The man glanced over McLaren’s shoulder, looked back at her and smiled.
“Sure, Sally,” Friar Tom said, “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with the Times.”
CHAPTER 68
I took Jordan to dinner at El Agave in Old Town. We had the place to ourselves. Hector’s profile of Friar Tom had caused a sensation but failed to produce any leads. San Diegans remained at home.
The caution seemed extreme. Friar Tom couldn’t be everywhere at once, and his victims were the rich and famous.
Jordan and I discussed the future while feasting on chicken mole poblano and tequila shrimp. I’d been shuttling between my place and hers. It was less than ideal. But once we got around to remodeling my cob house, we’d all be together under one roof.
After sharing an order of the restaurant’s sumptuous caramel custard, we drove back to Jordan’s. It was a rare chilly night. Jordan shivered and pulled her blue sweater tighter around her shoulders.
“Want me to stop and put the top up?” I said.
Jordan shook her head. “We’re almost home.”
When I turned left onto Arden, I saw the flashing red lights in my mirror, and I pulled to the curb.
“You weren’t speeding,” Jordan said.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Ever since my corruption series, Walton’s men pull me over from time to time, just because they can.”
“That’s outrageous. Get his badge number. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
I saw a figure approaching in the side-view mirror. The corners of his patrolman’s hat were silhouetted in the lights. One of Walton’s uniformed henchmen.
I reached across Jordan to get my car registration from the glove box. I pulled my license from my wallet.
“Good evening, officer,” I said. “Have you met Assistant District Attorney Sinclair?”
I looked up at the cop’s face. It was hidden behind a black leather mask.
I suddenly realized what I’d seen reflected in Tiffany Samples’ contact lens. Friar Tom wasn’t black. His mask was.
I turned to warn Jordan.
I got the first syllable of her name out, then felt the liquid-doused rag cover my nose and mouth.
CHAPTER 69
When I came to, the rising sun cast a golden glow over the neighborhood. A pickup rolled by. A newspaper flew from the window and landed in somebody’s driveway.
My head hurt. I was groggy.
I rubbed my eyes and wondered where I was. Then I recognized Jordan’s house down the street.
I looked to my right. Jordan was gone.
There was a note resting on the car seat. I cocked my head to read it but didn’t pick it up. It was written in the familiar childlike scrawl:
“Your next story,” the letter read. It was signed, Friar Tom.
I dialed 911. I gave the dispatcher my location and dropped the phone on the seat.
I stumbled from the car. I tried to run but could only stagger like a drunk.
The fresh air cleared my head, and I was able to put one foot in front of the other.
I broke into a trot. I cut across someone’s yard as the automatic sprinklers came on and doused me.
I sprinted onto Jordan’s porch with wet shoes and slipped. I went down hard.
As I got up, I saw blood on the porch. I feared the worst, then saw that my arm was bleeding from the fall.
I put my key in the front door and rushed in.
“Jordan!” I yelled.
Silence.
“Jordan!”
I heard a noise and I whirled.
“Ty?” Lisa said, tying her robe. “What is it?”
“Where’s Jordan?”
“She’s not with you?”
I took a frantic look around. “Heather?”
“Asleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. What is it, Ty? Where’s Jordan? I was worried when she didn’t call me.”
I ran down the hall to Heather’s room. The door was open. I looked inside.
Her bed was empty.
“No!” I yelled.
Then I heard the door to the hallway bathroom open. Heather walked out, dressed in her pajamas.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I said, scooping her up in my arms. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart.”
Lisa came up behind us. I told her to pack some things.
I said to Heather, “We’re going to the clay pot.”
Heather said, “Where’s Mommy?”
Two SDPD squad cars screeched to a stop outside. Walton and the crime team followed them.
The police took the untouched letter Friar Tom had left on the car seat and dusted the Chevy for prints.
Walton said he’d post a detail to guard my house around the clock.
Late in the day, Jared rode the bus to my place. I’d asked him to help me keep Heather company. They played in the banana grove while Lisa watched them.
I’d hoped the quiet break alone would give me time to hatch a plan, but it only gave me more time to agonize.
This couldn’t be happening. I’d been given a second chance with Jordan. But now I’d lost her again.
I stared at the phone, willing it to ring. The wait was brutal. Each minute of silence felt like an hour.
What did Friar Tom want? And why wouldn’t he call?
CHAPTER 70
Heather and Lisa took my room, and I made myself a bed on the couch. Not that I intended to sleep. It was for show—for Heather’s sake.
I had to do something. I started for the front door a dozen times. But I figured Friar Tom might contact me. If I left, I’d miss his call. Besides, I had no idea where to look for him.
I paced a circle across the Mexican tiles—from the couch, around the island counter in the kitchen, and back. Over and over.
Even the pets were restless. Maya and Torpedo stayed up with me the whole night.
Each time I circled the counter, I stared at the phone on the kitchen counter. It never rang. The silence was deafening.
I stopped in front of the globe on the end table. I looked at the Hawaiian Islands and recalled the day Jordan and I sat on the beach in Maui and discussed all the places in the world we planned to see together. I wanted to take her golfing in North Berwick, a Victorian seaside town on Scotland’s Firth of Forth. She wanted to show me the Angkor Wat temples in Cambodia.
I found the two spots on the globe, but the sphere turned blurry as my eyes filled with tears.
A slide show of the torture instruments I’d seen at the Museum of Medieval History played in my head. I couldn’t make it stop.
The thought of Jordan succumbing slowly to one or more of those hideous devices was unbearable. I feared I might snap.
I hoped with all my heart that Jordan was still alive—but not if she were in pain. If Friar Tom is torturing her, let her die fast. I wept with guilt.
I gazed out the window. The sun came up and the first surfers entered the water off Sunset Cliffs. Hummingbirds hovered and darted about the bougainvillea. It was a gorgeous day—and the worst of my life.
I hadn’t slept, but I was buzzing with adrenaline and anger. I thought I might not ever sleep again.
I started to boil water for tea.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps outside. They were soft. Somebody didn’t want to be heard.
I glanced nervously down the hall to my bedroom, where Lisa and Heather still slept.
I grabbed one of the putters I keep leaning against the wall for indoor practice and crept to the front door. I don’t own a gun, so it was as good a weapon as any.
I flung the door open. A man was crouching at my feet. I cocked my wrist to swing the putter.
Then I saw it was a cop. One of the men Walton had assigned to watch the property. He was leaning a folded copy of the Sun against the house.
“Sorry if I scared you,” the cop said. “Just bringing the paper up from the driveway. Thought you might want to see it.”
“Thank
you,” I said, loosening my grip on the putter.
The kettle whistle blew. I made myself a cup of green tea. Maybe that would calm my nerves, but I doubted it.
I slipped the rubber band off the Sun. Jordan’s face was on the front page. FRIAR TOM SNATCHES ASST. D.A., read the headline.
When I unfolded the paper, something fell out.
I looked down at the floor at a single sheet of paper. My heart pounded. I saw Friar Tom’s telltale scrawl.
I knew I shouldn’t touch it. It was evidence. But I had to see if there was any news of Jordan.
I picked it up.
“Central Library,” it read. “Find 384.045/JACKLIN. Call the police, she dies. I’m watching you. Hurry!”
CHAPTER 71
I’m watching you.
Friar Tom got his letter into my paper without being seen. Was he watching me now? If he thought I had alerted the police, Jordan was dead.
I couldn’t take that chance.
I stuffed the letter in my back pocket and left a note for Lisa, telling her I’d be back soon.
When I reached the SDPD squad car parked at the foot of the driveway, I rolled down my window.
“Just going to the office to pick up some things,” I told the two officers, hoping my body language didn’t betray my secret.
I turned onto Sunset Cliffs Boulevard and headed for downtown. Joggers ran along the oceanfront path. Couples sat on benches, sipping coffee and gazing out to sea.
I had second thoughts. What if this was the only chance to catch Friar Tom and save Jordan? I decided to gamble on the police.
I pulled into the Gas ’n’ Go in Ocean Beach. I swiped my credit card at the pump and inserted the nozzle into the tank.
While the tank filled, I stepped into the men’s room. I dialed Walton and whispered the letter to him.
“Okay, you’re doing the right thing, now just listen,” Walton said. “Go to the library. You won’t even see us. And he won’t, either. We’ll place some undercovers in the stacks. When they make their move, drop to the ground.”
“Don’t kill him,” I implored. “He’s the only one who knows where Jordan is.”
“Trust me, West. ADA Sinclair is one of ours. We’re going to do everything in our power to get her back alive.”
I drove down the I-5, wondering if I’d made a fatal mistake. Friar Tom had fooled the police to this point. Why did I think the cops could get wise to him now?
It was too late for doubts.
When I reached the main library, I parked in the red zone in front so SDPD would see me.
It was 7:50 a.m., ten minutes before opening. A group of disheveled people waited at the entrance. I smelled wine and sweat. Homeless people come to the rundown library to wash up in the bathrooms and sleep at the tables. Were Walton’s undercover officers among them? Was Friar Tom?
I stared at the ground. If Friar Tom was watching, I didn’t want to tip him to the police.
When I looked up, a man was staring at me. He was one of the few well-groomed people in the group.
“Read any good books lately?” he asked me.
His tone was neutral. He could have been a harmless stranger making idle conversation. Or he could have been Friar Tom making a taunt.
The man smiled. It had to be Friar Tom.
I sized him up. He was tall and fit, but I thought I could take him. I hesitated. If I was mistaken, and Friar Tom saw me attack the man, he’d vanish and Jordan would die.
“Not lately,” I said. “I’m hoping to find one today.”
“Happy hunting.”
The doors opened and the crowd filed in. I hung back, giving the cops time to get in position.
I entered the library and headed for the stairs. The man I spoke with outside remained on the first floor.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor, the Social Sciences section. It held books catalogued under the 300 series of the Dewey Decimal System.
I walked the gauntlet of shelves. The end of each aisle displayed a card noting the range of call numbers of the books kept on those shelves. I walked past the 300s, the 310s, the 320s.
I found the aisle holding books with call numbers 380-390 toward the back of the room.
Three men read at a table. A few other people wandered the stacks. Undercover cops? Friar Tom?
I walked down the aisle, scanning the call numbers on the book spines.
I found 384.045/JACKLIN at the end of the aisle, on the top shelf. It was an oversized book, tall and thin, like an atlas.
It was titled A History of Punishment and Pain. The author was William Jacklin. I had never heard of him.
I turned to the copyright page. The date of publication was 1922. This Jacklin fellow had to be dead.
I flipped through the pages. I saw pictures and drawings of torture instruments like those on display at the museum. Something caught my eye, and I flipped back.
A folded sheet of paper was tucked inside. I unfolded it. It was another note from Friar Tom, penned in that peculiar handwriting: Pacific Beach branch, 385.187/WYCOFF. Remember, come alone or she dies.
On the page where I found the note, there was a drawing titled “Breaking With the Wheel.” A nude woman lay spread-eagled on the ground, her limbs tied to wooden stakes. A medieval torturer stood over her, a massive iron-rimmed wheel hoisted above his head. The caption described how the torturer could smash every bone and joint in the victim’s body with the wheel while avoiding fatal blows. The victim’s shattered limbs would then be braided through the spokes of the wheel.
The caption said that breaking with the wheel produced the slowest, most agonizing death known during the Dark Ages: The victim is transformed into a sort of huge screaming puppet writhing in rivulets of blood, a puppet with four tentacles, like a sea monster, of raw, slimy and shapeless flesh mixed up with splinters of smashed bones.
I knew how Friar Tom would kill Jordan if I disobeyed him.
CHAPTER 72
I left Friar Tom’s note on the bookshelf. If the police lost me, they’d know where I was going.
I ran to my car. A meter maid was writing me a ticket.
“This here’s a red zone,” she said.
An argument would slow her down. If I got in my car and bolted, a cop who wasn’t in on the plan would pull me over.
“Please, just give me the ticket,” I said.
“In a hurry to pay your debt to society, huh? Next time, drop a quarter in a meter and save yourself three hundred bucks.”
She pulled the ticket from her book and handed it to me.
I hopped in the car and tossed the ticket on the passenger seat. I could still smell Jordan’s perfume from the night before.
The I-5 was thick with morning traffic. I banged my hands on the steering wheel. Time was running out for Jordan.
I exited the freeway and took surface streets to Pacific Beach, a seaside community south of La Jolla. I found the library and parked in front. I wanted to make it easy for Walton’s men to see me coming and going.
The Pacific Beach branch was much smaller than the main branch. A single story. The library was quiet. The few people there were senior citizens. I doubted Friar Tom was among them.
I quickly found the aisle containing the books in the 380s. I ran my fingers along the spines until I came to 384.187/WYCOFF.
I pulled the book from the shelf: Damnable Devices of the Dark Ages, by Stephen Wycoff.
I flipped through it. I found a folded sheet of paper tucked between two pages that described the Iron Maiden, the machine that had killed Mayor Stanton.
I unfolded the note and read: I told you, no cops! Last chance. Point Loma branch, 234.785/MARTIN. Hurry, West, or I swear I’ll kill her.
My heart thumped. Friar Tom was close. I’d nearly gotten Jordan killed.
But what if it was a bluff? Perhaps he’d left the notes in the books the day before. He could be miles away, waiting for me to arrive at the final destination.
Then again, Friar Tom
was cunning. He could be watching my every move. If he had spotted the police and saw them follow me, he’d kill Jordan.
No choice. I had to ditch the cops.
I tucked Friar Tom’s note in my pocket and hurried to the men’s room. It was locked. Maybe I needed a key. I knocked. “Anybody in there.”
“Hold your water,” came the reply.
The toilet flushed, and an elderly man came out and shook his head at me.
I rushed by him into the bathroom and locked the door. I tried to open the window, but it wouldn’t budge. The latch was painted over. The ceiling fan droned. I hoped it was loud enough.
I lifted the metal wastebasket and smashed the window. I knocked out the remaining pieces of glass with the bottom of the can.
I climbed out the window and dropped to a narrow walkway between the library and an adjacent fence.
I reached the end of the building and peered around the corner down the alley. When I was sure nobody was looking, I continued my hunt for Friar Tom.
Alone.
CHAPTER 73
I couldn’t reach my car and drive off without Walton’s men seeing me. I had to find another way to the Point Loma branch library.
I sidled up to a bus stop on the corner. I stood on the north end of the shelter. A poster advertising Channel 3’s six o’clock news team blocked the view of anyone looking from the library.
A number 37 bus was due in four minutes. The route map showed that it crossed Mission Bay and ran along Midway Drive. That was close enough. I’d hop off on Midway and run the last mile to the Point Loma library on Voltaire.
When the 37 arrived, I let everyone else board first. I jumped on as the driver was about to close the doors. I hoped that the police were looking the other way.
The fare was $2.25. I pulled a five-dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to the driver.
“Exact change only,” he said.
I don’t carry coins. I don’t like the weight of them in my pocket.
I started to insert the bill into the machine. “The city can keep the change,” I said.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 16
