“I swear I never touched the child.”
The golf club slammed down on the desk near his fingers. Brown Suit grabbed his free arm and forced it back to the paper.
“Sign the fucking thing or I'm leaving you and Peter alone together.”
Sobbing, shaking, Bristow scrawled his signature onto the paper, his only thought to end the pain. As he finished Brown Suit grabbed his arm and forced it back into the cuff behind the chair.
“See, that was easy, wasn't it. Well, that's it, Thomas. You can go now.”
He tried to get up, but the cuffs held him firm.
“One more thing, Mr. Whippy,” said Brown Suit. “You promise not to go chasing after little children anymore.”
“I... I promise.”
“I don't believe you, ChoMo. I think we should break a few more fingers, just to make sure.”
“God, no. Please, no. I've admitted to the girl. It was me. I killed her. What more do you want? Please, just leave me alone.”
He saw Peter moving behind him out of sight and he prayed silently, shutting his eyes, waiting for the pain. He heard the swish of air a split second before the club hit the left arm, shattering the elbow and lower humerus. He screamed out in pain, and his body arching against the cuffs that held him to the chair, dazed, unable to speak, the pain searing through him.
He vaguely heard Peter's voice, talking about civic duty, protecting children, then the swish of air again. Pain seared through his arm as the club smashed against the shattered limb a second time, spraying blood through the cloth of his shirt. He managed to scream out once before unconsciousness overtook him, the pain giving way to welcome darkness.
It was over.
For now.
27
Greg Randall drew on a cigarette and lay back on the bed, his head propped against a pillow, watching his wife towel herself dry after her shower. Elizabeth always she took a shower before doing anything else. She enjoyed her job, but hated the smell of old people lingering around the house.
Through the slightly open door the Dynamite Twins could be heard bickering playfully in their bedroom. He smiled to himself, confident he had things under control.
He studied Elizabeth's body as she dressed, his eyes lingering until she slipped on her night robe and ended the show.
One day, he told himself, he'd come clean and explain to Elizabeth his true desires - his fears.
One day.
As she climbed into bed beside him, her hand sneaking playfully beneath the covers, he knew that time was a long way off.
Anyway he had an appointment booked with Dr Quinlan for the following Monday. The problem would be resolved soon, somehow.
He listened to the Dynamite Twins' joyful shrieks and crossed his fingers.
28
“You look great!” Matt settled in opposite Claire in the Rochester end Monroe Avenue Starbucks. “First time you’ve smiled since… Anyway, what’s on your mind?”
“I just thought you’d like a coffee.”
“Never been known to refuse. But why now?”
“You weren’t busy, were you?”
“I’ve always got time for you, Claire. You know that. But why here?”
“Somewhere neutral, to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
Claire studied her Americano thoughtfully, considering her words. “Promise not to laugh, Matt. This is going to sound silly, I know, but it makes me feel good. And just now that's what I need most.”
Matt supped his latte. “Try me.”
“I want to find him.”
“Find who?”
“Whoever he is. Uncle Tom.”
Matt eyed his partner uneasily. “What makes you think you can do better than New York’s finest?”
“I thought you might say that.”
“I know how you feel, Claire, but - “
She cut him short, her smile giving way to momentary anger. “No you don't, Matt. You can't possibly know how I feel. Only if it was your own daughter could you even come close to knowing.” Tears filled her eyes.
He reached out a comforting hand. “Playing Miss Marple won't help things, Claire. You'll just prolong the pain.”
“Hear me out, at least, Matt. You're the only one I can talk to.”
“I'm sorry. I'm listening.”
“I was looking through Rebecca’s school folder this morning. Just browsing; re-living memories. I wish I'd got more involved with it. Funny how things only take on their real importance when it's too late...”
Matt stayed silent.
“Just before the summer break a police officer visited her school. A bike had been stolen. Rebecca came home that day wanting to be a cop. I humored her, of course. Before that it was a journalist. To be like you. But being a detective was the last thing she wanted to be, before...”
Matt clasped her hand tight. She reciprocated.
“And you think by setting yourself up as Poirot you can somehow fulfill her dream?”
“Does that sound crazy?”
He considered his response thoughtfully. “I understand your wanting to do something, but you don't seriously think you can track down this sick bastard, when the combined might of the police across the state are struggling, with all their resources?”
“No, but it makes me feel better. The thing is, Matt, I've got to do something. Anything. I can't relax. Not while I know he's out there still. Supposing he kills another child? No mother should have to go through what I've been through.” She felt her anger rising and took deep breaths to quell it. “It's not about vengeance, Matt. Honestly.”
He raised a doubting eyebrow.
“It was, at first. Of course it was. Anyone would be the same. I wanted to find him. To make him suffer. To cut his balls off. I wanted to... But that was then. I'm being rational now. I want justice, not revenge. I want to know why. What kind of person is he? Does he have a family? Friends? Has he ever loved somebody? Does he feel any guilt? Any remorse? Anything at all? At first I thought hanging was too good for him. But now... now I've had time to think, I realize that's not the answer. He must be ill. Sick, I mean, in the head. Seriously sick. He needs help, not punishment.”
Matt pondered her words. “You never fail to amaze me, Claire. You may even be right. God knows, the cops need all the help they can get.” He permitted a smile. “But tell me, Agatha. Whodunit? Where do you start? It's not a game of Clue. You can't just walk up and accuse Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the lead piping, and then throw the dice again when the cards don't match. Have you any idea of the scale of the inquiry going on?”
She shrugged. “Have you?”
“It's my job to know, Claire.”
“So tell me.”
“Tell you?”
“About the inquiry. Tell me how it works. How many people they've talked to. How many suspects they've crossed off their list. I need to know.”
He hesitated. Just that morning he'd been reading back over past child-murder investigations. It was the very rarity of child murders that made them such big news. It was easy to forget that when faced with a list of murdered children.
He made a point of looking at his watch. “I have to get back soon, Claire. Honestly. It would take all day to explain what goes on.”
“Well when? Matt, I want to know. Need to know.”
“I’ll set aside some quality time, as soon as I can.”
Claire smiled. “You used to say that to Rebecca.” She clutched his hand again. “Thanks Matt. I do appreciate it.”
“Besides, I may be able to save you the effort. I’m expecting some news later.”
“News?”
“Sort of. It's not official yet, but Pitman tells me a man has been arrested. Now don't build your hopes up, Claire, just in case it falls flat, but there's talk of a celebratory drink at Jay Street tonight, so they're taking it pretty seriously.”
She clutched his arm eagerly. “When will you know for sure?”
“Any time now.
Pitman has sent one of his team to interview the suspect. In hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“I don't know the details, but apparently he's in a bad way.”
Claire's humanitarian mood was history. She smiled.
“Good. I hope the bastard's suffering.”
29
It was hardly an original name for a puppy, but then Lara was only six. The black patch over its right eye gave the pup its name. To her parents, Patch was an ideal friend for their youngest child and only daughter, one girl among five older brothers. To Lara, Patch was everything.
In the three months she'd had the pet Lara had exceeded her parents' wildest expectations, diligent in attending its every need. No feeding time had been missed. The pup's water bowl had never run dry.
As the novelty wore off her brothers quickly lost interest, leaving Patch to their little sister; which was as Lara's parents wished. For twelve years they'd tried for a daughter without success. With five boisterous sons in hand Lara's birth was a godsend to them. Her father had the long awaited vasectomy shortly afterwards.
Acutely aware of the influence an all-boy family would have on their daughter Lara was thrust into pink romper suits and dresses no sooner than the umbilical cord had been severed. While they made every effort to ensure their six children were treated fairly, no-one could accuse Lara's parents of treating them as equals. Boys would be boys, but Lara was to be their only girl and she was showered with dolls, soft toys, lace and frills from the moment she was born, every effort made to ensure any tomboy traits were stamped out in the early stages.
Patch was part of this process; a companion for Lara to discourage her from playing with her brothers. They in turn were only too happy to have their annoying little sister otherwise occupied.
Lara's parents considered Queensbury a respectable neighborhood: quiet; relatively crime-free; pleasantly situated near the New Hampshire border, far from the crime of the Big Apple. They were quite at ease letting six year old Lara walk the dog on her own. So long as she stayed away from the traffic and away from the river they knew she was safe.
Like every parent, Lara's mother and father read the papers and watched the news. It would be easy to become paranoid, never to venture out, to keep their children on a leash, if they believed everything they read and heard.
The body in the canal had been a shock, but someone had been arrested and was in custody. Panic over.
They knew serious crime was something that happened elsewhere, in the cities.
Like every parent, they knew it couldn't happen to them.
It couldn't happen in Forest Park, Queensbury.
Not in broad daylight on a bright summer's morning.
The first morning of September.
~
Lara skipped awkwardly down the alleyway, dodging the puddles to avoid dirtying her pink sneakers with Velcro straps, today with a new pair of brilliant white ankle socks. A red polka-dot cotton knee-length dress with Peter Pan collar and a pony tail held in place with a red posy clip completed a picture of innocence.
Before she'd left her mother had assured her she would be the most beautiful girl in the play park.
Had she ever arrived she probably would have been.
30
The white van pulled up at the end of the alley as she skipped, the uncoordinated movements of a young child with a rope too long for her height. As the pup turned the corner Lara heard the slamming of the van door and the pup barked furiously. Then a yelp, and silence.
Lara stopped in her tracks, confused. Then she was running, her skipping rope trailing behind her, calling out to Patch, her voice rising as she hurried. She turned the corner and stopped abruptly, tears swimming in wide brown eyes.
Before her the man held out the limp body of the puppy. Blood ran from its lifeless nose. She never saw the blood-stained wheel brace at his feet.
She propelled her shaking body towards the pup, held out before her, a sacrificial offering. The man uttered soothing words of comfort but they went unheard. She struggled for breath, a stifled sobbing the only sound she could manage. Her hand reached out and touched the warm, soft body of the puppy. Blood stained her fingers but she didn't notice.
The man bent down, holding out the animal for her to take. She clutched the dead puppy to her chest, crying, oblivious to the blood staining her frock. Oblivious to the gentle hands around her waist, lifting her up. Oblivious to the soft, cushioned floor she was being placed on.
Only when the door closed behind her and the pitch black of total darkness came upon her did she realize what was happening. Her screams went unheard outside the sound-proofed vehicle, the soft padding absorbing her cries along with the sound of tiny hands thumping against the cushioned walls.
She felt the vehicle lurch forward and knew they were moving, though the engine sound was as inaudible to her inside as her screams were from outside. But she screamed all the same.
The van eased casually into the traffic on Quaker Road, making for State Route 9, just another white van going about its business.
Her parents reacted quickly, the police efficiently. With a six year old few chances were taken, especially now. She was recorded missing within thirty minutes of her abduction and a full police team swung into action.
31
The hysterical screams lasted perhaps fifteen minutes before exhaustion consumed Lara's body and she fell to the floor, alone and afraid.
She found the pup's body and clutched it to her chest, taking comfort from the still warm cadaver.
Eventually she cried herself to sleep in the darkness, lulled by the gentle motion of the vehicle.
The van stopped only twice on the journey, once to change the license plates on a secluded road, once for fuel, paying cash. Now it was in the parking lot at Splashwater Kingdom.
Though a competent swimmer he never ventured into the water once during the three hours he spent there. He stripped to his trunks, spread out a towel and lay out to enjoy the view, watching the little girls run past from the wave pool, wet costumes clinging to young bodies. It was an enjoyable afternoon spent building up an appetite for delights yet to come.
It was nearly six in the evening, a good few hours of daylight remaining, when he returned to the van. He retrieved a lunch-box from beneath his seat and satisfied his hunger on a selection of cheese and pickle rye-bread sandwiches, washed down with a flask of decaffeinated coffee.
By eight o'clock there were perhaps three vehicles still remaining. He slipped in the CD, then made his way to the back of the van, checking about him before opening the back doors. It was dark inside. He climbed in and secured the doors behind him before tugging a lever that illuminated the van's rear interior.
Little Lara lay semi-comatose, the trauma too much for her young mind, curled in fetal position, her thumb in her mouth, her other arm around the dead puppy.
The scene brought a smile to his face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her hair disheveled, her dress creased and bloodstained where the pup lay against her. He grasped the now cold animal by its already stiffening tail and gently eased it from her tiny fingers.
The girl stirred as she felt the puppy move and she opened her eyes. For a second she stared blankly at the man before her, uncomprehending, then her young mind focused, the brown eyes widening. Her body shook as she sat up and prepared to scream.
Far too young to understand his intentions.
Old enough to be so very afraid.
32
He drove south to Albany, staying in a cheap bed and breakfast overnight. He gave his name as Jones. Tom Jones. The land-lady sighed. If only... He wriggled his pelvis for her in a poor imitation and for the rest of the evening he received the red carpet treatment.
He said he wouldn't be wanting breakfast. He had to continue his journey first thing, to be back in Manhattan for his next shift. The landlady extolled the quality of her grits to no avail, but really she was delighted. Fifty dollars for changing a f
ew sheets was fine by her.
But the best was yet to come.
When he put on his Tom Jones Welsh accent (confiding that he also did a pretty good Elvis impression if she’d prefer) and said he'd like her to join him for the optional evening meal she was in seventh heaven. When he took to the upright piano in the guest's lounge after dinner and ran off a passable rendition of Delilah, followed by Green, Green Grass she almost wet herself. The other guests applauded loudly, adults and children alike.
The little girl from Philadelphia sat on his lap, her parents looking on, delighted with the free entertainment. “You should be on the stage,” they said, oblivious to his hand beneath their daughter's dress. The child too excited to notice; too young to think anything of it if she had.
At eleven thirty he disappointed them all by announcing it was time for bed. He had a long drive ahead of him in the morning. He kissed the little girl good night, shook hands all round and settled with the landlady before retiring. She couldn't quite bring herself to waive the fee for the evening meal, but let him off the five dollar surcharge for parking his vehicle on the forecourt.
He awoke at six on the Monday morning and left the building unnoticed. The landlady wouldn't be stirring for another half hour. Breakfasts were served strictly between seven-thirty and nine. No exceptions. On the way out he picked a single rose from a neighboring garden and put it in a glass of water on the kitchen table, with his compliments. His calling cards were strictly reserved.
33
He drove out on the I-90 then opted for the scenic route through Kinderhook, stopping for a break at the Stuyvesant Falls.
It was then that he saw her.
A brisk wind had brought broken cloud scudding across the Hudson. She was on her way home after a sleep-over at a friend's house, struggling to pedal her bike against the strong breeze.
He drove past slowly, watching her in the mirror. The wind whipped her skirt about her legs revealing glimpses of thigh. He felt the stirrings in his groin.
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 6
