A noise made him jerk him eyes toward the left. With a flinch, fear burning his stomach, he saw one of the French doors that led to the patio swing open. Three men and a woman stepped in. All were in their thirties, trim, good-looking, dressed in dark jogging clothes.
Page lurched to his feet. His years of being an executive had trained him never to show weakness but to react aggressively when feeling threatened. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? Get out of here!'
They shut the door.
'I said, get out!'
They smiled. The woman and one of the men had their hands behind their back.
Page fought to control and conceal his fright. They looked too cleancut to be burglars, not that he knew what burglars would look like, but… Maybe they were…
'Damn it, if you're reporters, you've picked the wrong way to get an interview, and besides, I've stopped giving interviews!'
'We're not reporters,' the woman said.
'We don't have any questions,' one of the men said.
'I'm calling the police!'
'It won't do you any good,' another man said.
They approached him. The woman and one of the men continued to hold their hands behind their back.
Page grabbed the phone and tapped 911, suddenly realizing that the line was dead.
'See,' the third man said. 'It doesn't do any good.'
'I locked those doors! I turned on the security system! How did-?'
'We're handy with tools,' the first man said.
'Like these tools,' the woman said.
They brought their hands from behind their back.
Page opened his mouth, but terror choked his scream.
While two of the men grabbed Page's arms and forced him flat across the desk, the remaining man held up a railroad spike, and the woman swung a sledgehammer, driving the spike through Page's heart.
SEVENTEEN
'… impaled on a stack of blood-soaked documents that confidential sources indicate were statements that Harrison Page had been prepared to make at the hearing this morning.' The bespectacled television reporter paused somberly.
Appalled, Tess sat on a stool at the kitchen counter in her loft, watching the twelve-inch TV next to the microwave. The red numbers on the Radarange's digital clock said 8:03. She'd been trying to make herself eat breakfast – fruit salad, whole-wheat toast, and tea – but after yesterday's ordeal at the morgue and her discovery that Joseph was dead, she didn't have much appetite.
The reporter continued, 'In a further grotesque aftermath of the Tennessee toxic-gas disaster, the body of Billy Joe Bennett, foreman in charge of inspecting the section of the track where the derailment occurred, was found early this morning in a Memphis parking lot near the Mississippi River. Bennett had been under investigation for possible negligence due to alleged cocaine addiction.'
The TV image shifted from the reporter to a harshly lit videotape of stern policemen standing near a warehouse, staring down at something, a closeup of a garbage bag on the parking lot's asphalt, the bag filled with white powder, then a panning shot of a sheet-covered corpse being lifted on a gurney into an ambulance. Off-camera, the reporter explained the grisly means by which Bennett had been murdered.
With renewed pangs of grief, Tess was reminded of the brutal way in which Joseph had been murdered.
The reporter came back on the screen. 'Police speculate that Bennett and Page were killed for revenge by relatives of victims of the toxic-gas disaster.'
A commercial for disposable diapers interrupted the news. Tess rubbed her forehead, peered down at her breakfast, and felt even less hungry.
The phone rang, startling her while she rinsed out her teacup.
Who'd be calling this early? Troubled, she left the kitchen, walked to the section of the loft where the furniture was arranged to form a living room, and picked up the phone halfway through its third ring.
'Hello?'
The gravelly voice was so distinctive that the speaker didn't need to identify himself. This is Lieutenant Craig.'
Her fingers cramped around the phone.
'I apologize for calling at this hour,' Craig said, 'but I won't be in the office, and I wasn't sure I'd have a chance to phone you at work this morning – that's if you feel up to going to work.'
'Yes. I'm going.' Tess sat, dejected. 'I almost decided not to. But it doesn't do any good to brood. Maybe work will distract me.'
'Sometimes it helps to be with other people.'
'I'm not sure anything will help.' She slumped, weary. 'What can I do for you, Lieutenant?'
'I wanted to know when you take your lunch break.'
'Lunch? Why would-? I doubt I'll be eating lunch today. That's why you called? To invite me to lunch?'
'Not exactly. There's something I might want you to look at,' Craig said, 'and I figured if you were going to be free at a certain hour, we could make an appointment.'
Tess felt cold. 'Is this about Joseph's death?'
'Possibly.'
'You're holding back again.'
'This might be nothing, Tess. Really. I'd prefer not to talk about it until I'm sure. I don't want to upset you without a reason.'
'And you don't think I'm upset already? Okay, one o'clock. Can you pick me up outside my office building at one o'clock?'
'I'll make a point of it. Who knows? Maybe the meeting won't be necessary. That's what I mean. Don't think about it.'
'Sure. Don't think. What a great idea.'
EIGHTEEN
But Tess had many things to think about. She kept remembering Joseph's burned corpse and the dark contour of his body seared into the bricks at Carl Schurz Park. In the elevator at work, she shuddered, identifying it with Joseph, numbed that she'd never see him again.
At Earth Mother Magazine, she went immediately down the hall to Walter Trask's office and told him everything that had happened.
Trask frowned, more haggard than usual. He stood, came around his desk, and clasped her shoulders. I'm sorry, Tess. Honestly. More than I can say.'
'But who would have done that to him? Why?'
'I wish I had answers.' Trask hugged her. His features gray, he stepped back. 'But this is New York. Sometimes there aren't any answers. I'm reminded of the jogger who was raped and nearly killed by that marauding gang in Central Park. The kids who did it weren't raised in a slum. They came from middle-class families. Poverty can't be blamed for their behavior. It doesn't make sense, like too many other things.'
'But why would Joseph have been in Carl Schurz Park in the rain at three a.m.?'
'Tess, listen to me. You don't know anything about this man. You found him attractive, but he… This'll sound harsh. Nonetheless, it has to be said. When you mentioned that he hadn't given his employer his phone number and he used a mail service, I was worried. The man had secrets. Possibly his secrets caught up to him.'
With eerie clarity, Tess recalled what Joseph had told her in the delicatessen Friday afternoon. I have certain… let's call them obligations. I can't explain what they are or why I have to abide by them. You just have to trust and believe and accept.'
'Maybe. Maybe he did have secrets,' Tess said. 'But that doesn't mean the secrets were bad, and it doesn't mean I have to turn my back and pretend I never knew him.'
'Believe me, I sympathize.' Trask put an arm around her. 'Really. All I'm asking you to do is try to be objective. Protect your emotions.'
'Right now, the last thing I'm capable of being is objective,' Tess said.
'Look, perhaps you shouldn't have come into work today. Take a break. Give yourself a rest. Go to your health club, whatever relaxes you. We'll see how you feel tomorrow.'
'No,' Tess said. 'Being alone would make me feel worse. I need to work. I have to keep busy.'
'You're sure?'
The more work, the better.'
'In that case…'
'What?'
'I've got something I want you to do.'
Tess waited.
; 'It'll mean postponing your article on the overuse of herbicides and pesticides on Midwestern farms.'
'But that's an important issue,' Tess said automatically. 'Those poisons are sinking through the earth and into the drinking water.'
'All the same, there might be a story we ought to do first. The TV news this morning. Did you watch it? The murders in Tennessee? Remind you of anything?'
'I gather you're thinking of the murders at the Pacific-Rim Petroleum Corporation last week.'
There'd been three, two in Australia and one in Hong Kong, after the massive oil spill that continued to endanger the Great Barrier Reef. Victor Malone, captain of the supertanker that had run aground, Kevin Stark, executive in charge of cleanup efforts, and Chandler Thompson, director of the Pacific-Rim Petroleum Corporation, had each been killed following widespread allegations of drinking while on duty, failure to respond to the spill in time to contain it, and corporate refusal to admit its negligence. Malone had been blown apart as he drove from Brisbane 's courthouse. Stark had been drowned, his body discovered upside down in a barrel of oil. Thompson had been poisoned when he drank a glass of water during a press conference.
'Remember, we talked about those murders last Wednesday,' Trask said.
Tess sank toward a chair, dismally remembered something else. That evening, shortly after their conversation, she'd first met Joseph. She dug her fingernails into her thighs, forcing herself to concentrate on what Trask was saying.
'I suggested we do a story about the killings.'
'And I said Earth Mother Magazine isn't a tabloid,' Tess replied. 'We shouldn't add to the controversy. Fanatics hurt our cause.'
'Well, now it seems we've got some fanatics in Tennessee.'
'No, the parallel isn't exact. The police suspect that Bennett and Page were killed by relatives of…'
'That's what they said on television.' Trask scowled. 'But I just checked my sources at the Times. They're preparing a story that quotes a Memphis policeman who wonders if some nutso ecologists might be responsible.'
'What?'
'Already the major environmental-protection groups, like the Sierra Club and Greenpeace, are anticipating the charge, condemning the murders as totally irresponsible.'
'But it's absurd to suspect…" Tess jerked forward. 'Sure, some Greenpeace members were once arrested for taking over a whaling ship in Peru. And it often puts boats filled with people between whaling ships and their quarry. But there's a big difference between seizing private property or risking your life to save an endangered species and-'
'Executing someone you blame for contributing to the destruction of the planet?' Trask raised his eyebrows. 'Of course. And don't get me wrong. Greenpeace is a reputable organization. I certainly don't think it would ever resort to violence. But the new director of the Pac-Rim Corporation did receive a note warning him that he'd better make sure another spill doesn't happen, so we know that fanatics were responsible for those murders. My point is, I agree with you – extremists hurt our cause. Every time protestors invade a nuclear-power facility or steal research animals from a medical lab or throw blood on a woman who wears a fur coat, the public reacts as if all environmentalists are a bunch of lunatics. The rest of us who believe that education, common sense, and good example are the proper ways to gain converts become guilty by association. So let's not avoid the issue. Let's face it head-on and make clear that the majority of environmentalists are not crazed, Looney-Tunes weirdos, that we don't approve of excessive protests any more than the public does.'
Tess studied her boss and slowly nodded. Burdened with grief, she fought to pay attention. 'You know, Walter, the more I think of it…'
'Not a bad idea? Of course, if I say so myself. Does that mean you'll do the piece?'
Tess nodded again, pensive, straightening.
'Good.'
'I see several possibilities.' Her voice sounded cramped. With effort, she continued, 'While I'm condemning extremists, I'll still be able to emphasize the threats to the environment that make them behave the way they do. Right motives, wrong methods.'
'You got it, kid. And if you get deeply enough into the story you never know – maybe you'll be able to take your mind off what happened to your poor friend.'
'I doubt it, Walter. Very much. But Lord knows, I'll try my best.' Her eyes misted. 'I definitely need distracting.'
For the rest of the morning, Tess almost succeeded. Struggling to immerse herself in the subject and stop brooding about Joseph's death, she searched through her files. Determined, she called the reference department at the public library, the Daily News, and the Times. She jotted notes and quickly made lists. Trask's reference to animal-rights activists prompted her to recall that last year a group of protestors who'd stolen rabbits being used for medical research had destroyed a five-year experiment that might have resulted in a cure for muscular dystrophy. In another case, the animals that were stolen had been infected with anthrax to test a new vaccine. A minor epidemic had resulted before the animals were recovered.
Seeking further examples, Tess recalled what had happened in Brazil last week. Pedro Gomez, a rubber-tree tapper who'd been trying to organize his fellow villagers to stop developers from their slash-and-burn destruction of the Amazon jungle, had been blown apart by automatic weapons while making a speech. At his funeral, his wife had received a 'gift,' the head of the financier suspected of ordering Gomez's death. The theory was that one of Gomez's followers had killed the financier to get even. Nonetheless the beheading, like the supposed revenge slayings of Billy Joe Bennett and Harrison Page in Tennessee, was related to a major environmental catastrophe, and Tess decided to include the incident as an example of radical behavior ultimately caused by an ecological crisis, and while condemning that behavior, she still could emphasize the crisis itself.
By noon, Tess had a rough outline for her article, amazed by how much she'd been able to accomplish so quickly, given her need to distract herself. But the truth was, a festering corner of her mind continued to brood about Joseph. More and more, she kept glancing at her watch, its hands proceeding relentlessly, with surprising speed yet paradoxical slowness, toward one o'clock and her appointment with Lieutenant Craig. What had he wanted to show her? Why had he been evasive yet again?
NINETEEN
The lieutenant drove an unmarked rust-colored car this time. When he stopped at the curb and Tess got in to fasten her seatbelt, she noticed that his creased brow was beaded with sweat. His blue suitcoat was lumped beside him. The front of his wrinkled white shirt and the underarm she could see were dark with moisture.
'Sorry.' He coughed. The windows were open, but the only breeze on this sultry smog-hazed June afternoon came from passing cars. 'The air conditioner doesn't work.'
'I'll adjust.'
'Good. That makes one of us.'
'Asthma, you said?'
'What?'
'Your cough.'
'Oh.' Craig steered into traffic. 'Yeah, my cough. That's what my doctor tells me. Asthma. Allergies. This town's killing me.'
'Then maybe you should move.'
'Sure. Like to someplace wholesome? Like to Iowa? What's that line in the movie? Field of Dreams. Yeah, that's the movie. "Is this heaven?" and Kevin Costner says, "No, it's Iowa." Cornfields? Give me a break. I was raised here. This is heaven.' Craig frowned, his voice dropping. 'Or at least, it used to be.'
He turned east off Broadway.
'We're heading in the same direction we did last time.' Tess became rigid. 'Don't tell me we're going back to-'
'The morgue?' Craig shook his head and coughed. 'I'd have warned you. No, we'll be driving up First Avenue again.'
'To Carl Schurz Park? But I don't want to-'
'No, not there either. Let me do this my way, all right? So I can explain and prepare you? And don't frown. I swear, cross my heart, you won't see anything gross.'
'You're positive?'
'I'm not saying it won't disturb you, but I guarantee it won't make you
sick. On the other hand… Okay, here's the deal. You told me your friend was different? That's an understatement. According to the FBI, he doesn't exist.'
'Doesn't…? What are you…?'
'We sent your friend's name to the Bureau to help them find a match for the fingerprints on the corpse's unburned left hand. They searched their computers for a file on Joseph Martin. No surprise. It's a common name. There are plenty of Joseph Martins. What is surprising is that none of the fingerprints in those files matched the fingerprints we sent to the Bureau.'
'But surely not everybody has fingerprints in the Bureau's files.'
'Right.' Craig continued toward First Avenue. 'So the next step is to check with Social Security, to match the number your friend gave his employer with the names and addresses on their list.'
'And?'
Craig steered around a UPS truck, its driver hurrying to make a delivery. 'And? There is a Joseph Martin with that number. The trouble is, he lives in Illinois. Or used to live in Illinois. Because – and this took several phone calls – Joseph Martin who has that social security number died in nineteen fifty-nine.'
'There's some mistake.'
Craig shook his head. 'I doublechecked. The result came up the same. Joseph Martin – your Joseph Martin – should have quit fooling everybody. He should have done the decent thing, stretched out on the floor, crossed his arms, stopped breathing, and been as dead as the Joseph Martin who's in a cemetery in Illinois.'
While Craig reached First Avenue and headed north, Tess felt pressure behind her ears. 'You're telling me Joseph assumed the identity of a dead man?'
The Covenant Of The Flame Page 9
