‘You,’ he hollered over the howl of the storm.
The man’s eyes widened nervously, but then his stubbly, fleshy face relaxed, and he chortled. He came even closer, until they were almost chest to chest. ‘That’s funny.’
‘It’s no joke. Who are you?’
‘The name’s Ritchie.’
‘Better get the hell out of here, Ritchie.’
The man with the gun grinned at the hollow threat. ‘Yeah? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but your gun’s inside a metal case, and mine’s pointed at your chest. Now get on your knees.’
He assessed his options. There was a four-foot railing on one side of the pier. On the other side, the pier was open, inches above the swirling water. He didn’t know how deep it was or what debris littered the bottom. As they confronted each other, the wind tore into both of their bodies, shoving them off balance. Rain threatened to drown them where they stood.
‘Get on your knees!’ Ritchie shouted again. ‘Put the pistol case down.’
He squatted and put the aluminum case in front of him. Ritchie knelt down, and his blurred eyes, soaked by rain, flicked toward the pier as he groped for the handle of the case. The barrel of his gun dipped sideways.
That was the moment he needed.
With Ritchie off balance, he corkscrewed sideways, throwing himself off the pier. Ritchie’s gun cracked above the storm. The bullet singed the flesh of his arm, but in the next moment, the water engulfed him, and he sank below the surface. The bay was warm and black. He kicked through the water, putting distance between himself and where he’d entered the bay. Somewhere above him, Ritchie fired again, and then again, but he knew the man was blind, seeing the after-image of the flashlight as if he’d been staring into the sun.
He felt the bottom; it wasn’t deep. His head and then his torso rose out of the water like a sea monster. Ritchie was immediately above him. He seized the man’s right ankle with both hands and levered his leg into the air. Ritchie toppled backwards. The gun blasted harmlessly toward the sky. Ritchie landed hard on the concrete pier, and he slithered out of the water and threw himself on top of the blond man, wrestling for the gun. He pinned Ritchie’s wrist; the gun fired again, loud and hot. Ritchie landed a haymaker on the side of his skull, shunting him sideways, making the world spin. Heavy and strong, Ritchie rolled on top of him. The rain poured over their bodies.
The gun fired again, so close now that the explosion made his ear bleed. A bullet ricocheted on stone and metal, and something sharp cut his face. He grabbed Ritchie’s wrist again, but the man outweighed him, and he could see the gun barrel push toward his face. He felt something in his pocket. Something sharp and solid. In a single seamless motion, he yanked out his knife and drove it sideways into the flesh of Ritchie’s neck, until the hilt collided with cartilage and bone.
Ritchie howled. His fingers loosened. The gun fell.
He dislodged the big man with a heave of his fists, and Ritchie flopped over on his back, grabbing at the knife in his neck with both hands. The knife oozed out of his body, wet and slippery, and clattered on the pier. Ritchie gagged and clambered to his knees, pawing the ground for his gun, but it wasn’t there. The killer already had the gun in his hand.
He watched Ritchie, who was choking on the blood that rose in his throat. The man scuttled on his hands and knees like a giant crab, limbs twitching, head jerking as torn nerves fired randomly at his brain. He put the hot barrel against Ritchie’s skull and fired into his head. One shot, expelling bone, brain, and blood in a cloud. Ritchie became dead weight, collapsing. The second dead man on the pier. The second man he’d killed tonight.
He was soaked with bay water, rain, and sweat, but he had to move. He shoved Ritchie’s gun into his belt. Bending over, he grabbed Ritchie’s body with both hands and rolled him toward the edge of the pier, until the dead man fell free and splashed into the dark water and sank. He straightened up, his whole body aching. The bullet that grazed his arm had left a burn on his skin. He was still alone, surrounded by the tumult of the storm, but the noise was muffled in his ears. He stared into the bay, unable to see anything below the surface. They would find Ritchie eventually, but that didn’t matter to him.
The other body was the one he needed.
He grabbed the dead man’s ankles and dragged him toward the beach, letting the storm clean away the trail of blood.
PART THREE
CHAYLA
31
‘You work late,’ Cab said.
Dr Reuben Smeltz snorted. ‘Paperwork,’ he said. ‘That’s what medicine is about today. A thousand insurance companies with ten thousand forms and a hundred thousand codes. I delivered a baby last week. By the time I get the paperwork done, he’ll be trying out for his sixth grade soccer team.’
‘I guess the profession has changed a lot.’
‘Profession? We’re just mechanics now. Paid by the hour.’ Smeltz slugged coffee from a foam cup and grimaced.
‘It’s still better than being a lawyer, though, right?’ Cab asked.
Smeltz smiled. ‘You do know how to look on the bright side of life, Detective.’
‘That’s what people tell me.’ Cab glanced at the water-stained drop ceiling as the fluorescent lights flickered. A gust of wind rocked the windowless office. ‘Anyway, I appreciate your seeing me. You must be anxious to get home.’
The doctor shrugged. ‘Storms are storms. I’ve seen a lot worse than this.’
Smeltz was in his late sixties, medium-height and overweight. His hair was brown, but it was thinning, combed back and greased down to lay flat on his head. He had a jowly face and tiny circular glasses. He wore a pressed shirt and tie, and his white coat was hung on a rack near the office door. Papers were spread out in front of him, and he took occasional bites from a chicken-and-pear salad along with his coffee.
He sat behind a weathered oak desk. His leather armchair had splits in the seams where bits of yellow foam were escaping. Cab sat in front of the desk in an uncomfortable wooden chair that didn’t encourage visitors to stay longer than necessary. The doctor had diplomas and photographs of patients on the wall behind him, reflecting a practice in Lakes Wales that dated back for decades. The wall on Cab’s right was lined with filing cabinets, and each drawer was hand-labeled with letters of the alphabet.
The other wall, which had fake wood paneling, included a long table with a 1980s-era coffee-maker, a potted poinsettia, a bowl of round multicolored mints, and a surprisingly modern laser printer. A heavy door at the end of the wall featured a sophisticated combination lock.
‘So you’re from Naples?’ Smeltz asked between bites of salad.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘My wife likes Naples. She thinks we should retire there. Get one of those high-rise condos.’
‘They’re very nice,’ Cab said.
‘Yes, except then all the seniors find out you’re a doctor and they want free advice on everything from shingles to melanoma. For that, I may as well stay here.’ He speared a piece of romaine lettuce with his fork. ‘People ever tell you that you don’t look much like a detective?’
‘Regularly.’
‘Cop or not, you realize I can’t say a word about my patients.’
‘Of course,’ Cab said.
The rain on the roof sounded like a firing range. A drop of water squeezed through the ceiling and squished on the carpet. The doctor got up and retrieved a large orange bucket, which he positioned under the leak.
‘Old building,’ he explained. ‘I keep putting off replacing the roof.’
Another drop fell, making a loud chunk in the bucket.
‘So you’ve got concerns about Diane Fairmont’s safety,’ Smeltz went on. ‘True or not, that doesn’t change anything. Diane was my patient, which means my lips are sealed, at least until she tells me otherwise. If you think you can weasel something out of me, don’t try. That just annoys me. People have played those games with me for years.’
Smeltz grabbed a tissue and b
lew his potato-like nose. He crumpled the tissue, threw it away, and pumped a blob of alcohol sanitizer into his hand.
‘Who’s been asking you questions about Diane?’ Cab asked.
The doctor chuckled. ‘Oh, she’s a popular topic. Sometimes it’s reporters. Sometimes it’s political types. Last month I had a man in here who was obviously a private detective. He hinted he would make it worth my while if I spilled some secrets. God knows who he was working for. The whole thing is a pretty sorry business, if you ask me, all these spies looking for dirt.’
‘Diane’s in the same business, isn’t she? Common Way isn’t shy about looking for dirt on its political opponents.’
‘Maybe, but the lady has my vote.’
‘You like her.’
‘I do. Always have.’
‘You mentioned reporters knocking on your door. Did one of them happen to be Rufus Twill?’
Smeltz smiled wide enough to show a row of aging teeth. He leaned back in his chair, which squealed in protest. ‘Oh, sure, Rufus talked to me. He was a patient growing up, and I suppose he figured he could wheedle something out of me. I sent him packing without so much as a “No Comment.”’
‘What did Rufus want to know about Diane?’
‘I suspect you already know, Detective, but if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you. I’m sorry. I have a broad definition of privilege. I don’t talk about my patients, and I don’t talk about what other people say about my patients.’
Cab nodded. ‘I imagine it had something to do with an incident between Birch and Diane shortly before the Labor Day murders.’
The doctor’s face darkened. The bucket on the floor went chunk again. ‘I told you, I have nothing to say.’
‘Was Birch your patient, too?’
‘No.’
‘So he doesn’t enjoy privilege.’
‘That makes no difference,’ Smeltz said.
‘I just want to know what kind of man Birch was.’
The doctor rubbed the layer of fat gathered under his chin. ‘If you’re asking whether I cried when Birch was killed, I didn’t.’
‘I heard he was a bully and a son of a bitch.’
‘I won’t dispute that characterization,’ Smeltz said.
‘Were you surprised when he was killed?’
‘Of course. Nobody expects terrorists to strike in their own backyard.’
‘Some people think Birch’s death was personal, not political.’
Smeltz narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I have a witness who overheard Diane’s son, Drew, threatening to blow Birch’s head off. He was seen with a gun that summer. And he got out of a stint in rehab just days before the murders.’
You can’t honestly believe that Drew—’ Smeltz exclaimed, but he stopped in mid-sentence. ‘You’re not going to goad me into saying anything, Detective. Drew was my patient, too. I’m not discussing him.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘That doesn’t change my obligations.’
Cab dug in his suit coat pocket for a piece of paper. ‘You mentioned someone visiting you last month who looked like a private detective. Was this the man?’
He showed Smeltz a photograph of Justin Kiel taken from a newspaper article about his murder.
The doctor took the paper and shook his head. ‘No, not even close. The man I spoke to was older and heavier.’ Smeltz was about to hand the paper back to Cab when he looked at the photograph again. He didn’t look happy. ‘Wait a minute.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Well, I recognize him, yes. He showed up when I was working late a few weeks ago. He works for a computer repair company. Apparently, my assistant called and said we were having problems with our computer. I’m always having problems with this damn thing.’
Cab nodded. Justin was clever. ‘Did you leave him alone in your office?’
Smeltz thought about it. ‘Actually, I did. Someone knocked on the outside door while he was working on the printer. It was a very annoying foreign person who was looking for directions and didn’t seem to understand anything I was saying.’ The doctor frowned and tapped the paper with a thick finger. ‘Who is he? Are you saying this man was some kind of spy?’
‘Yes, he was. Of a sort.’
Smeltz pounded his desk in annoyance. ‘Was this about Diane again? If you find this man, I want to press charges.’
‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that. He was murdered.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Smeltz exclaimed.
Two drops fell from the ceiling in quick succession. Chunk chunk.
‘His death is one of the reasons I’m concerned about Diane.’
The doctor looked flustered. ‘Well … I hate to hear that, but I still can’t tell you anything more than I have.’
‘I appreciate your privacy concerns,’ Cab went on, ‘but if this man – Justin Kiel – was in your office, it’s possible that he found something that contributed to his murder. Something in your files. I know that you want to protect your patients, but if Justin learned a secret about Diane or Drew—’
Smeltz shook his head. ‘He didn’t.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘There’s nothing about Diane or Drew on my computer. My computerized records don’t go back that far.’
‘What about hard copy files?’ Cab asked, nodding at the row of file cabinets in the office.
‘The files aren’t there either,’ Smeltz told him. ‘I’m not a fool, Detective. Too many people have expressed interest in Diane for me to keep her papers in my ordinary files. Believe me, this man was only alone in my office for five minutes at most. He didn’t find them. Nobody would find them.’
*
When Cab got back to the deserted main street of Lake Wales, the rain stung his face like a swarm of bees. He wore a black Burberry trench coat with the collar up and the belt tied at his waist. His wet blond hair lay messy and flat on his head. He endured the assault like a statue, frozen and tall. The night was black, and the wind carried a faint smell of oranges. He crossed the street beside the old marble clock tower and got into his Corvette, which was parked diagonally in front of a building for the Lake Wales News. He was opposite a small plaza dotted with waving trees and a checkerboard sidewalk.
The downtown street wasn’t a hive of activity in the best of times, but in the storm it was eerily quiet. Clouds of rain whipped between the old storefronts, taking on shapes like giant skeletons. The only light was the glow from the doctor’s office, and as he watched, the light went black. Dr Smeltz was going home.
Cab turned on his engine. He didn’t feel like making the long drive back to the coast. He decided to get a motel room, even though he knew the storm would be worse by morning. The rain, as bad as it was, was simply a preview of coming attractions. The real danger would begin tomorrow when the swirling body of Chayla nudged over land.
Tomorrow. The Fourth of July. Independence Day.
He backed out of the parking place and switched on his headlights. The beams captured the sheeting rain and the gray stone of the clock tower. He squinted. Just for an instant, he saw someone standing in the plaza. It was a young woman, alone, buffeted by the downpour. Water pooled like a lake at her feet. She was skinny, and without a coat, she was soaked to the bone. He couldn’t see well enough to recognize her face, but there was something oddly familiar about her. He thought she was staring at him and that she knew who he was.
The wind gusted, the girl turned, and she vanished behind a curtain of rain. It was as if she’d never been there at all.
32
Peach waited until Dr Smeltz left his office.
She recognized the doctor’s lumpy profile. He hadn’t changed in the years since she’d seen him as a child. She had always liked him. He was gruff but had a sweet soul, and he had a special weakness for kids. Her appointments with him had always taken a long time, because he had Lego dinosaurs and Disney action figures for her, and he seemed to enjoy playing
with them as much as she did. Or maybe that was just his way of making her feel at ease in a scary place.
Dr Smeltz bounded across the plaza, his multiple chins tucked against the rain, his brimmed hat dripping like a waterfall. He passed within ten feet of Peach, but he didn’t see her. The doctor got into an Audi and drove away, his tires throwing up a wave of water. She figured he was going home to his house by the lake, with the huge front yard that stretched to the beach. Lyle had taken her there once. It was one of the last things they’d done together. He’d said she needed a follow-up visit for her pneumonia, but he didn’t take her to the medical office. When they got to the doctor’s house, Dr Smeltz didn’t even examine her at all. Instead, she played on the lawn with Google, the doctor’s Westie puppy, while Lyle and Dr Smeltz talked inside.
Lyle had never told her what they talked about, but afterward, he’d gone to see a lawyer in Orlando.
Peach stood in the rain. The Gulf storm was warm, but she felt chilled. The plaza was empty. So was the main street, now that the two men had left. She saw no traffic, but she kept an eye open for police cars stalking the downtown area. The doctor’s building, which was low and built of tan brick and stucco, was deserted. The three tall windows facing the plaza were black. The wind nearly picked her up and carried her away. She hugged the trunk of a palm tree.
She thought about Cab Bolton. She’d spotted his car on the street, and she wanted to know where he was going. He’d seen her when he left the office, but she doubted that he would have recognized her in her disguise. She wondered what he wanted with Dr Smeltz. Him and Justin both. They had plucked this man from her past, and she didn’t understand why.
Or did she?
Staring at the clinic where she had gone dozens of times as a child, she realized that she knew exactly what they were looking for. She heard Cab’s voice in her head earlier that day. Two weeks before Labor Day, there was a problem at Birch’s estate. Something bad.
And then another voice. Her own voice. Talking to Justin. We walked into the middle of something.
Season of Fear Page 23
