by John Lutz
"I'll make the time for you." His voice was mellower over the phone; he seemed more in control.
Pearl was in her apartment, slouched on the sofa with her bare feet up on a hassock. There was a scotch and water in her left hand. Her second in the last hour. The TV was on mute, showing convincingly wrought animated dinosaurs pursuing people through a phony-looking forest. She didn't need her scotch hand. It wasn't as if she were taking notes.
"Did you ever meet any of Marilyn Nelson's friends?" she asked.
"No. I don't think she had many yet. She'd only been in town a short while."
"Did she ever happen to mention anyone? A name?"
"Not that I can recall."
"Had her behavior changed in any way the last time you saw her? Specifically, did she act afraid, or mention anyone who was in any way threatening?"
"No, she was her usual bright self. She didn't act at all like she thought she might be in any danger. She was the kind of girl--woman--that seemed to trust everyone. What happened to her...I think it must have come as a total surprise."
Pearl found herself without a next question. She knew why she'd really called. There was something about Jeb Jones she couldn't get out of her mind. Maybe it was simply that she felt sorry for him. He did seem genuinely crushed by Marilyn Nelson's death. Pearl knew she was a sucker for a bird with a broken wing. Even one who, when nursed back to health, might peck her eyes out.
But the guy wasn't a suspect. The Butcher wouldn't knock on the apartment door of a woman he'd recently murdered.
Unless he returned to recover something he'd forgotten.
Or was the type with a compulsion to revisit the scene of the crime.
Pearl pushed these possibilities to the far edges of her mind and took a sip of watered-down scotch. This wouldn't be the first time she'd become personally involved with someone on the periphery of an investigation. Flirting with a man and with disaster simultaneously. Once burned, twice shy didn't apply to moths.
She'd been quiet for a while, prompting Jones to speak:
"Officer...Kasner, is it?"
"Pearl Kasner."
"Pearl, listen. I know I was a little emotional yesterday. I'm not usually like that. I mean, such a wimp."
"You didn't come across as a wimp." She wanted to help him, soothe and rebuild his ego. "Anyway, it's not as if you burst out crying. And it isn't against the rules for men to show emotion in front of women. In fact, some women count that in a man's favor."
"Some women say that."
There was a silence that was definitely awkward.
Again, Jeb was the first to speak. "I'm ready for more questions."
"I don't have any right now. But I might have to talk to you again."
"I wish you would."
"Try to get some sleep and you'll feel better." Dumb thing to say. Shouldn't have called.
"You, too, Pearl. You must be awfully busy these days."
"Busier than I'd like," she said. "Good night, Jeb."
"'Night, Pearl."
She hung up the phone but kept her hand on it. She wasn't trembling. Not quite. And she was a little angry with herself.
No, more than a little.
What an idiot you are!
Idiot full of scotch!
The phone sprang to life beneath her hand and jangled, starling her. She didn't pick up, didn't feel like talking to anyone else. She'd already made an ass of herself on the phone. Let the machine take it.
"Pearl?" inquired her mother's voice from the machine.
God! There was no one she felt less like talking to now.
"Pearl, are you there? Of course you aren't. Busy making the world safe when you gave up a steady job to put yourself in danger. I thought you were finished with the police and were planning on a normal life. Speaking of which, I talked to Mrs. Kahn, and it's true her nephew Milton is at the moment between relationships after his regrettable divorce from a woman who didn't deserve him. What she put him through you wouldn't believe. Mrs. Kahn says the divorce was a long time coming and, if you'll excuse the expression, financial rape. Of Milton, not the hellion wife. Mrs. Kahn says Milton says he would like to meet you, and I can tell you he's a presentable and kind person and with prospects. I saw him when he came here to visit his aunt, and I will confirm to you that he's a hunka-hunka. There'd be no harm in you two getting together to break bread and break the ice and see what's beneath it even. You should consider, dear. The clock is ticking, and faster than you think. Your mother knows, Pearl. Call your mother."
The machine clicked off.
Maybe not such an idiot.
When Quinn arrived at the office the next morning Pearl was already there, perched on her desk with her arms crossed. Fedderman hadn't yet arrived. The coffee was on and smelled fresh and pungent. Someone thumped three times, hard, on the dividing wall between the office and the dental clinic, possibly a patient attempting escape.
Quinn touched his chin where he'd nicked himself with his razor. This thing with Lauri and Wormy...
"I met Lauri for lunch yesterday," Pearl said.
Quinn sat down behind his desk, the chair cushion hissing beneath him as a reminder that he should lose some weight. "And?"
"We had a long talk. She really is an exceptional girl."
Quinn smiled, then became more serious and began lightly tapping a pencil on the desk. "What I'd like is for her to give herself a chance."
"She's trying to do that," Pearl said. "Her workplace seems okay except for the food."
"And the music."
"What I heard was recorded," Pearl said.
"A mercy."
"I don't know, Quinn. I'm not a parent. But I'd feel okay about Lauri. Life teaches its lessons gradually, and I can see why a father would be impatient, especially if he's...impatient. My advice to you is to stop worrying so much."
"What about that musical geek she's been dating?"
"Wormy? Him I didn't see. Does he have a real name?"
"If he did, no one would use it. Wormy's too apropos. Or maybe it's his show business name, for when he sings and fronts his band at the restaurant."
"Have we got a sheet on him?"
"I'm going to check on that," Quinn said. "I need for you to find out his name nobody uses."
"Me?"
"It might be too obvious if I ask Lauri. And if I ask at the restaurant, somebody, some worm, might recognize me and mention it to her. You could go by the Hungry U when she's not there and ask around in an unofficial capacity."
Pearl stood up from her perch on the desk. "Get hold of yourself, Quinn. You're liable to get that boy fired."
"What if he has a sheet? Deals in drugs, steals cars, or assaults women?"
"You suspect any of that?"
"All of it."
Pearl stared at him and shook her head. "You're overplaying your role as a father, Quinn. I was glad to talk with Lauri, but I'll be damned if I'm going to spy on her or delve into her personal life."
"Personal life?"
"Sex life."
"Damn it, Pearl!"
"Damn what?" Fedderman asked. He'd just come in. The morning was heating up and he already had his suit coat slung over his shoulder, holding it Frank Sinatra-style, hooked on one finger. His tie was crooked and there were crescents of perspiration beneath his arms on his white shirt that was partly untucked.
"Nothing," Quinn said. "I want you to call a restaurant in the Village, the Hungry U, and tell them you're a journalist for Spin magazine. Ask for the real name of a guy whose band is playing there, goes by Wormy."
"That French?
Quinn explained and spelled it for him.
Fedderman had played journalist before and didn't find the request all that unusual. "What's the band called?"
"The Defendants."
"Cute," Fedderman said. "What're we gonna do when we find out who this Wormy is?"
"We're gonna find out who he really is," Quinn said.
26
Bocanne,
Florida, 1980
It was deep into the night, and Sherman had been unable to sleep. His light was on and he was lying in bed reading about the battle of Lookout Mountain and trying not to think about Sam, when his mother opened his bedroom door. She had on an old dress and apron and was holding some trash bags.
He lowered the open book to his chest.
"Come when I call," she said to Sherman.
His heart fell as he watched her lay the folded trash bags on the corner of his dresser. He knew what they were for. She knew he'd bring them when she called.
"Mom...?"
"It's not time for questions, Sherman, it's time for doin'. And what you're gonna do's what I tell you."
"I know, Mom." He propped up his book again and watched the print swim before his eyes.
He didn't hear her leave, but he knew she was gone.
Ten minutes later she called his name and, wearing only his Jockey shorts, he trudged into her bedroom.
Sam was lying nude and dead still on the bed. He had a peaceful expression on his face, though his mouth was a bit crooked.
"He didn't suffer none," Sherman's mother said, noticing how Sherman was looking at Sam, not at all like Sam was any of the other lifeless hulks he'd seen. "Pick up his stuff." She pointed to a pile of Sam's belongings she'd built in the middle of the floor. Next to it were his boxes of books.
"Can we keep the books?" Sherman asked.
"Ain't you read 'em all?"
"I could read 'em again."
"They go into the swamp with the rest of Sam's things, Sherman. Every part of Sam's gotta be gone."
He didn't argue. Instead he stooped by the pile of old clothing. Next to it were an empty leather wallet and tobacco pouch, and an old pipe with a tooth-marked stem. Sherman began to cry as he stuffed it all into one of the black plastic trash bags.
When he was finished, his mother said, "Go put that bag on the porch, then come back here an' give me a helpin' hand with him."
Sherman did as he was told, then returned to help her move Sam into the bathroom.
Myrna gripped Sam beneath his arms, and Sherman clutched him just beneath the knees. They'd done this often enough that unconsciously they'd established a system.
"Shut up your cryin'," Myrna said to Sherman, as Sam thumped off the bed onto the floor. "Now come grab an arm."
But Sherman was already on his way. Sniffling and choking back sobs, he gripped Sam's right wrist while his mother gripped the left, and they began dragging him over the plank floor toward the bathroom.
Rigor mortis had come and gone in Sam, so it wasn't too difficult to wrestle him into the big clawfoot tub.
"Go out an' git your father's tools," Myrna said.
Sam silently obeyed. He knew which tools to select from the old wooden shed.
When he'd returned to the bathroom with the tools, the water was running. His mother had already removed all her clothes so as not to get blood on them, and had begun on Sam with a knife.
"He weren't a bad man," Sherman said, observing.
"Bad don't figure into it, Sherman. It's about survival." She began working the knife back and forth in a sawing motion to cut through a small tendon. "Someday you'll understand."
Sherman wondered if he would.
"Turn that tap water down some," Myra said, "then go fetch the rest of them bags."
Sam obeyed, then he stood and watched the water mixed with blood swirling down the drain. Sam's blood. He began to cry again.
"The bags, Sherman!"
He left the bathroom, glancing back as his mother scooted across the tiles to the dry end of the tub opposite the taps, her bare breasts swinging pendulously with her smooth but hasty movement. He knew how she worked, keeping everything dry as possible until finally it was drained enough to use the power saw on what was too big or tough to cut with a knife. The stench, the sound of the gurgling, bloody water, went with Sherman as he returned to his mother's room and got the rest of the plastic trash bags.
When he came back he watched his mother work with her usual speed and economy, and before long Sam's parts were stacked neatly in the tub in the familiar, orderly fashion. There were cleaning agents and bottles of bleach nearby, most of them already empty.
Myrna turned the cold tap water on full blast, then reached over and worked the lever that diverted it to the showerhead. The shower hissed and spat before breaking into a steady spray.
Sherman and his mother watched the shower water run on the tub's contents for a while, then Myrna turned off the squeaky tap and said simply, "Sherman."
He knew precisely what to do.
Their system was fast and efficient. Myrna and Sherman stuffed the damp, pale body parts into the plastic bags and carried them out to the back porch. Sam had been a big man, so it took several trips, and when they were finished they were both breathing hard. Myrna stood with her hands on her hips for a few seconds, staring out at the black night. Then she sighed and turned around. She got a short bamboo rod from where it was leaning against the house and rattled it back and forth over the wooden porch spindles, the way a child would run a stick across a picket fence.
Within a few minutes, Sherman and his mother heard and saw movement in the dark swamp. The gators were conditioned to respond to the rattling sound that carried on the night through the black swamp, just as Sherman was conditioned to respond to his mother's commands.
Sherman helped his mother remove the body parts from the bags and toss them into the darkness beyond the porch rail. He tried not to cry, tried not to listen to the splashing and the grunting, grinding sounds. He knew alligators usually carried their food back to their nests in the banks to let it rot some before they ate it, and he wished these would. But some of these gators were too hungry to wait, and the swamp was theirs at night.
When all of the bags were empty, Myrna looked at her son in the faint moonlight and nodded. He watched her as she refolded the plastic bags so she could wash and reuse them. The boxes of Sam's books, and the bag containing his clothes, would remain on the porch and she would bury them in the swamp when it was daylight.
And Sam would be gone.
Like the boarders before him. Old men who didn't have long to live anyway.
But Sam was different.
Sherman's mother would never again mention his name, and Sherman knew better than to utter it even to himself.
"You go back to bed," Myrna told him. "I'll clean up."
Without a word, he turned and went back into the house, aware of his mother staring at him. Behind him the dark swamp continued to stir. Off in the distance, a night bird cried.
Sherman lay in bed thinking he'd sob himself to sleep. Only he didn't sob. And he didn't sleep. His eyes were open and dry.
He lay quietly listening to the sounds of his mother down the hall, scrubbing the bathroom. When she was finished there, she'd return to her bed, alone.
Sherman knew that if he could cry it would relieve some of the pressure in him that was making it difficult for him to breathe. And maybe his heart would stop crashing around in his chest as if it wanted to get out. If only he had Sam to talk to...
Sam was gone. But what would Sam tell him to do?
Sherman got out of bed and slipped into his stiff and damp Levi's cutoffs, then the T-shirt he'd worn that day. Moving quietly, he rummaged through his dresser drawers and pulled out what clothes he'd need, including some socks and his old joggers. He'd go barefoot for now, for silence. He stuffed the wadded socks into the shoes, then wrapped his clothes around the shoes and fastened the roll tightly with his old leather belt.
All he had to do now was remove the screen from his bedroom window and slip outside, and he could be miles away by morning.
Miles away! Free!
"Sherman."
His mother's voice was soft and neutral, almost lazy. He was too terrified even to move from where he was crouched facing the other way.
"You plannin' on leavin' me, son?"
He moved o
nly his head, craning his neck so he could see behind him.
She was standing in the doorway, not frowning, not smiling, her dark eyes fixing him where he crouched. In her right hand she clutched the bamboo rod she used to summon the alligators. Slowly, she raised it high.
She moved fast toward Sherman, crossing the room like a tiger.
27
New York, the present
The printed note was sent to Quinn via the NYPD:
Red blood on blue tile. Fools rush in.
So do the police.
The Butcher
"It came in the mail yesterday," Renz said, seated behind his desk. He was wearing his reading glasses, and the sun piercing the blinds glinted off their lenses. The office was too warm and smelled faintly of cigar smoke again. Renz the addicted couldn't keep away from whatever cheap brand he smoked. How he must long for one of Quinn's illegal Cuban robustos. He knew damn well they weren't Venezuelan, as Quinn claimed.
Renz held up note and envelope. "Lab's already gone over it. The paper's cheap stock, sold all over the place. Same with the envelope. It's the kind people buy by the thousands to pay bills and send letters. No DNA on the flap. Nothing remotely like a fingerprint. And two handwriting experts agree the printing is almost drawn and there isn't enough of it to be distinctive or provide material for a meaningful match. The killer used a number-two lead pencil, the most common kind."
Quinn said, "You've got it pretty well covered."
Renz peeled off his glasses so he could focus long on Quinn. "Doing my job."
Quinn was seated in one of the chairs angled toward Renz's desk. Pearl and Fedderman were standing on either side and slightly behind him. "You might have told us about this yesterday," he said.
Renz shrugged. "I wanted to have something to tell, so I waited for lab and handwriting analyses." He squeezed one hand with the other, as if someone had given him a high five way too hard. "What do you think this means?"
"Can we run a computer check and see if the tile color in Marilyn Nelson's bathroom was mentioned to the press and repeated?"
