Fury

by G. M. Ford

  He reached inside, groping for the light switch. Found it. The room lit up like a ballpark. A dozen track lights hung from the ceiling along three sides of the room, spilling fans of white light down along the bare walls and boarded-over windows. Corso walked out into the middle of the room and looked around. On his left, a floor-to-ceiling curtain hung bunched in the far corner. His eyes followed the aluminum track around the room. Back to where Dougherty stood in the doorway. To her left sat a brand-new leather lounger and an oak end table. On the table, a crystal ashtray glinted in the harsh overhead lights. Beneath the odors of stale smoke and nicotine, something sickly sweet hung in the air.

  Corso gestured toward the chair. “So, what? Somebody comes in here, pulls back the curtain, sits in their favorite chair, puts their feet up, lights up a smoke, and then what, stares at the walls?”

  Dougherty took three steps into the room. “Weird,” she said. “It’s like a home theater or something, except there’s nothing behind the curtain.”

  Corso walked to the far wall. Running his hands over the rotting plaster and splintered plywood, feeling for something not available to the eye. Nothing. He turned to Dougherty and shrugged. “Beats me,” he said.

  “Let’s go,” she begged.

  Corso started for the door. Then suddenly stopped. Tilted his head. “Or maybe,” he said tentatively, “maybe you come into the room and close the curtain.”

  He walked to the corner, grabbed the edge of the curtain, and began to pull the heavy material along its overhead track. As he walked along the wall, he heard Dougherty catch her breath. And then again, as he moved along the far wall, rounded the corner, and turned back her way, something stuck in her throat.

  She began moving toward the center of the room as if she were remote-controlled. Corso let go of the curtain and looked around.

  Clothes. Women’s clothes. Complete ensembles. Pinned neatly to the inside of the curtain. Outerwear on the left. Underwear on the right. Nine complete sets, with room for at least one more.

  Corso pointed to the set directly in front of him. “Victim number four. Jennifer Robison,” he said. Matching black bra and panties. A black, sleeveless blouse, silk maybe, and a pair of leopard-skin stretch pants. “That’s what she was reported to be wearing when she disappeared from the Northgate Mall.”

  “You catch this?” Dougherty asked, pointing upward.

  Written along the top of the curtain in bold black letters: “Behold the ten brides of Christ…who having strayed from his ways are now returned to the fold of our master, like lost sheep.” Then it started over. “Behold the ten…”

  “Jesus,” he said as he moved around the room. The garments were attached to the curtain with little color-coordinated safety pins.

  “Can you smell it?” Dougherty asked. She rubbed a white sports bra between her fingers and then held the fingers to her nose. “Smells like my grandfather.”

  Corso leaned in close to the closet set of clothes. Recoiled. Then leaned in again. “Old Spice,” he said.

  Dougherty looked ill. “You don’t suppose he—”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Corso said.

  They moved quickly now. Doused the light and relocked the room. Hurried down the hall. Turned left into the occupied bedroom, crossed the room, and set the key carefully in the bowl of change.

  Abandoning any pretense of stealth, they thumped down the stairs. They went the way they had come, to the back door. Corso peeked out. The yard was empty. He grabbed Dougherty by the hand. As they double-timed it around the house and back down the driveway, Corso pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed.

  He kept it short and sweet. Didn’t give Densmore the chance to say anything other than his name. “Densmore…this is Corso. You listen to me, goddamnit. We got him. Dead to rights. He killed all of them. Past and present. His name is Patrick Defeo.” Corso spelled it. “He lives at twelve seventy-nine Arlen Avenue South. The driveway between Arlen Auto Parts and the Cascade Self-Storage yard. Call the chief and get the execution stopped and then get down here. Hurry. And bring the goddamn marines. He’s armed to the teeth. Lotsa backup. You hear me?”

  He pocketed the phone.

  Dougherty was dragging him now. Pulling him headlong over the rutted tracks. Ten yards from the end of the drive, Corso heard the squeal of tires, tried to stop and listen, but Dougherty wasn’t buying. She dropped his hand and began to run, her long strides eating up the ground. Good thing she was wearing boots. If she’d been going any faster, she’d have plowed facefirst into the gray van that slid to a stop in the mouth of the driveway.

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, September 22

  11:16 P.M. Day 6 of 6

  The van’s engine shuddered slightly at each revolution. The rhythmic tick of a bad valve seemed to be the only sound moving in the air. Behind the nearly black windows, the figure leaned to his right, as if fetching something from the glove compartment. From where he stood in the driveway, Corso could see the rear bubble window puffing out like a blister from the van’s flat profile.

  Dougherty was backing toward Corso, who began moving quickly toward the van. He swallowed and put on his best Jim Rockford smile.

  “Look, honey, we got lucky.”

  Dougherty’s expression suggested she was not familiar with English. Corso hooked her around the waist and forced her forward. Skidding her over the grass.

  “What…you can’t read the sign?” Defeo said in a nasal tenor. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred fifty pounds. A pipsqueak. “Somethin’ about the sign you two didn’t understand?”

  Corso kept smiling. Mr. Jovial. “What sign is that?”

  Corso had no intention of squinting into the head-lights. He kept moving, forcing Defeo to step aside as they made their way past the van, out into the street. The guy smelled of Old Spice. Corso nearly gagged. Defeo’s hand trembled as he pointed to a tattered sign hanging askew! “No Trespassing.”

  “Sorry,” Corso said. “It was dark as hell when we walked down. I never even saw the sign.” He turned to Dougherty. “Did you see it, honey?”

  She managed to stammer out, “No.”

  “Well, what the hell are you doing here anyway?” Defeo asked. He walked around Corso, taking him in from all angles. “Nobody comes down here at night no more. No reason to.” He made eye contact for the first time.

  You had to pull your eyes from the twitching muscles around his mouth before you could process the face. Patrick Defeo appeared to have been made of spare parts. His right eye was fully an inch higher than its counterpart. Same thing with his cab-door ears. Offset. Angular, the effect was of a head that had been welded together. The expression lost and desperate, like one of those long-ago Life black-and-whites of gaunt Dust Bowl refugees.

  He wore a blue baseball cap. “FBI” in big gold letters. The hat was sized down as far as it would go, leaving a four-inch piece of strap sticking out the back. Otherwise it was all camouflage. Fatigues with a pack of Marlboros rolled into the left sleeve. Tiny spit-shined boots. Pants tucked into the boots. Marine insignia on his chest. Special Forces patches sewn on his narrow shoulders.

  “We broke down,” Corso said. “Up the street.” He pointed toward the Chevy. “We were going along just fine and then just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“it quit.”

  Dougherty regained her wits and said, “We saw the house light and thought maybe you’d call a tow truck for us.”

  It wasn’t just his mouth. Defeo was twitchy all over, as if his limbs had a life of their own. He seemed to be incapable of standing still. Constantly moving from one foot to another, shifting his weight, as if he was about to walk off and then suddenly changed his mind. He folded his arms across his chest to keep them still. Beneath his arms, his fingers fluttered like wings.

  “Can’t imagine what might have happened. Always been a real reliable car. Nothing like this ever happened before.”

  Defeo rolled his neck, like he was worki
ng out a kink. “Just quit, you said.”

  “Just like that,” Corso said. “I’m terrible with cars. Don’t know a thing about ’em. Never have.”

  Defeo looked Corso over like he was measuring him for a suit. “What was you doing down here anyway?” he demanded. “The old woman sent you two down here to spy on me? Still can’t keep her damn nose outta my business.”

  Dougherty began to stammer, “Oh…no…we…not to spy…we—”

  “We just took a wrong turn somewhere,” Corso said quickly.

  Defeo cocked his head, as if listening to distant voices. Rolled his neck again.

  “Lemme have a look at this broke-down car of yours,” Defeo said, gesturing up the road with his chin. “Lemme see it.”

  “We were desperate,” Dougherty said as they moved toward the Chevy. “Yours was the only light on the whole street.”

  Defeo’s eyes rolled in his head like a horse’s. “Nobody out here no more,” he said. He swung his arms in an arc. “Used to be nothin’ but farms.” He pointed at the mini-storage yard. “That was Jorgenson’s dairy.” He looked up at Corso. “Will be again too. Someday. When the final turnaround comes. Everything’s gonna be like it was before.”

  He looked from Corso to Dougherty and back, as if daring them to disagree.

  Suddenly, Defeo stopped walking. Reached over and grabbed Dougherty by the arm. Squinted at the gold bracelet tattooed around her wrist and the red letters in the palm of her hand. “What the hell you go and defile yourself like that for?” he asked. “That’s a hell of a thing. Let a woman defile herself that way.” He dropped her arm and looked to Corso for an explanation, as if to say, “You let her do that to herself?”

  Corso kept grinning and walking.

  Dougherty hung back now. Rubbing her arm where he’d touched it. Corso pointed to the Chevy. “Here it is,” he said. Defeo looked the car over as if he were going to salvage it for parts. “All parked nice and neat,” he commented. “You push it in here?”

  “Just rolled it right in,” Corso said.

  “Get in. Pop the hood,” Defeo said.

  Corso slid into the driver’s seat. Found the hood release. Pulled it. Dougherty slipped into the passenger seat and locked the door. Still massaging her arm.

  Defeo fiddled around for a moment and then opened the hood.

  Dougherty shot Corso a panicked look. He made a “stay calm” gesture.

  “Try it,” Defeo said.

  Instead of turning the key to the right, Corso turned it to the left. Got a series of electrical clicks. “Nothing,” he said out the window.

  “Try it again,” Defeo called back. Corso did it again.

  “You sure you turning it the right way?” Defeo asked.

  “Positive,” Corso assured him.

  They kept repeating the process for what seemed to Dougherty an hour, until finally Defeo dropped the hood. He walked around to the driver’s side and leaned down. Peered into the car. Gave Corso his version of a smile. “I’m gonna run up the house, get my toolbox,” Defeo said. A muscle in his cheek fluttered like a butterfly.

  He looked back over his shoulder twice as he hustled back to the van. Smiling all the way, like he’d just heard a good joke and couldn’t wait to tell it to somebody else. The van began to roll. Corso checked his watch. Thirteen minutes since he’d called Densmore.

  “Did you smell him?” Dougherty asked.

  Corso nodded. “Let’s get the hell out of here. From now on he’s Densmore’s problem.” He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Tried it again. Still nothing. His stomach was suddenly ice cold.

  “He…,” was all Dougherty could get out.

  He grabbed the door handle. “Come on.”

  In the junkyard, the dogs were growling along the fence. He grabbed Dougherty by the hand and sprinted diagonally across the street, running along the fronts of the buildings, trying doors, looking for a place to duck in and hide, finding nothing until, fifty yards up the street, they came to a narrow alley separating a welding shop from something called Fircrest Fabrication. A pair of fifty-five-gallon drums were chained together in the mouth of a grimy alcove. One barrel was marked “Oil.” The other, “Solvents.” He peered over the top into a narrow space between the recycling drums and the metal wall behind. Maybe three feet wide. Big enough.

  He grabbed Dougherty by the elbows and lifted her completely over the drums. Set her gently on the littered ground.

  “Get down,” he said. “Stay down.”

  Chapter 28

  Saturday, September 22

  11:38 P.M. Day 6 of 6

  His knuckles glowed white around the phone. Again, he paced over and peered down the driveway. Nothing had changed. The van still sat facing the street. Lights on. Engine running. The tired yellow bulb over the front door carved the same deep shadows into the yard.

  “Come on,” he muttered to himself.

  Corso jogged back to the alley. Dougherty sat huddled against the north wall, her usually ruddy face now the color of cement.

  “What if they don’t come?” she wheezed.

  “They’ll come,” he said, with a good deal more conviction than he felt. He checked his watch. Sixteen minutes since he’d hung up on Densmore. Four since Defeo went for his tools. This time of night, if they were coming, it shouldn’t be long.

  He ran to the edge of the driveway and looked down. Status quo. On his way back to Dougherty, he heard the sound of studded tires snapping on the pavement. He turned. No lights. The snapping drew closer, until out of the darkness a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria rolled around the corner and pulled to a stop, with the front half of the car blocking the driveway. Wald was driving. Densmore shotgun. Donald in back, behind Wald. Densmore was out of the passenger door the second the car came to a stop. Circled the hood of the car. Got right up in Corso’s face.

  “Where’s the backup?” Corso asked.

  “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” he said.

  “The guy’s got automatic weapons, fellas. You guys are gonna need some serious help here. Lots of it.”

  Behind Densmore’s back, the two cops exchanged worried looks. Densmore held up a moderating hand. He turned to his fellow cops. “We don’t even know if this is the guy. All we’ve got is the say-so of the world’s most notorious liar here.”

  “Still, Andy…we better—” Wald began.

  Densmore was having none of it. “Last I looked, Wald, I was still the three. You got any complaints, you better take it up with somebody downtown.”

  Corso stared disbelievingly at Densmore. “Did you call the chief? You didn’t, did you?” He turned to the other cops. “Did he call about Himes?”

  “What makes you think this is the guy?” Donald asked Corso.

  Dougherty was out of the alley now, walking across the pavement toward the men, her eyes the size of hubcaps. “He’s got the victims’ clothes on display. He’s got, like, this really sick little shrine set up in there,” she said.

  The cops exchanged another long look. “And you know this how?” Wald asked.

  Dougherty covered her mouth with her hand, looked to Corso.

  “We were inside the house,” he said.

  Densmore bared his teeth. “You broke into…?” he barked.

  “It wasn’t locked.”

  “You realize…you asshole”—he stomped in a tight circle—“you realize you’ve tainted every piece of evidence inside that house, don’t you? We’re not going to be able to use anything in there.”

  Densmore jabbed a finger, first at Corso, then at Dougherty. He had a smile on his face. “You two are under arrest. As soon as we get this sorted out, I’m having you transported downtown on charges of—”

  Whatever charges Densmore had in mind were lost when Donald suddenly said, “We’ve got movement up at the house.”

  He was right. The light over the front door had been turned off, leaving only the headlights and the ghostly purple reflections of the mini-storage yard to
illuminate the scene. As Corso squinted into the gloom, Defeo clicked on the high beams. No doubt about it. He could see the cop car across the front of the driveway. After a moment, he threw open the door of the van, jumped out, and ran back into the house.

  “He made us,” said Donald.

  Wald popped the trunk on the cop car and began shouldering himself into a Kevlar vest. Donald stood dumbfounded for a moment and then hustled over and followed suit; his long delicate fingers shook as he pulled the Velcro fasteners tight across his chest. By the time Wald had the vest settled over his suit, he was alternately thumbing shells into a shotgun and peering nervously down the muddy track toward the van.

  Densmore fixed Corso with a final feral stare, stepped around Donald, and leaned into the trunk. Instead of a vest, he came out with a bullhorn.

  “Call for backup, Chucky,” Wald said.

  Donald had gotten one step toward the front of the car when Densmore snapped, “No, we’ll handle this.”

  Wald started for the radio. “Fuck you, Densmore,” he said. “You want to risk your own ass, that’s okay by me. But—”

  He didn’t get to finish. Up at the house, Defeo was back in the van. Wald squatted in front of the driver’s door, holding the shotgun in his left hand. Thumbed off the safety.

  “The van’s moving,” Donald chanted.

  He was right. The van was rolling forward down the drive. The bright lights and dark-tinted windows made Defeo completely invisible.

  The van stopped. Seventy yards from the cop car. Densmore arranged his gold shield over his heart like it would make him bulletproof. He got to his feet and faced the van over the hood of the car. He held his service revolver in his left hand and the bullhorn in his right. He straightened his spine and brought the bullhorn up to his lips like a carnival barker.