Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

  “Don’t be ridiculous, man!” Stanford cut his eyes to Leo. “Our economy depends on tourism. That’s why.”

  “All right. I’ll accept that. But I meant in U.S. papers.”

  “We usually sit on this news for several days. Perhaps a week or more. Sometimes forever. By the time American journalists learn of it, if they do, it’s stale—according to the standards of American journalism. No one wishes to read old news. And this is only the third time such a thing has occurred in nearly thirty years.”

  “That you know of, or wish to tell me about.”

  “Yes. Quite right. There have been, ah, other unsolved murders. On the other islands. But you must remember this: There are over seven hundred oolitic islands—limestone—and more than twenty-four hundred rocks and cays in the group. In a seven-hundred-sixty-mile arc. God alone knows what goes on on the tiny islands.”

  “I hear that boats disappear along with their crews and passengers.”

  “Indeed they do. Not very often. But it does occur every now and then.”

  “And never a trace.”

  “Never a trace.”

  “Tell me, to lighten the moment, about the sand people.”

  “I assure you, Leo, there is nothing light about them. Do you think you were spotted by the man and woman, or the boy?”

  Leo hesitated. “I’m . . . not sure. I got the feeling I was.”

  “If you felt you were, you probably were. So be very, very careful.”

  “You really believe in this hoodoo, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. And you’d better start believing in it, too.”

  Leo said nothing.

  “Inspector!” It was one of the investigative team.

  “What do you have, Jamison?”

  “Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing. Not one trace of blood to be found in the bedroom.”

  “Thank you, Jamison. Keep looking, lad.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leo looked at Stanford. The inspector’s expression was thoughtful as he sat on the porch.

  “You said there would be no blood. That means the accident didn’t occur or it occurred in another part of the house or it occurred during the murders.”

  “Your sister and her husband were killed between midnight and dawn. They were seen having dinner at eight at the inn. Very happy. No signs of a fight of any kind. And the hospital records are very clear, as is the doctor’s memory: Mark Kelly’s hand was treated approximately fourteen to sixteen hours before the murders were reported.”

  “Who reported them, Stanford?”

  “I was afraid you would ask that. You know I don’t have to tell you.”

  “I’m aware of that. But why would you refuse?”

  The inspector stood up and gazed out over the flat blue of the sea. He exhaled softly and faced Leo. “A young boy with a deep hollow voice, Leo. He did not give his name. His accent gave him away as American.”

  “Paul Kelly.” It was not a question.

  “In all probability, yes.”

  “And by now, he’s boarding a plane in Miami, bound for Tucson.”

  “Probably so. I had no proof that it was the Kelly boy who murdered Dean and Donna Mansfield, so I had no reason to interrogate him. When I knocked on the cottage door, Mr. Kelly said he and his wife had been up for about an hour and the kids were still asleep. It was early. Sevenish. Oh, I suppose I could have mucked about, stirring up this and that, questioning the boy—all to no avail, of course.”

  “Now give me the real reason, Stanford.”

  The inspector smiled. “You’re a good copper. Leo, when I looked into that boy’s eyes, I looked into the depths of Hell. He’s a ticking time bomb. The chief in that odd-named town told me the boy is in a very advanced class at school. Brilliant. He also told me, off the record, that in his opinion the boy is nuts!”

  “You think that’s so?”

  “I’m no judge of that, but I’d wager that the boy is so intelligent he could fool the best of child psychologists.”

  “Uh-huh. So you just let him wing off, and handed the problem back to the Americans?”

  “I say now, Leo! That’s such a blunt way of putting it, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t blame you, Stanford. Not at all.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve done the same, with other states, many times.”

  “I rather thought as much.”

  “Besides, you knew I’d be going after the kid, didn’t you?”

  “I rather suspected it.”

  “And you want to come along, don’t you, Inspector?”

  “As I said before, Leo, you’re a good copper. Well”—he sighed—“I have time due me. I haven’t taken a leave in years. Besides, I’ve never been to the wild West. Yes, I might join up with you. Take a working vacation, you might say.”

  “You’re holding back, Stanford.”

  “Oh, I want to be sure about the boy, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh. Would you bring your wife? I noticed your wedding band.”

  “My wife . . . died some years ago. I have been married to my work. And I am known as something of an expert on voodoo, the black arts. That might come in handy.”

  “For a fact, Stanford, the boy could not have torn my sister and her husband apart by himself.”

  “For a fact, Leo.”

  “He had to have help, if he had anything to do with it.”

  “Also a fact. And yes, he did have help.”

  “If he did it.”

  “He did it.” The words were grimly spoken.

  “You let loose just enough to keep me intrigued, Stanford. I’m curious to know what else you’re holding back—other than your last name.”

  “It’s Willingston. Leo, it will take me a week to ten days to get my leave of absence processed. If you go it alone before I get there, be very, very careful. You’re a skeptic. I was born in these islands. I’ve seen sights and rituals that an outsider wouldn’t understand. But I do. And I saw something in that boy’s eyes that I’ve seen only once before . . . before I killed that person. ”

  “What, Stanford?”

  “Satan looking back at me.”

  THREE

  Tepehuanes, situated on the banks of the San Pedro River, was an old, old town only recently discovered by those wishing to escape the city life of Phoenix and Tucson. It was located almost exactly halfway between, and just slightly east of, those cities.

  The price tag was high for a home in Tepehuanes, but the residents didn’t mind that or the drive to either city.

  And the town soon became filled with people with incomes of six figures, professionals. Doctors, lawyers, upper-level management types.

  The police department was one of the best in the state, and one of the toughest. But it stuck to the letter of the law. The chief would not win a popularity contest.

  Each district of Tepehuanes had specified what it wanted in a police chief and what it would expect from the person chosen. And when a chief had been selected, from hundreds of applicants—a man who had given the governor a ticket and had put his own brother in jail for DWI—he’d been placed under a four-year contract. The contract practically gave him carte blanche when it came to enforcing the law. No brother-in-lawing, no old-boy stuff; no selective immunity.

  A Phoenix reporter came to Tepehuanes to do a story shooting down the system of hiring police chiefs by contract and giving them a free hand in law enforcement. The reporter called the place a police state. But the article was never written because, when surveyed, ninety-two percent of the people in Tepehuanes thought the chief and his force were doing a fantastic job, and hoped he would stay on forever.

  The word quickly went out: if you want to cause trouble, don’t do it in Tepehuanes.

  The local DA, Don Davis, was positively delighted with the chief of police and with his methods of enforcing the law. In fact, Davis and Mike Bambridge became good friends, and played golf together every Thursday afternoon.

>   But the county sheriff, who was elected, and therefore had to court everybody whether he liked it or not, was not delighted about the whole business. He became downright unhappy when his wife’s brother was arrested and the chief and the DA refused to deal. His wife’s brother served thirty days in the slammer and had his driver’s license pulled for a year.

  It was just about that time when the chief requested that his people be commissioned as county deputies, thereby giving them wider authority.

  Then the sheriff’s wife’s brother was picked up again. DWI and no driver’s license.

  “Let’s deal,” the sheriff suggested.

  “Let’s don’t,” the chief replied. “I don’t make exceptions. Shall I call a press conference? I’m taping this.”

  Gritting his dentures and swearing, the sheriff signed the commission cards.

  The sheriff and the chief were not real close.

  * * *

  Leo Corigliano read the reports during stops on the drive out to Tepehuanes. He concluded that the sheriff, while probably a damned good lawman, was also a politician; but Mike was Eagle-Scout straight, and busted anyone who broke the law.

  Leo liked Mike and felt sorry for the sheriff even before meeting them, for he knew each man had a job to do, and a difficult job even under the best of circumstances. There were too few Mikes in law enforcement and too few communities like Tepehuanes to back them up.

  And that, Leo knew, was the heart of the problem: the communities. They said they wanted law and order—but not when it came to their friends, their relatives, and their kids.

  * * *

  Inspector Stanford Willingston had not been entirely truthful with Leo, but he felt Leo knew that and accepted it.

  Stanford knew he would be wise to just let the matter drop, for he sensed that Mantine and Nicole were no longer anywhere near the islands. He had a notion the long-dead voodoo king and queen were about to pop up in Arizona.

  That would free the islands of them for a while, and drop the entire matter into American hands.

  But Stanford could not just turn his back on the matter. Leo Corigliano was too good a cop to face such a horror alone. And horror was what the good people of that unpronounceable Western town were about to experience.

  How, and in what form, Stanford could not know. But the sand he’d found sticking to the walls in the death house had given him a pretty good idea of what to expect.

  The prospect chilled him.

  What better place than Arizona to continue the horror?

  Another thing Stanford hadn’t mentioned to Leo was that less than an hour after his flight took off for the States, the death cottage would be turned into a roaring inferno, after being soaked with gasoline. Then every scrap of charred debris would be carefully scooped up, towed far out to sea, and dumped in where the water was deepest.

  That done, Stanford Willingston stood before his wife’s grave and made a promise to the silence.

  “I shall not fail this time, my darling. I shall have my revenge. And I shall set you free. I promise you.”

  A priest stood a few yards away, a worried look on his face. “Fourteen years is a long time to carry such hate in your heart, Stanford.”

  Without turning around, Stanford said, “Did you bring the materials I requested?”

  “Of course. I put them in your car. Are you leaving today?”

  “This evening. I have made provisions for her grave to be looked after, Simon.”

  “You speak as if you will not be returning.”

  The inspector merely looked at the priest and then pointed to a second stone, new and neatly in line with his wife’s headstone. Stanford’s name and the year of his death had already been chiseled into the marble.

  1988.

  Inspector Willingston shook the priest’s hand and, without another word, walked out of the tiny cemetery behind the church.

  Few were buried in the tiny space.

  For a very good reason.

  * * *

  “Creep!” Janis whispered, after her brother had closed the door to his room.

  She thought her brother had been weird before they’d gone to the islands. But now! God, he was acting so odd it was unreal.

  Openly defiant to his parents, all the time, Paul was refusing to do anything they asked, right down to taking a bath. Most of the time he smelled bad. It was like he was, well, deliberately trying to pick a fight with his father and mother.

  And that just didn’t make a bit of sense to Janis.

  She concluded that her brother was just being his usual jerky self. Only a bit more so.

  She walked up the hall and into the indoor garden of the Kellys’ spacious home, which was set on a mesa just above the town of Tepehuanes. From there she stepped into the den, then the dining room. She paused at the entrance to the kitchen, listening to her parents talk.

  “His behavior is worse than ever.” Her mother was speaking. “It’s World War Three just to get him to bathe. I don’t see how he can stand himself. He stinks!”

  “Yeah,” Mark replied. “I can’t help but notice.” That was said so drily Janis pictured some of the ice in his drink melting. “I think if he walks through the garden one more time the plants will begin to die.”

  Connie chuckled at that, but humorlessly. “Do what you have to do, Mark.” Her voice was weary. “I’ve run out of options.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “But I thought you wanted to take him to see a child psychologist.”

  “I did. I do. But he’s faking all this, Connie. Have you noticed his behavior lately? Around other people? He’s beginning to act, well, goofy. And act is the key word, love. He turns off and on like a faucet. He’s up to something, I know it, but damned if I can figure out what it is.”

  “You don’t think a doctor could pinpoint the cause? They’re trained to spot things, behavioral patterns, that parents can’t see. Maybe we’re just too close to him.”

  “It’s worth a try.” Mark exhaled slowly. “I guess,” he added.

  The shattering of glass brought them to their feet; Janis was already running toward the source of the disturbance. She began to scream when she saw what Paul was doing.

  He had taken a poker from the fireplace set and was smashing every window in the indoor garden, alternately laughing and howling insanely as he did so.

  “Paul!” his father yelled, and ran toward him. “Damn it, Paul, stop it!”

  The boy suddenly fell to the stone floor, and began to jerk spasmodically, drumming his heels on the floor. Slobber leaked from his mouth. His eyes rolled back until only the whites were showing.

  When Mark picked him up, Paul was stiff, rigid as a board.

  “Bring the car around, Connie. Janis, go next door and stay with the Matthews. Tell them we’re taking Paul to the hospital.”

  * * *

  “Well, folks,” Dr. Thomas said as he joined the Kellys in the corridor, “physically, there is nothing wrong with the boy. He is, in my opinion, perfectly healthy.” The doctor brushed at his coat. Grains of sand fell to the floor. “I don’t know where I got that,” he muttered.

  “Then, I mean . . .” Connie groped for words. “What happened to him this evening? Something had to have caused this craziness?”

  Maybe, Mark thought. And maybe it was all part of a carefully planned act. But if so, why?

  “I don’t know,” Jack Thomas said with a smile. Confuse the Parents, 1 & 2. A required course. “I’ve ordered a CAT scan in the morning. But it’s probably nothing more than a bug the boy picked up in the islands. You haven’t been back that long, you know.”

  The deepening in Paul’s voice began in the islands, Mark thought. His defiance heightened while we were there. Or is it all my imagination?

  “This scan you’re going to do, that will tell us something?”

  “Oh, yes. Physically speaking. If he has a tumor, or if something is pressing against a nerve and cutting off or interrupting messages
to the brain. But, personally, I think the boy is healthy as a horse. They have some strange maladies in the islands, folks. Downright weird! Now go on home and get some rest. Paul is in good hands here, I assure you.”

  “Can we see him?” Connie asked.

  “Sure. But he’s sleeping. After Dr. Clineman checked him for obvious neurological symptoms, he gave Paul a mild sedative, a muscle relaxant, and the boy went right to sleep. His BP is right on the button. Heartbeat is solid and stable. His eyes are clear and responsive. Why don’t you both check back around nine in the morning? We ought to know something by then.”

  The tiny grains of sand crunched under the doctor’s shoes as he turned and strolled off down the hall. He hummed cheerfully.

  Mark slapped at his ankle as something bit him.

  “What is it, Mark?”

  “Sand flea, probably.”

  Connie said, “He’s been our doctor for ages, but I still can’t get used to how damned cheerful he is.”

  They walked out of the hospital.

  It was well staffed and well equipped. Tepehuanes was a town filled with affluent people.

  “Paul is faking this,” Mark repeated. “As sure as there is a moon and stars, he’s faking it. I can sense it.”

  “But why, Mark?”

  There was no anger in the question, just a mother’s concern for her child.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. There may be something wrong with the boy. In a way I hope it is something that can be corrected by medicine or an operation. I guess I shouldn’t have said that either, Connie.”

  “I understand what you meant, Mark. I’m hoping there is some easy answer myself.”

  “Well, let’s hope. Say, wasn’t that the little Cauldman girl in the room across the hall from Paul?”

  “Yes. Her mother told me she hurt her leg while skateboarding this afternoon.”

  “Break it?”

  “No. They’re just keeping her overnight for observation. She was flying, I was told. Downhill. She’s lucky she wasn’t killed. I hate those damned skateboards.”

  “She’s a pretty girl,” Mark said.

  “Yes, she is.”

  Jenny Cauldman and Paul Kelly were both in the advanced class at school.