Their new shepherd.
They watched as she came closer. Their necks were elongating, eyes widening, bodies all but levitating with expectation.
And Mallory’s first pronouncement?
“Go home!”
Well, not the best of beginnings.
The people remained quiet, still hopeful, waiting for the next and perhaps more inspiring words, but Mallory turned her back on them and walked away. They followed her awhile with their sheep’s e yes, then nodded to one another, as if agreeing all around, Excellent choice.
Riker shook his head. Charles shrugged, then followed after Mallory- an old habit of his.
When the new campsite had been paid for and the vehicles drawn into a circle, Riker sat on the fender of the Mercedes, his eyes turned to open land. The New Mexico mesas were dark purple and the grasslands had turned to gray at nine o’clock.
Charles sipped coffee, and Riker smoked cigarettes while he speculated on the suicide of Savannah Sirus.
“The way I see it,” said the detective, “it was all about guilt. Let’s say Mallory’s mother was pregnant when Peyton left her for the other woman. So Savannah went to New York looking for absolution-” He threw his hands up. “And the lady just picked the wrong confessor.”
“A bit simplistic,” said Charles. “Back up a bit. First she must’ve sent Mallory a token letter written by Peyton Hale. Maybe she thought that would end the matter.”
“Then Mallory wants the rest of the letters, all of them,” said Riker. “She knows she’s been cheated. Savannah spent three weeks in Mallory’s apartment, more than enough time for a full confession. I’ve seen the kid break hardcore felons in less than an hour.”
“All right,” said Charles. “But Mallory was simply behaving like- Mallory. You might as well ask a gun to change its nature. I don’t see any intent here, no campaign to drive that woman to suicide.”
Their conversation ended with Mallory’s approach. And Charles wondered if she could read the guilt in his face. Of course she could-if she wanted to, but Mallory never even looked his way. She sat down on a campstool and settled the computer on her lap. She seemed to want their company, but not their conversation. Her eyes were trained on the glowing screen except for occasional glances at a nearby campfire where a little girl lay asleep on a bedroll.
Joe Finn was struggling to assemble the pup tent without waking his daughter. His son, Peter, was staring at Mallory. The boy was rising now and walking toward her. When Peter came a little closer, Charles could see that his shining young face was at odds with his eyes-the eyes of an old man. The child’s walk had purpose in every step he took toward the young detective. He had some serious business with her.
Be careful, boy.
Peter Finn tapped Mallory on the shoulder, but he was unsuccessful in getting her attention away from the computer in her lap.
“What is death?”
“You know what it is,” she said, never looking up from the glowing screen.
“But you know more than I do.”
Charles closed his eyes. It all made sense. The boy had picked the person least likely to tell a kind lie and most likely to know the truth on this subject.
“Death,” said the boy, “tell me about it?”
Eyes still on the screen, she said, “It’s the next thing that happens after life.”
“And then?”
Now she did raise her eyes to the boy and gave him a look of mild surprise that asked, You want more?
And, no, Charles could see that the boy did not. This life was quite enough, more than enough. Life was hard. The child’s idea of heaven was apparently kindred to Mallory’s. Simply put: no more of this existence- and nothing more than that.
“My sister Ariel-she’s really dead, isn’t s he?”
“Yes,” said Mallory, lover of brevity.
“Well, that’s all right then,” said the boy. No more of this for Ariel. “Will you tell that to my father-so we can go home?”
“You think he’d listen to me?” said Mallory.
Apparently not. His last hope exhausted, the boy turned around and walked away, a hundred years older now.
Charles went after him. “May I talk to you for a moment?”
Peter stopped and turned around, saying, “Please don’t tell me that Ariel’s in heaven.”
Charles knelt down on one knee to be eye level with the boy. “I’ll tell you everything I know about heaven. I learned this in Sunday school. Christ said, ‘Heaven is all around them and men do not see it.’ I think he was onto something there. Personally, I can’t imagine anything that can eclipse life. The best part is up ahead, and you don’t w ant to miss that.”
He could see that this was cold comfort to a weary child who needed structure and a sense of normalcy if he was to survive. A good start would be something simple like a conventional bed where Peter could lay his head each night. Charles turned to watch the boxer struggle with each rope and stake, trying to work a simple tent into its ultimate shape, all the signs of depression in each failure.
“I’m going to have a talk with your father.”
The young fatalist shook his head. “Dad won’t listen to you.”
As Charles approached Joe Finn, he mentally turned a leaf in the Mallory Book of Hard Truth and Bad Manners. He planned to stab this man in the heart with hard facts. “Ariel is dead, and you know that. She died a long time ago. And your son wants to die.”
Now that he had all of the boxer’s angry attention, Charles turned to look at the man’s surviving daughter, awake now, distraught and humming. “And that’s gone on much too long. She needs more help than you can give her. I can arrange for a child psychiatrist to work with Dodie. But first you have to go into protective custody in Chicago. It’s the police this time, not the FBI.”
He sensed the boxer’s resistance. The man’s closed fists were a clue.
“She’s the child most like you,” said Charles. “If this pilgrimage doesn’t end now, you and Dodie will be rocking side by side, humming in the dark, and your boy will be all alone. And then he’ll die. I know you want to do the right thing. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Fathers always go out into the night in search of the lost child. Well, Ariel’s dead. It’s the other two who are lost.”
“That’s not what the man wants to hear, Charles.” Mallory had materialized behind the boxer, making him spin around to face her. She ignored him and spoke only to Charles. “He’s not listening to you.” She had removed her jacket, and the gun in her shoulder holster was on display. Now she turned to acknowledge Joe Finn, her legs apart, arms slightly bent at her sides. And Charles found this a most interesting moment-a gun-slinger squaring off against a pugilist.
“Mr. Finn doesn’t w ant to hear any more crap about denial,” said Mallory, eyes on the boxer. “He knows that Ariel’s dead, and now he’s planning to get even.” She glanced at Charles. “If you want to know anything about revenge, you come to me. I’ve seen it all. I know the signs.”
And now it was her turn to go ignored. Joe Finn went back to his chore of planting a tent pole, one of two. Mallory’s hand flashed out so fast, he had no time to react before she uprooted the pole and tossed it aside, as if it were merely a toothpick.
“You’ve got no right-” He shut his mouth when the little girl at his feet began to hum and rock.
“You’re stressing her out,” said Mallory. “That’s the signal, isn’t it?” She turned to Charles. “When Dodie hums, there’s something going on that she can’t handle. A few days ago, Finn noticed it happening more and more-and he was looking around, checking faces for someone to blame. He was looking for the man who killed Ariel.”
Mallory circled around the boxer, and he revolved to follow her. She looked down at the child, who was humming softly, rocking slowly. “That’s a low-level alert. When Dodie cranks up the sound, that’s your cue, Finn. Dodie’s your little bird dog. She can’t talk, but she can point the way, humming, rocking, sc
ared to death. But what do you care? You’re a man on a mission.”
“It’s not true!”
“Save the lies, okay? You think you can take on a serial killer and win? Well, if you kill the wrong man, maybe you can make a nutcase defense for murder. Maybe Charles was onto something. Plead insanity and you could wind up in Dodie’s asylum. Then the two of you can just rock and hum all day.”
She turned to Charles. “You wasted your time with him. Dodie won’t get any help unless Social Services comes to take her away from her father- if she survives what he’s doing to her.” Back to the boxer, the target. “This man you’re hunting, I’d put good money on him over you. He’s a plotter, a stalker, a long-term planner, but you only know how to use your fists.”
Charles noticed that Mallory was holding something behind her back, and it was not her gun. The weapon was still resting in its holster.
“I can look after my own,” said Joe Finn.
“Ariel gave up her life to save her little sister.” Mallory’s hidden hand came forward. She held up a photograph of a dead body. It was a teenage girl, dark of hair, blue of eye-Ariel.
“That’s not my daughter,” said the boxer.
“You know it is,” said Mallory. “Look at her hands, Finn. You know how those bruises are made. Your daughter took the first shot. The perp didn’t catch Ariel. She attacked him. She was buying the time for Dodie to run.”
Mallory put one finger on the crucifix that hung from his neck, pushing it into his skin, as if to brand him. And the boxer seemed powerless to move her hand away.
“Ariel was a hero,” said Mallory. “But if you get Dodie killed, then Ariel’s death is pointless.” She reached for the tent’s remaining pole and pulled it up with the mooring stakes, then let it drop to collapse the canvas. The boxer was felled, too, taken down by words and pictures. He turned away from her and called out to his son to come and help with the packing, for they were leaving the caravan.
And the boy came-running, grinning-back to life.
***
While Riker kept a lookout on the other side of the wall of vehicles, Mallory stood beside Charles, watching the small family pack their belongings into the car. The tent had been discarded, for they would have no more need of it. The little girl stood off to one side, holding a doll, her only valued baggage.
Dale Berman was a very unhappy man. “They’d be better off with the Federal Witness Protection Program.”
“Blame it on Kronewald,” said Mallory. “He’s heard rumors that FBI witnesses are dropping like flies.” And the matter was closed. They would proceed with arrangements for the Chicago Police Department’s safe house.
Dale Berman rejoined his people, a cluster of agents that included Christine Nahlman and her young partner.
“So you trust them,” said Charles, “to get the Finns on the right plane?”
“No,” said Mallory, “but the FBI escort isn’t my call. It’s part of the deal Harry Mars worked out with Kronewald. The case is an official joint venture now-Chicago PD and the feds. Berman’s people will deliver the Finns to the airport. That’s not negotiable.” Mallory glanced at her watch. “Kronewald’s plane should be landing soon.”
“Well, I don’t see how Berman can screw this up-unless he works at it.” Charles watched Mallory stroll off with a peculiar, half smile in place and an obvious plan to torture the special agent in charge. And Charles trailed after her-as always.
“So you’re riding along,” she said to Dale Berman.
“I’m still in charge.” Agent Berman turned back to his clipboard and paperwork. A moment of silence went by, and he realized that she was not quite done with him yet. “Look, Mallory, I’ve got eight guns, and that’s not counting the state trooper. As far as cover goes, this is overkill. Nothing can happen to the Finns.”
And still the detective remained silent, letting the agent’s imagination do all the work for her. Finally, Dale Berman seemed to grasp the fact that if something should happen to that little family, something worse would happen to him. Charles wondered if the hand holding the man’s clipboard was slowly descending to the testicles in a subconscious gesture.
If Charles accurately read Mallory’s face as she turned away from Berman, she did not trust the man to do this simple thing without damaging a child. Apparently, this was also obvious to Agent Nahlman, who caught up with her some distance away.
“Look,” said Nahlman, “my daughter was Dodie’s age. I knew the name of her favorite doll. I could even name the doll’s boyfriends. I know how to take care of a little girl.”
“I know all about your daughter,” said Mallory. “She’s dead.”
Nahlman bent forward slightly, as if she had taken a blow. Regaining her poise, she said, “I’ll be driving the Finns. She’ll never be out of my sight. You’ve got my word. I just want to keep Dodie safe.” The agent turned and strode off to her car.
Mallory showed no signs of trust, but neither did she shoot out the tires to prevent the FBI agents from carrying the small family away.
Riker appeared behind Mallory, tapping her shoulder. “What was that business about her kid?”
“Her daughter was shot to death,” said Mallory. “The shooter was a neighbor’s b o y the same age, six years old. They were playing with Nahlman’s g u n. That’s when she started drinking alone-and drinking a lot. She’s been in therapy for years.”
“You got that from her personnel file?”
“No,” she said, “I got that off Dale Berman’s personal computer. It was a memo he sent to every agent on this detail-except her. Berman was explaining to the troops why they had to make allowances for Nahlman’s little episodes. I’m guessing he meant the times when she stood up to him. Maybe she challenged his orders.” Mallory was staring at the group of young agents surrounding Christine Nahlman. “They won’t w ant to work with her again. They don’t t rust her now. But I do.”
Agent Nahlman had just ended a call when Riker reached through the open car window. He took her hand, the one with the cell phone.
“I’m not making a pass at you,” he said.
She was still holding the cell phone as the detective pressed the buttons to enter his own number into her electronic address book.
“In case you haven’t got it memorized,” he said. “You can never have enough backup.” Done with this little chore, he did not release her hand. “Now listen carefully, Nahlman, ’cause this happens to be one of my favorite song lyrics, okay?” He gently closed her fingers over the cell phone. “Just call, and I’ll be there.”
He whistled the tune that went with those words as he moseyed away from the car. And, though she understood that he only wanted to keep her alive, it was her most romantic moment since that old song was new.
19
State troopers had displaced the remaining FBI agents. By foot and flashlight, they patrolled the perimeter of the caravan city, and, courtesy of a local appliance store, three hundred civilians were watching small television sets powered by batteries, car chargers and mobile home outlets.
The camping experience had begun to wear on Charles Butler. There was no escape from the constant din of changing channels, and the glow of TV screens outshone the firelights and lanterns. The parents watched the New Mexico manhunt play out across the state as if this were not their own story but someone else’s drama-possibly because so much of it was fiction. The news broadcasters aimed to entertain, undeterred by an absence of facts. The caravan’s field reporters had long since departed, following the night’s big story, and the two detectives from New York City sat before an open fire and finished the last of their reports to the local authorities.
Charles was somewhat leery of Riker’s latest experiment, though he approved the use of an old-fashioned pot. After mingling the water and the grounds, the detective brought the whole mess to a boil and then added cold water.
“It settles the coffee grounds,” said Riker, handing a steaming cup to their guest from the state
police. “It’s called cowboy coffee. Ever tasted it?”
“You bet I have. Finest kind,” said the New Mexico investigator with a smile of appreciation for this campfire brew. The two of them alternately sipped hot liquid and picked coffee grounds from their teeth. Charles and Mallory abstained.
And now their guest informed them that Paul Magritte had never regained consciousness after surgery. “Sorry, folks. He’s dead,” said the local man. “But it was good of the doctor to mark that bastard for us.” He turned to Mallory as he traced a line on his neck. “That’s how the old man described the cut?”
“Yeah,” said Riker, answering for his partner.
Mallory was distracted and perhaps tired of repeating herself in interviews with state and local police. Her face was lifted to the sky. Charles doubted that she was stargazing, for heaven could not compete with the surrounding illumination of fires and flashlights, lanterns and scores of glowing television screens. Their own campfire was bright enough to light up Magritte’s blood on Mallory’s blue jeans and her shoes, but more alarming than that, one of the laces on her running shoes had come undone and gone unnoticed. And there were other breaks with her compulsive neatness. She was wearing yesterday’s clothes, and some of her fingernails were broken and ragged.
For a short time, Charles had forgotten that he loved her, and he saw her with a clinical eye. She caught him in the act of taking mental notes, and he turned his eyes elsewhere to keep her from reading his every thought-his fears. He stared at her untied shoelace.
The state’s investigator was leafing through his notebook, and now he found a page he liked. “We got the make of the vehicle from the tire treads at the crime scene. So you can leave the rest to us. We’ll get him.” He looked out over the great circle of television screens. “At least he won’t be picking off any more of these folks.”
“Don’t count on him keeping that jeep for long,” said Riker, surprising the man who had not shared the vehicle model. “He’s an experienced car thief.”
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