The Butcher's Boy

by Thomas Perry

  He thought, if I jump off I’ll be hurt and they’ll find me. He thought of hitting the horse over the head with the shovel, but there was no way to know what the horse would do, so he just hung on. And then suddenly he was airborne, and the fence floated past beneath him. He braced for the shock, but the horse landed easily and kept going, out across the second pasture at full speed.

  When he saw the second fence he thought, I’m in for it again. But this time the horse ran up to the fence, slowed down, and trotted along it toward the far corner of the pasture. It doesn’t like the road, he thought. It just wants to be away from the lights and noise. When it reached the corner the horse stopped. He jumped off and climbed the fence. His legs were sore, and for some reason his rib cage hurt almost as much, but he managed to bring himself to a run.

  The important thing was to cover as much ground as possible. He sprinted in the direction he’d come from, but as far from the road as he could go. He was already to the next farm before he saw the first headlights on the highway. They were moving fast, at least sixty miles an hour, racing for the entrance to Route 87. The second set of headlights moved along the road at a slower rate. That would be the one searching for a parked car, he thought. He was careful to stay in the wooded areas now. A few minutes later more cars followed, but none of them stopped. There would be others moving off in the opposite direction too, he knew. None of them would try to follow on foot.

  32When it came it wasn’t the way Elizabeth had imagined it. She was sitting in the Bureau office going over the morning field reports when the secretary came through and left the first of the afternoon communications in a stack on the table beside the door.

  Elizabeth stood up and walked to the table. She was getting tired of being the one who had to come in here every day and suffer the silent enmity of a building full of people. All morning nobody had found it necessary to speak to her. And now the secretary had taken to leaving the reports in a stack by the door, as though Elizabeth were a prisoner in solitary confinement, or a pet that had to be fed but didn’t require attention.

  It was the sheet on top of the pile. It said, “The following personnel will report to the office of the Organized Crime Division, Department of Justice, Washington, D.C., by 0800, February 28: Dornquist, William; Kellogg, Bertram; Smith, Thomas H.; Feiler, Eleanor; Goltz, Ann K.; Waring, Elizabeth. Travel authorized: air only.”

  She read it through a second time. February 28. That was tomorrow morning. And now it was already two thirty. She looked at the timer readout on the transcript—it had only come in at 2:15, which meant 5:15 Washington time. That would be fifteen minutes after most of the people in the Washington office had gone home for the night. At least it wasn’t just Elizabeth. It looked as though they were pulling out everybody still on detached service in Las Vegas. So they weren’t necessarily calling her home to fire her. They were giving up on the operation.

  She picked up the telephone and made a reservation on the next flight, then packed up her reports and her notebooks. For a moment she thought of leaving without saying anything to anyone, but it seemed too crude somehow. She walked down the hall to the Bureau chief’s office.

  He said, “I heard you were leaving.”

  Elizabeth said, “Yes, it just came in over the wire.”

  He tapped a pencil on his desk and cleared his throat. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  Elizabeth shifted in her chair and crossed her legs so the heavy reports wouldn’t slide off her lap. “Not that I know of,” she said.

  He stared down at his desk and said nothing at first, but she could see he was angry.

  “Have it your way. But just let me say one thing off the record. If you people would be a little less secretive things would be a lot easier for everybody.”

  “I know,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve been wanting to tell you too, off the record, that I was against taking Palermo to Carson City. It was orders and I tried to follow them and I lost Palermo. If it’s any consolation, I think when I get back to Washington the first thing they’ll do is—”

  “Damn it,” he said quietly. “I’m not talking about Palermo. That was two or three days ago. I’m talking about now. Do you think we’re idiots?”

  Elizabeth said, “Of course not. What are you talking about?”

  “Your whole team gets jerked back to Washington on a priority call, and then twenty minutes later, as an afterthought, they send us this message.” He tossed it on the desk and Elizabeth leaned forward to pick it up.

  She read it aloud. “Re: Edgar R. Fieldston. Disposition: Take no further action.” She said, “So what? They know he’s not here.”

  Now he was almost shouting. “So the case is closed and you’re all on your way home. And nobody has the decency to tell us what in the hell’s going on. Either we’re in on it or we’re not.”

  “How can it be closed?” Elizabeth said. “We don’t know any more than we did a week ago, or at least I don’t. And you saw every report I filed since I got here.”

  He sat in silence for a moment, then stared at her. Very slowly, his expression changed. He said, “All right. Maybe I was wrong.” He looked as though he wished he hadn’t spoken to her. He added, “If I was wrong I apologize.”

  Elizabeth stood up, cradling the reports in her arms. “I’m sorry about Palermo. But honestly, that’s the only thing we didn’t cooperate about.”

  He looked a little sad, and more than a little embarrassed. He said, “I guess there’s something else I should show you. Or maybe I shouldn’t, I don’t know. But a few minutes ago, when I asked our own headquarters what was going on, this came back.” He handed her another transcript.

  Re: Edgar R. Fieldston, F.G.E., and related matters: Effective immediately, second copy all reports to: Department of Justice, United States v. Carlo Balacontano Trial Team, Attention Padgett.

  Elizabeth felt as though she’d been slapped. She looked at him, and saw he was now staring down at the desk. She said, “They arrested Balacontano? I didn’t know.”

  He said, “I believe you didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  She said again, “They didn’t tell me.”

  THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE OFFICE BUILDING seemed quiet and cavernous at seven in the morning. The floors gleamed and sounds echoed and died among the out-of-date light fixtures along the high ceilings of the corridor. Post offices and museums had seemed this way to Elizabeth when she was a child. Even the smell seemed the same, a mixture of floorwax and dust and disinfectant and old paper; a substantial, official, governmental smell.

  She walked into the empty office and over to her desk. It looked the way she’d known it would. When the accumulation of daily activity reports had grown too bulky for her desk they’d begun making a neat stack of them on the floor beside it. In a day or two somebody was going to have a lot of work to do.

  She had only been there for fifteen minutes when she heard the first footsteps in the hallway, the purposeful clopping of male leather-soled shoes resonating in the emptiness of the building. In a moment she realized it was two men. And then one of them spoke and she recognized the voice. Padgett. “Just let me get a cup of coffee and—” He came through the door and stopped. He said, “Elizabeth! Terrific. Glad to have you back.” He started to pour himself some coffee. It was then that the second man appeared. It was Martin Connors. He said, “Good morning, Miss Waring.” Then he frowned slightly. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

  “No,” said Elizabeth and stood up. He was already walking down the corridor toward his office. Elizabeth had to trot to catch up.

  Behind her she heard Padgett say, “I’ll bring you a cup, Martin.” Then he added, “You too, Elizabeth?”

  She didn’t bother to answer. They walked in silence. He unlocked the door to his office and ceremoniously stepped aside to let her pass, then pulled a chair away from the wall for her. There was something about his manner that made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he had the gest
ures of his own generation, but those of the generation before.

  He sat down behind his desk, pursed his lips, and folded his hands. “I’m glad you’re here early, because I want you to be ready to help with this thing.”

  Elizabeth thought, I’m not fired.

  He leaned forward and said, “You’re the one who is most familiar with the case, and that makes it doubly important that you be here when it gets to the trial stage.”

  Elizabeth thought again, I’m not fired. Then she thought, most familiar? She said, “What about John?”

  He said, “John?”

  “Yes, John.”

  “You don’t know?” Then he shook his head, and stared at his desk for a moment. “John Brayer is dead.” He looked up at her again and said, “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Stupid of me.”

  Elizabeth felt tears clouding her vision. She said, “When? How?”

  Connors shook his head again. “Don’t waste your tears on Mr. Brayer,” he said. It was an order. “He was our informer and his friends decided he was too great a risk. It was in Las Vegas, shortly after the … the Palermo incident. He was found in the desert somewhere outside Las Vegas. It took quite some time to identify him.”

  “But nobody told me,” she said. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?” She was weeping now. Brayer was dead, and she’d been there, thinking—what? It was too wrong, there were so many things to remember. But she realized Connors had said something else too. Brayer the leak? She said, “John wasn’t the leak. What are you talking about?”

  Connors became the formal superior again. He spoke very slowly, as though he expected to say it once and never have to say it again. “When you and I spoke on your telephone we set certain wheels in motion. We both knew that. The result was that you and I both got an unpleasant surprise. The man who was killed was our John Brayer. So that’s that. After he was killed we found he had a large amount of money in his home. Almost two hundred thousand dollars to be exact. And after that we received other evidence, which proves that John Brayer was the informer.” He formed his hands into fists. “When I think of the things he must have told them—”

  Elizabeth said, “No. You’re wrong. I knew him and—”

  Connors shook his head. “No, Miss Waring. The evidence I’m speaking of is conclusive. If you’ll permit me to give you the most recent information, I’m sure you’ll agree. I must caution you, however, that this information is sensitive. It must be released gradually and cautiously, at the right time. Some of it is very difficult to accept, but you must bear with me.” He looked almost fatherly now, his white hair no longer in its customary order. In her detachment Elizabeth thought with surprise, this isn’t any easier for him than it is for me.

  She said, “All right.” She would be quiet. It was all she could do. But she knew Brayer hadn’t had that kind of money. It must have been planted.

  He almost smiled. He said, “Good. Then let me fill you in. Early yesterday the police in Saratoga Springs, New York, received an anonymous telephone call telling them that they would find the remains of Edgar Fieldston buried on the estate of Carlo Balacontano. Actually, it’s a place where they raise horses.”

  “A stud farm,” said Elizabeth.

  “Yes,” he said. “On the strength of the call, the police got a warrant and raided the farm. What they found was, I’m afraid, not a pretty sight. It was the head and hands of Edgar Fieldston, and the pistol that killed him.” Connors looked down again. “He was shot in the head.”

  Elizabeth waited.

  “They also found the missing bookkeeping from Fieldston Growth Enterprises. It was a checkbook and we’ve been able to match the balances to the accounts of Harry Orloff and others.”

  Elizabeth said, “Wait, Mr. Connors.”

  He said, “Honestly, Miss Waring. There is no question at all. When you see the evidence for yourself you’ll be amazed. Positively amazed. We have conclusive evidence that Carlo Balacontano was the silent partner in Fieldston Growth Enterprises and that he was involved in the killing of Edgar Fieldston and had him buried on his farm along with the secret bookkeeping of the company. You know, he used FGE to invest illegal profits amounting to over two million dollars. And another thing. Yesterday he received the money Edgar Fieldston got for the FGE stock in the Bahamas. Four million dollars. The serial numbers all match the list the Federal Reserve people made when the money was sent to Miami. It was mailed to Balacontano inside a package of paperback books.”

  Elizabeth said, “Wait. It must be a frame.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a frame-up. He wouldn’t bury Fieldston’s head and hands on his own property. He’d do the same thing with them he did with the rest of the body. Did you find the rest?”

  Connors was flustered. “No, but—”

  “And the gun and this checkbook. It’s ridiculous. Mr. Connors, a man like Balacontano must have people killed all the time. Why would he be so stupid? He could hire experts. People so skilled we’d never find anything. And who made the call to the police?”

  Connors said, “Miss Waring, I’m afraid you’re asking questions that don’t concern us. We have already compared the checkbook with what remains of FGE’s records. What is there is genuine. The coroner has determined that Fieldston did die from a shot from the gun found with the, uh, remains. All on Balacontano’s property. We have motive, body, weapon. Mr. Balacontano is going to prison. I don’t care who made the telephone call or why.”

  “You know it’s a frame,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not saying he didn’t own FGE, or even that he didn’t have Fieldston killed. But somebody planted what was left of Fieldston, the gun, and the checkbook. That was who made the call. And come to think of it, that had to be the one who actually killed Fieldston.”

  “I know no such thing,” said Connors. “And you’re stepping very far out of line. I’ll ignore it because of your distress over recent events. When you’ve looked at the evidence you’ll see how clearly it implicates Carlo Balacontano.”

  Elizabeth just stood there knowing that anything she said would be wrong. Connors didn’t want to hear the truth.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Connors. “You’ve had a hard time of it over the last couple of weeks. And you’ve built up a backlog of compensatory time off. I want you to take a few weeks. Go somewhere. Have you ever been to Hawaii? How about London?”

  “I’ve been away a lot. It’s good to be home,” she said.

  Connors repeated, “I’d like to see you take a vacation.”

  33Elizabeth closed her eyes while the plane hurtled down the runway and lifted itself into the air. That was the only part of it she minded, the moment when it was going too fast to stop, but still seemed to weigh tons of metal. Whatever it was that converted it from a freight train to a bird was still essentially mysterious to her. The explanation given by people who understand such things sounded perfectly reasonable to the part of her mind that made decisions; to the part of her mind that controlled her pulse and her eyelids, it sounded like nonsense. But again the airplane defied common sense and rose into the sky.

  In the airport she’d bought some magazines to read, but now they seemed to belong to a world that was foreign to her. Sometime she’d care about new ways to turn a strict diet into an adventure, but not now. Soon enough, when she returned from this mandatory vacation. When she’d done her time.

  Elizabeth had picked London because she remembered it as cool and wet and densely inhabited. It was a place that looked as though people had always lived there, layers and layers of them, one over the other through time. From there, if she still felt restless, she could go on to the Continent. She wondered if it would be in the London newspapers when she got there. Probably it would. American scandals seemed to have a peculiar appeal to the English. When the Senator’s staff turned up FGE, Balacontano had acted to protect himself. That had been the week poor Veasy had picked to write his letter to the Department of Justice Organized Crime Divi
sion. His careful, semiliterate, handwritten letter explaining why he thought his union’s pension fund was being looted had found its way through the bureaucratic labyrinth to the desk of the one man who had any knowledge of Veasy’s problem. John Brayer. The papers would love that part of it.

  The letter had been in Brayer’s desk when Connors had ordered the search. That was the part that still kept Elizabeth awake at night. Brayer.

  She heard herself sigh. She would try to stay abroad during the trial, at least the first part of it with its sensational revelations. She already knew the strategy the department would follow. They’d arrange to have the trial in Saratoga Springs, where the evidence had been found. Just the head and hands—the parts used to identify a body—and the gun and the checkbook, all buried together a foot or two beneath the surface. But she knew the evidence wouldn’t matter to the jury, any more than it did to Connors. If Balacontano wasn’t the one who had killed Fieldston, everyone knew he had ordered the other murders. Fieldston was just the one they could prove. So they’d use what they had, and the jury would go along with it. If the prosecutors played according to Connors’s plan the jury would even come to believe that the lack of a whole corpse was especially damaging. You had to be a monster to cut a man up like that. A monster, she thought, or a man who wanted to move evidence from one place to another. But Balacontano would be convicted. And maybe the prosecutors would generate enough heat to convict the men found with him at the stud farm at the time of the raid. It might be a week or more before someone else moved in to fill the vacuum he left in the Northeast.