had called the police to report Valley’s suicide, and there was still no sign of officialdom. We had other things to do, to say the least. With a little luck, and a lot of pressure, if need be, applied in the right places, there still seemed a chance that we could find Vicky Brown before nightfall; it wasn’t as though we didn’t know where to go next. “You can never find a cop when you need one.”

  “We’ve got better things to do than wait around here,” Garth said, looking down at his blood-stained shirt, tie, and jacket. “I’ve got a good mind to split.”

  “We’ve got better things to do, but I think we’d best stay put if we don’t want to get grounded even longer; the police will get cranky if we’re not here when they do show up. What do you suppose Valley meant by that business with the ‘second beast’? Just more loony talk?”

  It was not surprising that Garth, always the better of the Frederickson brothers in biblical studies taught at our mother’s knee, would know the answer; considering some of the things we’d been through over the past decade, I should have known, but it was Garth who came up with the words.

  “It’s Revelations, Mongo,” he said in a weary voice as he sighed and rested a hand on my shoulder. “Chapter six, verses three and four. ‘And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see.’

  “‘And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.’”

  4.

  The police finally arrived while we were going through papers in Valley’s study, which we’d found on the second floor of the town house. There didn’t seem to be much of value in his files—a lot of Jesus White Christian racial smut and creepy apocalyptic literature, including a dozen or so thin but savage tomes by William Kenecky, but no bills, letters, or anything else that might indicate where Nuvironme
nt was storing the hundred tons of dirt Craig Valley had undoubtedly arranged to get for them.

  The detective in charge of the investigation was decidedly unhappy; he was unhappy to find us searching the study, and he was unhappy simply to find us—or, more specifically, to find Garth. The detective in charge of the investigation didn’t like Garth, and he had reason.

  Malachy McCloskey was just under six feet. He was about Garth’s age, but looked decidedly older—something he would undoubtedly blame on Garth. His thick hair was steel gray, with an occasional streak of the original black showing through. He had black eyes, acne-scarred cheeks, and features that seemed to be fixed in a kind of permanently brooding expression. For as long as I’d known him, about fifteen years, he had been a slovenly dresser, and he hadn’t changed his habits for this occasion; he was wearing green socks and a green tie with a blue suit which looked as if it hadn’t been pressed in the decade or so since he’d bought it off some pipe rack.

  McCloskey didn’t much care for me, either, since I was Garth’s brother. Years before, soon after both Garth and McCloskey had earned their detective shields, Garth had turned McCloskey in to Internal Affairs for accepting gratuities from businessmen—free drinks and meals, that sort of thing. It was petty stuff, and Garth had been virtually the only person involved who’d been interested or taken it seriously. McCloskey had been given a mild reprimand and told to go and sin no more. He hadn’t sinned again, as far as I knew—but he also hadn’t moved up the promotional ladder as fast as Garth had. Naturally, he’d blamed Garth for “putting a blight” on his career—and he still did. Malachy McCloskey was definitely not a man I was happy to see at this time and place, while Garth and I were busily going around disturbing the scene of an investigation.

  “The famous Fredericksons,” McCloskey said in his gravelly voice, making no effort to hide his disgust as he entered the study, stopped, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his crumpled, coffee-stained trench coat. The dark eyes that darted back and forth between Garth’s face and mine were clouded with suspicion and hostility. “I might have known. You two really made a mess of things, didn’t you?”

  “How so, Lieutenant?” I asked as I straightened up, smiled broadly, and gently pushed a desk drawer closed with my hip.

  “For one thing, those Goddamn bloody footprints all over the floor downstairs, and the bloodstains in the kitchen sink, which I assume came off the two of you, and now the fact that you’re up here rifling through the victim’s possessions. What the fuck is the matter with you two? Don’t you know that you’re disturbing evidence at the scene of a crime? I have a mind to haul your asses out of here right now, take you to the station and book you.”

  “There’s no crime, Lieutenant,” I said. “Not unless you want to charge the stiff in the bathroom with killing himself. Garth explained over the telephone that it was a suicide.”

  “The police aren’t in the habit of taking the word of citizens in matters involving little things like death, Frederickson. You know that, and so does that famous big brother standing next to you. There has to be an investigation and a coroner’s report, and we definitely don’t like coming to a scene that’s been all fucked over by civilians like you. Come on.”

  Garth and I dutifully followed McCloskey, who was moving as if his back hurt him, downstairs, where a moderate crowd of uniformed police, forensic people, police photographers, and a couple of stray reporters were milling about. We’d heard them come in five minutes before, but had been too intent on looking for some scrap of paper that might tell us where to find Vicky Brown to go downstairs immediately; that little lapse in judgment was beginning to loom as a serious mistake.

  The three of us stepped back in the hallway downstairs as two white-uniformed paramedics wearing gauze masks and rubber gloves carried Craig Valley’s rubber-bagged body past us on a stretcher. McCloskey led us into the living room, over by the fireplace, then abruptly turned around. Anger had mottled his face, making the acne scars on his cheeks appear white and shiny. “You two are arrogant sons-of-bitches!” he snapped. “For Christ’s sake, you had to have heard us come in, and you didn’t even bother coming downstairs!”

  “Who do you suppose left the door open for you, McCloskey?” Garth asked in an even tone.

  “You know that doesn’t mean shit, Frederickson!” the police detective shouted at my brother, causing heads in the dining room to turn. “When you were a cop, you’d have flipped if you’d walked into the situation I did!”

  “You’re right, McCloskey,” Garth said in the same even, mild tone. “I apologize for Mongo and myself; we acted improperly. But, when I was a cop, I think the first thing I might have done after walking into this situation is to ask the aforementioned civilians just what the hell they were looking for, and why the man who was just carted out killed himself.”

  McCloskey flushed, and for a moment doubt swam in his black eyes; it was quickly replaced by renewed anger. “I was getting around to that, Frederickson, so you don’t have to be a smart-ass. The duty officer told me what you said to him over the phone. Now, do you expect me to believe that you were just talking to the man, and then suddenly, for no reason, he jumps up, runs into the bathroom, and sticks two razor blades into his throat?”

  “I didn’t say there was no reason.”

  “Then what was the reason?”

  “I think he was afraid we were going to force information out of him.”

  McCloskey was openly incredulous. “And so he killed himself rather than talk to the two of you?”

  “That’s right. That’s how Mongo and I figure it, McCloskey.”

  “Did you thump him a little bit?”

  Garth shook his head. “I ripped his shirt. I think he was afraid I was going to thump him if he didn’t tell us what we wanted to know.”

  “Was his fear justified, Frederickson?”

  “I didn’t hit him.”

  “What information were you looking for?”

  “Talk to Mongo,” Garth said tersely, nodding in my direction.

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Talk to Mongo, McCloskey,” Garth repeated, and turned away. “I don’t feel like talking to you any longer. Your interrogation technique stinks.”

  “We’re looking for a load of dirt, Lieutenant,” I said quickly as the blood drained from McCloskey’s face and he took a step toward Garth. My brother’s brusque manner could, at the very least, get us a ride to McCloskey’s precinct station house, and it was time Vicky Brown couldn’t afford for us to waste. “It’s why we came here. Valley could have told us where to find the dirt, and when we find the dirt we’ll also find a little—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the detective snapped. “I find the two of you here all covered with blood, and you try to feed me some—!”

  McCloskey was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on the desk behind him. Startled, he jumped back, spun around, and glared at the telephone.

  “That could be for me, Lieutenant,” Garth said easily. “I’d appreciate it if you’d answer it.”

  McCloskey did. He listened for a few moments, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching, then handed the receiver to my brother. Garth turned his back to us, spoke in a low voice, listened. Finally he turned back and hung up the receiver.

  “What was that all about?” McCloskey asked curtly.

  “Mongo and I burst into the bathroom just after Valley slit his throat,” Garth said to the gray-haired police detective. “He’d just made a call on that cordless telephone you found on his chest. I used the redial button and found out that he’d just finished speaking to someone at an outfit called Nuvironment. The receptionist there wouldn’t tell me who he’d been talking to, so I just had somebody checking to see if there’s any way to trace a call to see what extension is used. There isn’t.”

  McCloskey frowned. “This ‘somebody’ works for the phone company?”

  Garth nodded.

  “Did you i
dentify yourself as a police officer, Frederickson?”

  “No. I’m not a police officer.”

  “Then he’s a contact—one of your own.”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me a name. Who is it?”

  “I’m not going to give you any names, Lieutenant. If you want a personal contact at the phone company, get your own.”

  “I don’t need a personal contact there, Frederickson!”

  “Take it easy, Lieutenant,” I said quietly. The man was working himself up into a real snit. I’d known that McCloskey had resented Garth for years, blamed him for his own poor career performance; but until that moment I had not realized how threatened McCloskey was by Garth—and, perhaps, by me. It could make Lieutenant Malachy McCloskey a potentially very troubling nettle in our sides.

  McCloskey ignored me, and kept shouting at my brother. “I’m a Goddamn cop, Frederickson, and I have a legal right to request privileged information from the phone company! You don’t; not anymore. Giving out that kind of information to unauthorized civilians can constitute an illegal act.”

  “For Christ’s sake, McCloskey,” Garth said with disgust. “I could have told you the call was from my mother. Don’t you understand that it’s not important? If you’ll stop acting like a horse’s ass, Mongo and I will tell you what is important.”

  Garth’s manners might leave something to be desired, but I found his description of McCloskey right on the mark. I was getting impatient. The afternoon was rushing on, and we had to go home to change clothes before going on to our next stop. I glanced at my watch—which turned out to be a mistake.

  “You two guys really think you’re something!” McCloskey shouted. All activity in the other room had stopped, and everyone was staring at us. “The famous Fredericksons! I’m sick of hearing the other cops talk about the two of you all the time, and I’m sick of reading stories about you in the newspapers! I’m here to tell you that I don’t believe half of the shit they print about you. Dr. Robert Frederickson and ex–Police Lieutenant Garth Frederickson may be fucking famous, but what you are not is fucking police officers. I am in charge of this case. This is a police matter, and I will not tolerate any more interference from you two—not now, and not in the future. I don’t care how many powerful friends you have in Washington. Now, do I make myself clear?!”