by Greg Iles
I look away. “I know. Look… does Patrick know anything specific?”
She covers her eyes and sobs again.
“Erin… I’ve got to tell you. He’s outside. Patrick. He’s sitting out there in his Jeep.”
Her hand grips my wrist like a claw. “Now?He’s out there?”
I nod. “He looks pretty bad too.”
“Oh, God. Oh… God.”
I raise myself enough to put my arms around her and pull her shuddering body to mine. Her arms close around my back as her wet face burrows into my neck. I have a sensation very like falling, but falling through time rather than space, and even as I hold her I feel her kick her way under the covers and mold herself to me. Fear and guilt and arousal surge through me in a flood.
“Erin,” I whisper. “Erin-”
“Shhh,” she says, her weight pressing down on me, against me, the heat of her long legs electrifying my skin. “I just want it all to go away. Make him go away.”
“Erin-”
“I hate it!”
I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. I haven’t held her like this since Chicago, not even hugs at family dinners. Now, only hours after I tried in vain to describe her unique sensuality to Lenz, the elusive has become all too tangible. Erin is crying softly, her face still buried in the hollow of my neck. With a shaking hand I stroke the silky hair above her ear, as I would a child’s. “It’s going to be okay,” I murmur, even as a taut wire of fear sets to thrumming in my chest.
She sobs, her breast heaving with irregular breaths. It’s already hot enough under the covers that I’m sweating. I’m about to try to pull back the bedspread when she lifts her head and looks down into my eyes.
“I’m not going back,” she whispers, her mouth inches from mine. “I can’t.”
“Erin, you-”
She puts a finger to my lips and shakes her head. I feel her other hand slip into the hair at the back of my neck.
“Mama?”
I freeze.
“Mama?”
It’s Holly. She’s awakened alone in a strange bed.
Erin jerks upright, her head alert and rigid like that of a doe sensing danger.
“Maaammaa!”
Erin slides off the bed with fluid swiftness, her sheer white nightgown flashing across the room. She stops at the door, hovering like a veil. Then she’s moving back toward me, quickly, but seemingly uncertain of direction. A bright scythe of light slices across my floor. The hall light.
Drewe.
“Daaadeee!”Holly wails.
Daddy? I grope under the mattress for my.38 while Erin stops in the middle of the floor, obviously torn between protecting her child and being caught in the dark with her sister’s husband. Has Patrick broken into the house? Or is Holly calling for him out of habit?
I hear footsteps in the hall.
As I stand with the pistol, Erin vanishes through the door. Seconds later, Holly stops crying. I press my ear to the wall and hear Drewe say, “Everything’s okay, punkin. Mama must be in the bathroom.” Then Holly’s higher voice, crusted with sleep: “Mama went to tee tee, Aunt Drewe?”
As though in answer, the commode flushes down the hall. I hear a quick beat of footsteps, then Erin’s voice through the wall: “I’m sorry she woke you up. I had to pee. I didn’t think she’d wake up. I guess it’s the strange house.”
“I didn’t see the bathroom light,” Drewe replies, ever logical. “I thought something was wrong.”
A pause. “I’m used to finding strange bathrooms in the dark.”
A longer pause, then, “That makes me sad, Erin.”
The shell of my ear aches from the pressure of the wall, but I’m not about to miss this exchange. After a long silence, Drewe says, “Are you okay? Is this all going to work out?”
“I hope so. Let’s don’t talk about it anymore.”
“Talk about what?” Holly asks in a bleary voice.
“Work stuff, honey.”
“Tell me a story, Mama.”
“We’re going back to sleep, punkin.”
“I want a story!”
“Lie down,” Drewe says. “I’ll tell you a story.”
And she makes one up on the spot. It is a tale of a king with two daughters, both beautiful and smart, but each of whom believes she lacks one of the two qualities. We all listen spellbound, recognizing the allegory of Drewe and Erin as they struggle through myriad trials, all of us knowing Drewe will ultimately weave the threads into one of the happy endings she so fervently believes in, and all of us glad for it. This is my wife’s transcendent gift, her optimism, and in the predawn shadows it is proof against despair. As she speaks, her voice like a lantern in the dark, I realize that Drewe is a living archetype of maternal love. Erin and I struggle in states of arrested growth, uncertain of our natures or fighting acceptance of them. But Drewe radiates heat and nurturing love like a warm spring flowing through bedrock, even without a natural object for her affections. I am the only obstacle to the fulfillment of her dreams, and at the deepest level, I know that if I have a duty to anything in this world, it is to bring those dreams to fruition.
After the two princesses have laid their parents to rest and agreed to jointly rule the “queendom”-a concept of which Hans Christian Andersen was apparently ignorant-Drewe says “night-night” to Holly. I expect her to go back to the master bedroom, but instead she appears at my door, a flannel-clad silhouette against the hall light.
“You back?” she asks softly.
“Yeah. Just got here. Everything’s okay. For you and me, anyway. But not Erin. Patrick’s outside.”
“What?”
“He’s parked on the road. I don’t think he’ll do anything crazy. But wake me up if you hear anything weird.”
“This has got to stop,” Drewe says with conviction. “I don’t think I can get back to sleep now. You want to come in and give me the play-by-play on your trip? I’m going to make coffee.”
I have no intention of letting my wife peer into my eyes after the events of the last ten minutes. “I’m pretty wiped out,” I tell her. “I should probably get some sleep.”
She remains at the door. “I’ll throw together some lunch for you,” she says finally. “I’m going to try to talk Erin into going home this morning.”
“Thanks. Good luck.”
“You forgot to close your blinds.”
“I’m so tired it doesn’t matter.”
“’Night,” she says. Then she reaches across the invisible border between our lives and pulls the door shut after her.
Lying motionless in the pale dawn, I am overcome by a terrible certainty that, barring divine intervention, we are all moving toward an explosive revelation of the true and tragic state of affairs. And I am not one to look for divine intervention, at least of the positive sort. Retribution is the only cosmic principle I have ever found the capacity to believe in.
I sleep with the gun under my pillow.
CHAPTER 24
I slept ten hours last night. When I blinked myself awake at three-thirty this afternoon, I felt like I was stepping out of a recompression chamber after a mild case of the bends. Finding the house empty, I walked out to the road-ostensibly to check our mail box-and verified that Patrick’s Jeep had disappeared as well.
I can hardly believe it’s been only four days since I saw the CNN report of Karin Wheat’s death. Only three days since I faced the police in New Orleans, and Detective Mayeux ushered me into the fast-forward world of the FBI and its Investigative Support Unit.
Karin’s body must be in the ground by now. God only knows where her head is. Her burial was probably a circus, with hundreds of gawkers dressed like kids for Halloween. What a grotesque irony. Karin long believed in-or at least wished for-physical immortality, and now she lies sans head in a concrete vault in one of the old French cemeteries that lent Gothic atmosphere to her dark novels.
And in some other place-perhaps just as dark and lonely-a woman named Rosalind Ma
y is lying or standing or sitting tied in a chair, and the most any of us can do is pray there is breath in her lungs. The Mill Creek, Michigan, police have probably turned their city upside down, rousting every homeless drunk and sexual offender within their jurisdiction and coming up with zero. I remember Baxter telling me May had two grown sons. My mind conjures images of them trying to convince themselves that their mother eloped with a secret lover-or even that she was kidnapped by some money-hungry sleazoid-because to accept anything else is to accept that she is beyond mortal succor.
The dazed feeling of decompression sickness will not leave me. Last night, driving home from the Jackson airport, I felt a brief euphoria at successfully extricating myself from the clutches of the FBI. But have I really? Four days ago I disengaged from my normal life with a single phone call, and I have yet to reengage. It’s not for lack of trying. Earlier today-as soon as I saw that Patrick was gone-I sat down at my Gateway 2000 to check the status of my futures positions. The layer of dust that had accumulated on the keyboard in my absence told me the news would not be good, and it wasn’t. I was several thousand dollars down, and the trend was moving against me. Lenz’s suggestion about dumping my contracts looked much better from hindsight. My first thought was, I’ll catch back up. I always do. Yet the old conviction wasn’t there. After a few fruitless minutes of shuffling my options, I stood up, stripped off my clothes, and got into the shower. Thinking about trading was useless. The events of the past days had locked my mind onto a single track.
The mathematics of the situation are simple: one man and seven women are dead; one man killed them all. Rosalind May is missing, probably dead; the same man kidnapped her. The single known element common to all the crimes is EROS, which I know better than anyone on earth save Miles Turner. In some ways-in the human dimension-I may know it better than Miles. But at that point I stop thinking. Because to go further is to admit things I do not want to admit.
Returning from the kitchen with a chicken salad sandwich, I notice the message light blinking on my answering machine. Nine messages. I must have slept like the dead not to hear the phone ringing all day. Taking a bite of my sandwich, I stare at the digital readout, debating whether to play back the tape or just erase the damned thing.
Intuition is a strange thing. The red LED light is inanimate, yet it speaks to me with the urgency of the voices captured as magnetic particles inside that machine. I want to ignore it, but I can’t. Somewhere in the fluid circuits of my brain, a certainty has formed. Most of those voices will say little I wish to hear, but at least one will profoundly change my life. Or at least my perception of it. I’ll wait as long as I can to play them back.
Suddenly, like God laughing at me, the machine clicks and the 9 changes into a red horizontal line. After a moment’s hesitation, I turn up the volume to hear the caller.
“Pick up the goddamn phone, Cole!”
Arthur Lenz. By now his voice rates up there with the shriek of my college alarm clock.
“Your friend Turner has flown the coop, so you’re next on the chopping block. You’d better listen to what I have to say.”
“I’m here,” I say, picking up.
“This isn’t Ed McMahon, my friend.”
“What did you say about Miles?”
“He’s gone AWOL. Slipped his leash.”
“What do you mean?”
“He walked out of EROS headquarters and never came back.”
“When?”
“About two hours ago.”
“How do you know he’s not coming back?”
“Trust me. He’s history.”
Good, I think. “Baxter must have had people following him. How did he get away?”
“That’s immaterial.”
“It is? I thought Baxter was going to arrest him.”
“You warned him, didn’t you, Cole?”
I don’t give Lenz the satisfaction of hearing me deny it.
“It doesn’t matter. A half hour ago Turner’s name went out on a nationwide police alert. He’ll be arrested the second he’s sighted. He’s been classified armed and dangerous.”
“What! You know Miles isn’t armed.”
“There’s a nine-millimeter pistol registered in his name in New Jersey. Did you know that?”
Goddamn it, Miles. “No. But you know him, Doctor. He’s not dangerous.”
“I don’t know anything today, Cole. I tried to help you two, and against the advice of seasoned police officers. Now you’re just about on your own.”
“Just about? What does that mean?”
“It means you should listen closely.”
Here it comes. “I’m listening.”
“I think Turner may run in your direction.”
I laugh out loud. “If that’s what you think, you’re never going to catch him. He’d go to jail before he’d come back to Mississippi. To him it’s the same thing.”
“And he knows I believe that, which is precisely why I think he might do it. Turner’s no fool.”
“I’m still listening.”
“The situation is fluid now. You’re going to notice some surveillance around your house.”
“What? Damn it, you said you were taking care of the harassment.”
“There’s only so much I can do. Daniel must be able to tell the police component of the investigation that he’s watching you. It’ll be local law enforcement.”
“Great. Our felonious sheriff who can’t legally carry a gun?”
“No. Your farm is on the line between Cairo and Yazoo counties, so Baxter chose Yazoo. Still, I have my doubts about local cops being able to handle Turner.”
“If he did show up, they wouldn’t have much trouble spotting him. Miles would be the only guy within sixty miles wearing all black, long hair, and any jewelry besides a ring.”
“You know better than that, Cole.”
“I still think you’re nuts. If I were you, I’d watch the airports in nonextradition islands like Tenerife.”
Lenz hesitates. “How do you know about Tenerife?”
“Christ, you’re paranoid. I read, okay? And so does Miles.”
“Does he have money?”
“You’d know more about that than I would.”
The psychiatrist is silent for several moments. “Here’s the deal, Cole. If Turner contacts you-especially if he shows up at your door-you call me first, then stall him until someone arrives to pick him up.”
“Sorry. You’re asking too much. As far as I know, you have zero evidence that Miles has committed any crime.”
“We have a warrant for his arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Obstruction of justice.”
“Fine. Just don’t expect me to do your work for you.”
“I think you’re forgetting the leverage I hold over you,” Lenz says, his voice tight.
“So much for patient confidentiality, eh?”
“Damn it, can’t you see what’s at stake here?”
“Your career?”
“Rosalind May’s life!”
“I think Rosalind May is dead, Doctor. So do you. And you can bet your last buck that if you reveal anything I told you yesterday, this entire Chinese fire drill of an investigation-I mean every pathetic detail starting with the FBI’s failure even to connect these murders and ending with the glory-hungry shrink and his hot-pants alky wife-will be on A Current Affair by dinnertime tomorrow. And if you think I’m kidding, remember one thing. Miles and I are alike in one very important way. When we say something, we mean it.”
Another icy silence. “I’m not happy about this, Cole.”
“Call somebody who gives a shit.”
This wins me a brief silence. “Let me ask you something, Doctor. What happened today when the EROS file vault opened? I thought you’d sound happier this afternoon.”
“What we found in that vault implicates Turner in ways you wouldn’t like to think about.”
I have no snide response to this, nor any
further point to make. “Good-bye, Doctor Lenz. And good luck. I think you’re going to need it.” I hang up slowly, not wanting him to know he rattled me enough to want to smash the phone into pieces.
So much for normal life. The FBI is throwing its weight around again, and Miles is on the run. I’m surprised he hasn’t bolted before now, given his pathological mistrust of authority. What bothers me is that he hasn’t yet discovered how Brahma stole our master client list, or else hasn’t told me that he has. The latter is more likely. Miles is God of the EROS universe, and if a digital sparrow falls within its bounds, he knows it.
Suddenly my office feels about five sizes too small. I grab what’s left of the sandwich, a cold Tab, and my keys and hit the front door at a trot. The Explorer roars at the pressure of my foot on the accelerator and fishtails up the gravel drive toward the blacktop.
Two hundred yards to my right, parked on the wrong shoulder at the first gentle curve in the road, sits a boxy sedan with a gumball light on the roof. I look left but see no car there, only a turboprop crop duster buzzing over the power lines that border our leased cotton fields. My neighbor finished his aerial defoliation several days ago, but duster pilots have an affinity for flying on the deck, so it may be a pilot in transit.
My adrenaline surging, I gun the motor and drive straight toward the parked car. As I draw near I make out the white silhouette of a Yazoo County sheriff’s department cruiser. I keep the Explorer at fifty-five until I’m almost on top of the car, then squeal to a stop beside the driver’s window. The face is a chubby blur behind the glass. Slowly, the motorized window lowers into the door, and a reddish young face with a wad of Skoal tucked behind its lower lip smiles at me.
“Hey, Harp.”
I know this guy. I played football against him in high school. “Strange place for a speed trap, Billy.”
Deputy Billy smiles wider, then spits in the no-man’s land between our vehicles.
“Gonna get hot out here before long,” I comment.
“Already hot. Ground’s so goddamn dry it’s grateful if you take a piss on it.”
I give him a courtesy laugh. “You know why you’re out here, Billy?”
