by Paul Carr
It was deathly quiet as Sam eased the Mercedes out of the parking lot. Simone followed in his car. Driving toward town, he passed Chopin's, which was now closed, its parking lot empty. He was tempted to pull in and leave the car there, but Chopin probably didn't need that kind of grief, either.
As he neared town, he saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle. It got closer and he was reasonably certain it was a police cruiser. His pulse pounded in his ears. If he got caught driving Bell's car with his dead body in it, it would mean a death sentence. Glancing at the corpse, he wondered if any of Bell's dead face might be visible in the headlights of the police car. With his eyes fixed on the road, he reached and found the seat-belt buckle, and popped it. The body fell over, and the plastic-covered head came to rest on the console between the seats. He snugged the cap down as close to his ears as possible, and slid down in the seat to seem more the dead man's height, which he guessed at about five-six.
A right turn came up and he decided to take it. The cruiser slowed, reached the intersection a few moments after he did, and stopped, as if waiting to turn in behind him. As Sam spun the wheel, he felt the glare of the headlights in his eyes, and turned and reached for the radio, as if trying to locate a station, hoping the person in the police car wouldn't see much of his face. Once on the side street, he peered in the rear view mirror and watched the cruiser sit there, motionless. Then it accelerated on down the road and out of sight.
Hopefully, Simone noticed the cruiser and hung back. Sam lifted the cap and wiped his perspiring face with his shirtsleeve. He made a couple more turns to get back on the highway and began scanning for a place to ditch the car.
As he entered downtown, he passed a building about the size and shape of a trolley car. The sign out front, almost as big as the structure itself, proclaimed that Madame Zena could read your palm and tell your fortune. A Dumpster sat off to the side, between Madame Zena's and a jewelry store. Spotting no security cameras on either building, Sam turned in next to the Dumpster, cut the engine, and got out.
Leaving the door open, he got back into the seat on his knees, and dragged the body over the console to the driver's side and into a sitting position behind the wheel. He removed the plastic, found the drop-cloth bag he'd taken it from, and stuffed the bloody shroud inside. After closing the door, he strode away, carrying the wadded plastic, watching for any sign that someone might have seen anything he'd done. All quiet. Simone hadn't showed, so he phoned and told her where to pick him up. As he eased past Madame Zena's, the door opened, and he dropped down at the corner of the building.
A seductive voice of indeterminate age called out. “Who's there? Is that you, Morton?”
Sam hadn't expected anyone to be sleeping in such a tiny place, and he certainly hadn't expected anyone who knew Morton Bell. He wondered if that might be an omen.
He crept around the building, then through the shadows for a hundred yards or so until he saw Simone coming down the street. Though reasonably sure Madame Zena hadn't seen him, he did wonder about the extent of her powers, and if she had already viewed the undoing of Morton Bell in her crystal ball.
Chapter Eleven
Sam asked Simone to pull to the side of the road next to a wooded area. Finding a place to ditch the wad of plastic took only a few minutes. A large pine lay on the ground, probably blown over by high winds that left the root system hanging above a four-foot-wide hole in the ground. He stuck the plastic into a crevice in the dirt wall at the bottom of the hole and jammed in a sandstone rock to conceal and hold it in place. It wouldn't be discovered for years, if then.
Back in the car, Simone said, “What about the cap?”
He had forgotten about that. It probably contained his and the dead man’s DNA. Taking it off, he said, “I’ll get rid of it later, along with our gloves. I don't think we should stay in the motel tonight.”
“Yeah, me either. Let's get our stuff and head up the road, maybe to Marathon.”
Remembering their earlier conversation about Homestead, he said, “You mentioned a psychiatrist that had been associated with the Black Palmetto, who wasn't there at the end. Why would they employ a psychiatrist?”
Giving him a sidelong glance, she said, “Because the Palmetto wasn't your normal black ops unit. I was told that those guys were crazy. It's one of the reasons they all crashed and burned.”
“Crazy? You mean insane?”
“Yes. Each of the assassins had killed someone or attempted it before being recruited into the program. Somebody high up, probably the congressman J.T. mentioned, had the bright idea that sociopaths would be more effective as hit men than traditional candidates, the rationale being that it's easier to teach a killer how to use weapons than it is to turn a sharpshooter into a killer.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “That's an interesting idea, but I can't imagine anybody actually thinking it would work.”
“Well, they did, but it didn't last long before self-destructing.”
“What happened to the psychiatrist?”
“I heard he turned sour over the whole concept, after a couple of bad incidents, and the leadership sent him packing.”
“You remember his name?”
She squinted her eyes in the glow of the dash lights. “It was Emerson something. Like Whitehurst. No, Whitehall. That's it, Emerson Whitehall. He lived in Miami.”
“Shouldn't be too hard to find somebody with a name like that.”
****
Harpo didn’t know how long he’d been out this time, but he finally felt like standing and pacing around the little shack. His chest wound had been nothing less than a miracle. Maybe a little sore, but no swelling or pain.
The name of the woman who had saved him was Twyla. She came into the room, saw him on his feet, and told him he should lie down, get his rest. Twyla fussed a lot over Harpo, but he thought she might be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; flawless skin the color of creamed coffee, and almond shaped eyes. That first day when he awoke in the yard, he knew she had been sent from heaven to guard over him, the aura around her face so bright it burned his eyes.
“Don't worry. I just need to walk around a little, get my legs back.”
“But that knot on your head. I'm afraid you'll have a stroke or something.”
“I’ll be fine.” He patted her hand and felt an uncommon warmth course into his fingertips and up his arm. “You just sit on the porch and have some lemonade. I'll be back in a little while.”
She didn't argue, but concern pinched at the corners of her eyes.
As he descended the porch steps, his head felt as if it might go into a spin. After resting a moment, the dizziness faded. Just a little walk, that’s all he needed.
The day before, after the fever had left him, he realized that part of the radio had gotten stuck in his head during the explosion. It’d been put there for a reason, and he didn't plan to take it out. The words had led him to pray for his own meager salvation, and for Twyla and the boy. And here he stood, a miracle. Snipping off the tip of the antenna had left just a little knot on his head. Reception had never been better.
As he made his way up the path through the undergrowth and neared the highway, he heard traffic noises, along with the inspirational words of Dr. Eddie Worth, his favorite of all the voices. He stepped into a clearing next to the road, and his head began to buzz, sweat pouring over him like a hot spring. The world around him started to spin again, but Dr. Worth kept on preaching, loud and clear, and Harpo knew he’d be okay.
As he sat down next to the road, the spinning subsided. A viper of about six feet, with great venom pockets on the sides of its head, slithered over the asphalt toward him, but he remained steady and unafraid. He closed his eyes and prayed. When he finished, the snake had almost reached his leg. Its eyes were blood red, its fleshy tongue flicking forked tips like ice picks. It would strike, of that Harpo had no doubt. Then a semi appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, the tires so close Harpo could see between the rubber tread. T
he truck's horn blasted, and its giant tire struck the serpent's head with a popping sound, leaving a paper-thin patch about the size of a tri-fold wallet attached to a still-wriggling body.
Harpo stood and wiped perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. After a moment of deliberation and a smile, he turned and headed back to the house. It had become crystal clear why he had been spared. He knew what he had to do.
****
Chief Boozler had just entered his office and turned on the light when Lonnie appeared at his doorway.
“We got a 911 a few minutes ago. The embalmer at the funeral home found Howard Tim and his bookkeeper dead when he got to work this morning.”
“What?” He felt his face flush, his head throb from too much Jack Daniels the night before. “Do you know how they were killed?”
“I don’t know about the woman, but Tim was stabbed in the chest. According to the operator, the caller was pretty hysterical, screaming into the phone.”
Boozler had gotten a late start after a fitful night of sleep and had rushed out of the house without washing his face or combing his hair. He ran his fingers through his oily mane. “You get the ball rolling?”
The lieutenant nodded. “I sent a cruiser to secure the crime scene. The techs and the medical examiner are on their way.” He paused and seemed to give the chief a quick once-over. “You want me to get you some coffee?”
The embalmer who had reported the murders sat on the ground by the back door in the morning sun. An officer stood close by. He stepped over to the cruiser when the chief and Lonnie got out.
“You get his statement?” Boozler asked.
“Yeah, there wasn’t much to it.” The officer pulled out his notebook. “He reported for work at his normal time and found the bookkeeper with her head down on her desk. He thought she was sleeping. Then he went to the embalming room to get started and found the owner on the floor. He said there was a lot of blood, and he ran out here and called 911.”
Boozler peered at the man by the door. He seemed very still, staring down at the ground. “Is he okay?”
“I think so. He said he took a Valium.”
As they headed inside, the embalmer said, “Hey, Chief, I got four-day's pay coming. When do you think I'll get it?”
The chief ignored him and walked on.
Two crime scene technicians worked around the bookkeeper’s desk, dusting for prints and vacuuming the carpet. Lonnie and the chief eased down the hall to the embalming room where the medical examiner pulled a bloody instrument of some kind from Howard Tim's chest and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.
“What's that?” Lonnie asked.
“A trocar. They use it for embalming. The tip is sharp, for inserting into a blood vessel. Interesting murder weapon, don't you think?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “I think the secretary's neck is broken.” He stood and sighed. “I just finished with Jake Bell. My practice is going to suffer if this keeps up.”
“We need to establish a time of death as soon as possible,” Boozler said, peering down at the body.
The M.E. stowed his instruments in his medical bag. “I'll do my best to get it to you in a couple of hours.” He paused. “I'm guessing these murders are probably related to Jake’s.”
Boozler turned to the doctor. “What makes you say that?”
“I know they appear different: a knife on Jake, the trocar on Tim, and the girl with a broken neck.” The M.E. pursed his lips and stared at the floor, as if in thought.
The chief raised an eyebrow. “So what makes you think they’re related?”
“This all seems impersonal, like the killer is just doing a job.”
Boozler kneaded his brow, his face flush. “Doing a job? What are you talking about Doc?”
The M.E. frowned and shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it. I'll get you the time of death by noon.”
The chief thought he might let it go, but Lonnie jumped in. “Wait a minute. Tell us what you think.”
Boozler shot him a glance.
“To tell the truth,” the Dr. said, “I don't know what I think. We hadn't had a murder in Iguana Key for almost ten years, and now we've had four. The laws of probability would―”
“Yeah, yeah, probability,” Boozler said. “People don't die from probability, Doc.”
“You're absolutely right, Chief, so I'll come right out and say it. It seems as if all these people were killed by a professional. Why? I don't know. That's your job.”
He closed his bag and strode out the door. The chief just sighed and shook his head.
Outside, Boozler put on his sunglasses and ambled toward the car. “Did you find out anything else about that hearse bombing?”
“Yes, sir, they said it was an incendiary device, most likely military, definitely not homemade.”
The chief didn't comment, just opened the car door and got in.
When they arrived back at headquarters, Boozler said, “Lonnie, have a couple of officers bring Mackenzie in.”
“You gonna arrest him?”
“I don't know yet, but he worked with explosives in the Navy, and he could've set off that bomb. Maybe he killed Tim and the girl to keep them from identifying his voice.”
“But Mackenzie isn't even from around here. I don't think Mr. Tim would know his voice.”
“Just get him in here, Lonnie.”
Boozler started to leave, and Lonnie said, “Wait, I was just thinking about something. Dudley and I overheard a guy in the diner a month or so ago talking about being out at Ted Carter’s place. He said he was there to do some repairs and saw some explosives in his barn. Ted ran him off when he realized he'd seen them. Why don't we go out there and check it out?”
Sighing, Boozler said, “Okay, we can do that, but have the officers pick up Mackenzie. I want him here when I get back.”
He went into his office, closed the door, and opened the bottom drawer where he kept a bottle of J.D. He took a long pull from it and put it away. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes, let the alcohol seep into his brain, smooth out the rough edges. Things just kept getting worse and worse. He had to do something. Maybe one more drink would help for now.
Lonnie said he would bring the cruiser around. It took about twenty minutes to get to the Carter place. They rode down the long, winding driveway that had gone to seed. Lonnie hit the brakes, and the cruiser slid to a halt in front of the farmhouse. A shroud of fine dust settled around them.
Ted Carter had served in the military in the Middle East, and said little about his experiences when he returned home to Iguana Key. He became a recluse, and probably would have moved away had it not been for his father dying and leaving him a broken down farm. Though he didn't know anything about farming, the rent was free. The only drawback: his mother lived there, too, and they didn't get along very well.
As the two lawmen got out, the chief unsnapped his holster. Lonnie did the same. They ascended the steps to the front porch, and Lonnie opened the rusty screen door and knocked. He stepped back to let the spring snap it shut.
Ted’s mother appeared in the doorway, dressed in blue denim overalls. Though she weighed at least three hundred pounds, she had a surprisingly pretty face.
“Hello, Rich, Lonnie.”
Her breath drifted through the rusty screen door. It smelled like bacon.
“Maude,” Chief Boozler said, “we wondered if we could talk to Ted.”
The woman gazed past them, an uneasy expression on her face. “I guess so. He's out in the barn.”
“We heard he has a stockpile of explosives. Do you know anything about that?”
“Sorry, you'll have to ask him. He doesn't tell me anything about his business.”
The chief gave her a mock salute. “Okay, we'll check with him, then.”
As they turned away, she said, “I guess you know he doesn't care for visitors.”
“I heard something about that. It happens to some of the vets returning from the war. How
long has he been back?”
She squinted her eyes. “About a year. It was right before Ralph left.”
Boozler put on his best sad smile. She had married Ralph after Ted's father died, but one day he went for a pack of Marlboro and never came back. Rumors spread that Ted had done away with the man for his insurance money, but no one who mattered ever took them seriously.
A silence stretched into several uncomfortable beats.
Without another word, they stepped into the yard and headed for the barn. The door stood open, and they eased inside. The veteran sat at a table in the corner, cleaning the barrel of a rifle, a can of beer near his right hand. He looked as if he hadn't shaved for a week.
“Ted, how's it going?” the chief asked.
He laid down the weapon and turned to face them. “I got nothing to say to you two clowns.”
Lonnie glanced at the chief, his hand moving to his holster.
Boozler shook his head, and the lieutenant dropped his hand back to his side. “This shouldn't take long. We just have a few questions―”
“I'm not answering any questions!”
He obviously had already consumed a few beers.
“You can't talk to the chief like that, Ted,” Lonnie said. “We can take you in if―”
“Lonnie,” Boozler said, “it's okay.” He turned to Ted. “We need to know about your explosives. A vehicle was blown up on a bridge over Blackwater Sound by a military-grade bomb.”
“I didn't have anything to do with that.”
Chief Boozler moved closer. “So you heard about it?”
“News travels fast.” Ted grinned and stood up. “Now, you need to get out of here and leave me alone.”
“Sorry, but we have to see those explosives,” Lonnie said.
“You got a warrant?”
