“Word on the street says O’Hara doesn’t give you much breathing room.”
“That parole officer is worse than a leg clamp.”
“I could see he gets a new assignment.”
“Let’s drink to that.”
“No time now. Someone’s life may be at stake.”
“OK, where’s the house?”
“Old Brookville. Let’s get a move on.”
It took Driscoll fifteen minutes to reach the residence. He parked the Chevy on the street, and he and Lazlo scurried along the property’s stone wall to the gated entrance.
“So far, so good. The grounds are alarm free. I didn’t pick up any signals,” Lazlo muttered, displaying an electronic scanning device.
They had reached the gate. Driscoll pressed the bell. No one answered. He pressed it a second time, producing the same results. Pierce was either not at home or wasn’t answering the door. “Here’s where you come in, Lazlo. How ’bout this gate?”
“Piece of cake.” the ex-con said, eyeing a digital keypad on the metal frame. He produced a miniature screwdriver from his knapsack and removed the unit’s cover, then stopped. “This is an import. And if we fuck up, we activate that camera,” he said.
“What camera?”
“That one!” Lazlo pointed at an electronic eye imbedded in a brick. He then produced a miniature handheld computer, connected an alligator clip to a black-and-white wire inside the unit, and fingered a tiny toggle switch. “That’ll do it,” he grinned as Driscoll watched a whir of red and green lights flicker on Lazlo’s handheld computer. “We’re in!”
The gate opened before them.
“Let’s get a move on,” Driscoll urged.
The entrance door’s lock quickly surrendered to the ex-con’s manipulation. Lazlo’s scanner detected no alarms inside the house.
“Here’s where you take a breather, Lazlo. I’m goin’ in alone.” Driscoll’s stomach churned as he pondered Margaret’s fate.
“Just like you to take the fun outa things. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Here’s a fifty for your troubles. The Long Island Railroad stops six blocks north of here. Take the train and head back to the marina. I might be a while.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” In a flash, Lazlo disappeared into the night.
Driscoll was now inside a marble-tiled vestibule, the starting point for his excursion inside Pierce’s house. He called out Margaret’s name. It prompted no reply.
Driscoll followed the beam of his flashlight and reached a dimly lit circular room with four staircases leading from it, like four spokes radiating from a wheel’s axis. The room boasted a frescoed cupola depicting what looked like a feminist resurrection. He wondered if it would be safe to turn on the lights. He groped the walls for a switch, but found none. There was a drawn curtain under one of the staircases, which stimulated his curiosity. He peeked behind the curtain. It concealed a large antique birdcage. The bird within it was three feet tall. There was a brass shingle with carved letters at the base of the cage. It read: LAMMERGEIER. Driscoll had studied such a bird in an adulted class on avian behavior at St. John’s University. The bird was a vulture whose diet included a preference for bone marrow. At the bird’s feet lay a bone. Driscoll reached for it. That’s when the bird attacked. It was swift, but fortunately for the Lieutenant, off-target. Driscoll’s fingers must have been an irresistible sight to the bone-hungry predator.
To whom did that bone at the bottom of the cage belong? Although it was a shattered fragment, it looked vaguely human, maybe a tibia or some other elongated limb bone. He wished he could get his hands on it. But the lammergeier was not about to part with it readily, and Driscoll was in no mood to wrestle with the beast.
Thoughts kept gnawing at him. Was that Deirdre’s tibia? Or Sarah’s femur? Or Clarissa’s ulna? Or, God forbid, Margaret’s radius? Does Pierce go on hunting expeditions for his pet? Does he stalk malls or parking lots or supermarkets looking for food for this bird? If that were so, then Driscoll had walked in on John Audubon’s worst nightmare. And were there any more raptors lurking?
He released the safety on his Glock 9-mm revolver and eyed the giant bird. As he stood, momentarily frozen, he prayed his fears about the bone were incorrect, but the anxiety wouldn’t be easily dismissed, and it was not a simple task to focus on the moment.
He shouted for Margaret, and floodlights illuminated the majestic cupola. The room was sound sensitive. Driscoll opened a door that led into a library. Leather-bound books lined varnished shelves. In the middle of the room, a Louis XVI desk gleamed under his flashlight. He caught the shimmer of a tiny dot of light emanating from a rectangular metal box connected to an antique telephone. Driscoll played the messages. A reedy academic voice thanked Pierce for his largess toward the construction of a cardiac wing at Saint Finbar’s Hospital Center. A man with a thick Italian accent promised the delivery of a new Lancia that would be offloaded at the port of Elizabeth, New Jersey, on the thirty-first. A secretarial voice from Chelsea Chemicals confirmed the delivery of order #69732-B to his home address. The machine ceased.
Driscoll wondered what order #69732-B contained. Perhaps the Louis XVI desk would hold the answer.
He rummaged through the drawers, finding folders in alphabetical order. The Chelsea Chemicals folder was stuffed with receipts, invoices, product brochures, and letters of credit. Pierce was a frequent customer. Order # 69732-B revealed a large purchase of sulfur trioxide. He made a call on his cell phone. “Cedric, sulfur trioxide. I want to know what it’s used for. Call me on the cellular.”
Driscoll stomped on the marble floor. The reverberation, like the percussion of a snare drum, indicated a hollowness below. But where was the portal or a trap door, or steps that led downward? No architect would build a multileveled edifice without connecting passageways.
For the next forty-five minutes, he searched every room and every closet inside the house. There were rooms of different sizes, decorated by artful hands. But, in all, no sign of Margaret. He reached a hall more fit for the Palace of Versailles than a Long Island residence. At the end of it, his flashlight exposed a structure of carved wood and gold leaf. It was a confessional booth! Why would anyone have a confessional booth in their home? The sighting made him feel uneasy. He was reminded of his own shortcomings, and that it had been ages since he knelt inside such a booth. As he marveled at the sighting, the ray of his flashlight revealed friezes depicting scenes from the Old and New Testament: the expulsion from Eden, the beheading of Holofernes by Judith, the resurrection of Lazarus, the assumption of Mary, and the day of redemption.
Driscoll opened the door of the booth and stepped inside. It made no sound. It had been well used. His conscience stirred. This was sacred space he was trespassing. An inner voice complained, You’ve crossed the line. He had reconciled with his irreverence before, but this was sacrilege. He knelt begrudgingly and assumed the penitent position. What are you doing here? the voice clamored. He heard a clicking sound. Gears were engaging beneath him. The floor gave way, starting a slow descent. Prayers really are answered, he thought, as he came to a stop some thirty feet below.
Driscoll stepped out into a spacious wine cellar. His attention was drawn to his right, where a gallery of glass showcases was lit before him. Cranial orbits of birds’ skeletons stared at him. He returned the stare, gaping at the ghastly collection. He was filled with a sense of awe as well as a sense of horror. This was a macabre showcase. Its eerie silence was frightening. He read the names of each exhibit: PEREGRINE FALCON, THE BUTCHER BIRD, WHITE HELMET SHRIKE, CALIFORNIA CONDOR. All fierce predators. What purpose did these skeleton’s serve? Had Pierce skinned these birds? Like he skinned his prey? The exhibit also made him feel a sense of guilt. It had been months since the first body was found, and he still hadn’t caught the murderer. He was not proud of that. Thoughts whirled inside his head. Margaret! Where the hell is Margaret?
His cellular beeped. “Driscoll, here…Yeah, Cedric, wha’d ya find out?”
“That chemical you called me on, it’s an acid. It’s used by taxidermists to dissolve organic matter.”
“That fits,” said Driscoll.
There was a whooshing sound. It was as though a furnace had kicked in, or a sump pump, perhaps.
A boiler room? he thought. It’d have to be below this.
He returned to the confessional booth. As his knees hit the floor, the booth stirred once more. Sweat collected on Driscoll’s brow, searing his eyes, as the booth began its slow but steady descent.
The floor of the cell abruptly struck bottom. The jolt loosened the flashlight from Driscoll’s grip. It spiraled, smashing against the wooden floor. Retrieving it, he switched it on. A narrow beam of orange light flickered.
As he shuffled forward, the frail beam from his flashlight was no match for the blinding darkness all around him, yet it exposed a coaxial cable tacked to a stone ceiling. He followed the electrical line as it meandered toward a junction box with a toggle switch. He hit it. A succession of spotlights came to life.
Driscoll was not alone. Two skeletons, standing in individual glass coffins, stared back at him. There were shingles affixed to the coffins. They read MOM AND DAD, RESURRECTED.
Standing before the two skeletons was a mock cave constructed of artificial rock. Assembled around the cave were other skeletons, some erect in their own showcases, some in disarray on shelves. The lammergeier’s nest sat in the center lined with synthetic grass, twigs, and a heap of bones. As he stroked the surface of a slim bone, he knew the DNA analysis would corroborate what his sixth sense had already confirmed. He pocketed the delicate bone, wondering which one of the victims it belonged to, and raced to the confessional.
How the hell do I get up? he wondered. But as his knees met the kneeler, the lift began its ascent.
Chapter 87
It was a cloudless, star-studded night. The telltales were flush against the mainsail, gorged by the southwestern wind. The ocean buoys clamored, heralding incoming swells, as ridges of salt water crashed against the massive hull of The Ark, a thirty-eight-foot Catalina sailboat, its bow dipping deeply into the cascading tide. Liquid notes from Debussy’s La Mer ricocheted inside the aft cabin. Pierce was at his leisure, and Margaret was still keeping tabs on their number-one suspect. The way Margaret saw it, Pierce may have used the Internet to lure some boating enthusiast first lover out onto the Long Island Sound. As long as she was aboard, she figured she’d thwart that possibility. But she was no fool. The safety was released on her service revolver, and she was ready.
Her telephone purred. “My cellular,” she said.
“Go away, world,” said Pierce.
“I must,” she stated, as she reached for the phone.
“Yes?” Margaret gasped. “I’m not getting you, there’s a lot of static…what? Did you say a nest? A cellar? What? What about a cellar? Damn it, I’ve lost him!”
They had found his collection. Pierce was certain of it. “You’re out of cell range, and the water doesn’t help,” he muttered.
“Can you get me to port? I’ve gotta make a call!”
“What’s the hurry?”
“It’s my boss. He’s found something. I don’t know what it is. It sounded important.”
A chill entered the cabin, as if arctic air had seeped into the little room. Debussy’s melody faded, replaced by the slapping sound of sea waves crashing against the hull. Pierce’s gaze became icy, searching for what was concealed in Margaret’s eyes.
“I really have to go!” she pleaded, sensing imminent danger.
“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Pierce said, his face now starched with contempt.
“The rocking is making me seasick.”
Pierce forced a smile and headed topside. “It’s time to get you back to shore then. There’s some Emetrol in the medicine cabinet. Why don’t you help yourself while I turn the boat around?”
Chapter 88
Driscoll was certain the distant bells echoing in his cellular’s earphone were the sounds of buoys on a rough sea. There was no doubt about it. Palming the cell phone, he punched in Thomlinson’s number, forced the Chevy into gear, and pulled away from the estate.
“Cedric, check your dossier on Pierce. Does the guy own a boat?”
“Hold on a sec…Yeah. Here it is…A thirty-eight-foot Catalina sailboat…The Ark. Custom-built in Southwest Harbor, Maine. He keeps it moored at Judson’s Marina in Port Washington.”
“Hold the fort. I’ll call you from the marina.”
Driscoll arrived at Judson’s Marina just past 11:00 P.M. The place looked deserted except for a blond youth lounging atop the teak deck of a Criss-Craft cabin cruiser.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“The Ark…it docked here?” said Driscoll.
“You mean Doctor Pierce’s boat?”
“That’d be the one.”
“Gone since early evening.”
“He go alone?”
“Nope. He had a dark-haired chick with him.”
Jesus, he thought. If you’re listening, God, keep her out of danger. That madman is capable of anything, and if something happens to Margaret…He thought immediately of Moira, and with the thought came an adrenaline-fueled rush of guilt.
“Know where they were heading?”
“Probably to his winery.”
“Where’d that be?”
“North Fork. It’s the only place on the island they grow grapes.”
Driscoll tried the cellular again, but Margaret was now well out of range. He called Thomlinson, who answered on the first ring. “Cedric, get me a helicopter. Have it at Judson’s Marina in five minutes! Alert the Coast Guard and Suffolk County’s Harbor Patrol. Pierce is our man. He’s heading for the North Fork, and he’s got Margaret with him.”
Chapter 89
The Lieutenant was closing in. Pierce was sure of it. He had underestimated the man, and now he felt like a tracked fish being steered toward the net, ripe for the fisherman’s grappling hook. This was not the ending he had in mind. One cop below deck, and one in close pursuit. How the hell could he have let this happen? Fate had always been generous. Why not now, goddamn it? Why not now? He felt like screaming, but that would interfere with his plans for Margaret. It would be she that would have to pay for her boss’s doggedness. He wished the Lieutenant had learned his lesson with Moira.
Pierce descended to the bilge, crouching in the crawl space that housed the engine. He yanked free the gas line, spilling marine fuel into the cramped compartment. It was time to scuttle the boat and escape. Mindful that he had some unfinished business to attend to, he re-entered the cabin and took from his physician’s bag a Bard-Parker scalpel.
Margaret was in the lavatory. The water was running.
“Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga,” he chanted, as he opened the door and struck.
Pierce then heard a roar. Giant wings were cutting through the air. He hurried topside. It was a helicopter approaching the sailboat, its floodlight illuminating The Ark as though it were day. Despite the din of the whirling blades, he heard a thud. Someone had landed on deck. He turned. It was Driscoll.
The jolt of leaping from the helicopter jarred loose Driscoll’s 9-mm Glock, which bounced off the deck and tumbled into the sea. He grabbed the boat’s winch handle and lunged at Pierce, slamming the stainless-steel tool against the side of Pierce’s head. Pierce dropped the scalpel and brought both hands to the wound, stumbling toward the steps to the cabin. But Driscoll was on him like a slaughterhouse worker finishing off a calf. A roundhouse kick crushed Pierce’s rib cage. He gasped for breath but managed a left hook against Driscoll’s jaw.
Pierce lumbered toward the sailboat’s cockpit, where he yanked the tiller free from its coupling. The Lieutenant tackled him by the ankle and brought him down, his face smashing hard against the fiberglass surface of the deck. The tiller went toppling into the water, and Driscoll renewed his assault with a flurry of punches.
Just then, with blood trickling from a neck wound, an unsteady Margaret appeared, leveling her firearm on the wrestling pair.
“It’s over!” she yelled, getting off a round, missing Pierce’s head by an inch. “Give it up,” she hollered as she leveled her weapon to fire again.
“Like hell!” Pierce shouted. His left foot caught Margaret in her right shin. The blow upended her, knocking the weapon from her hand, and caused her to tumble over the boat’s starboard railing.
“John!” she screamed as her body plunged into the choppy sea.
Driscoll turned his head and was about to follow her when Pierce’s teeth sunk into the Lieutenant’s right shoulder. The pain was excruciating, but a strategically placed right hook hit Pierce in the temple, opening a wide gash. Pierce then tried to ensnare Driscoll’s neck with some rigging, but Driscoll blocked his opponent’s thrust with his elbow. Pierce settled for the Lieutenant’s arm and quickly knotted a clove hitch around it. With his other hand, Pierce released the line from its clamp, unfurling the sailboat’s spinnaker and towing with it Driscoll’s body, which was still shackled to its rigging.
A bullet ricocheted off the aluminum mast. Only the rocking motion of the sailboat saved Pierce from the helicopter’s sniper. Pierce dove for the cockpit’s accessory box, loaded a flare gun, and fired it at the helicopter’ s beacon. The recoil knocked Pierce against the dashboard, but the chopper’s floodlight exploded in a burst of blue sparks. The pilot gained altitude and skittered away.
Pierce fisted another scalpel and lowered himself into the water in search of Margaret while Driscoll remained intertwined in the sailboat’s rigging. The more the Lieutenant tugged at the lines, the more entangled he became. He looked up at the mast. A line had jammed in a pulley a few feet above his head. He stretched out his arm, grimacing in pain from his shoulder wound, and manipulated the rope with his fingers until the line became free. Down he crashed, still caught in the rigging, but no longer its prisoner. He dove into the water in search of Margaret.
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