Garrett couldn't take his eyes off of Parsons. He knew he should, knew he had a camera in his phone, knew he needed to identify the attacker. But that red line kept his eyes locked. What else would fall out of that horrible red line? He saw a flurry of black and a flash of silver. It was all too fast for his eyes, indistinct like a scribbled charcoal sketch. Garrett would hate himself for it later, but at the sight of that black and silver tornado flashing out and back into the trees, he stopped running and felt his club-wielding arm go limp at his side.
Phil Parsons’ head tilted back at a very wrong angle, blood gushing down his slit shirt as he fell to his knees.
Garrett dropped his club and ran up the hill. Parsons was dead, but a voice was still screaming, ragged and shrill. He eventually recognized it as his own.
Chapter 14
Desmond was packing some of Lucas's clothes and toys when he was startled by a pounding fist on the front door downstairs, followed by a shout: “Police! Open up!” He felt a surge of anger flush through his body. He'd had enough of the police. Showing up in the night to take his sleeping child and now coming back to beat his door down? What the fuck?
He tromped down the stairs with a stuffed penguin still in his hand. The knock and shout came again. Hearing the voice at close range he was pretty sure it wasn't Fournier, but if Fournier wasn't standing on his doorstep right now, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that the man wasn’t behind this somehow.
“Hang on!” Desmond yelled at the door as he reached the bottom of the stairs. But it was too late. He'd come too slowly. The door flew inward with a crack and rebounded off the jackets and sweatshirts hanging from the coat rack on the adjacent wall. Two uniformed cops moved into the entryway, pointing their guns at him, barking at him like German shepherds to get down on his knees and put his hands behind his head now, do it now.
Desmond was stunned by the intensity of the scene. What the hell was this anyway? His anger turned tepid in the face of the over-the-top performance confronting him, and he stood dumbstruck, not moving, not obeying, just thinking that it was weird how much this looked like the scenes on TV. But those were real guns aimed at his head and chest. Looking into the black hole in the muzzle of a 9mm pointed at his face and realizing that his own death could be in there waiting for a finger twitch to shift quantum uncertainty to bloody reality, he raised his hands and bent down on one knee. He almost regretted the submissive pose when a second later Chuck Fournier stepped into the room between the two uniforms.
Fournier didn't have his weapon drawn. He stepped up to Desmond and without a word, slugged him in the solar plexus with an uppercut. Desmond felt the wind knocked out of his lungs and thought he might vomit as he collapsed on the floor. Fournier followed up with a kick to the ribs—pain seared through Desmond’s midsection. One of the officers yelled at Fournier to stop. The other holstered his gun, stepped behind Desmond, and yanked his arms back until it felt like they were about to be dislocated. The officer holding him spoke from just behind his ear, “Not the face, Chuck. Don't hit him in the face.”
Fournier punched him in the gut again. His vision tunneled slightly, and when it cleared Fournier was squatting in front of him holding his head up by the hair. Desmond’s arms, still pinned behind him, were going numb. The other cop produced a pair of handcuffs from a belt pouch and ratcheted them open.
“Where's the sword?” Fournier said.
“What?”
“The sword you killed Phil Parsons with. Same one you killed Sandy with. Where is it?”
Desmond felt like Fournier had just dropped him down an elevator shaft, every blood vessel in his body contracting inward and downward. Phil was dead? Phil had Lucas.
“Where’s Lucas?” He struggled for breath. “Where is he?”
“I'm asking the questions, shitbag. Where's the sword? We have a warrant, but you can save yourself the rest of a beating by just telling me.”
“Listen to me…Chuck. I don't know…what’s going on here. Phil is dead?”
“Don't fuck with me, Des. We have enough to arrest you. You had a grudge with Parsons and you own a sword. He was cut in half this morning, and you're going to tell me where that weapon is or I will beat the filthy fuck out of you. You're a cunt hair away from being a cop killer, and we will take turns on you here and at the station if you don't confess.”
“No. No, no, no. Lucas…Phil had Lucas. What about Karen?”
“Shut up. Where's the weapon?”
“Is Lucas okay? Did he see it happen?”
Fournier slapped Desmond across the face. “Stop acting and answer my question.”
Desmond tried to clear his head, tried to tune out the pain, but merely breathing was making his abdominal muscles burn. Fournier wasn’t asking him where Lucas was, so that meant that whoever killed Phil didn't abduct Lucas or the police would be sure he had. The cops would already be calling Lucas’s name and looking for him upstairs if he was missing. Lucas had to be alive. Had to be. But if they believed that the only threat to Lucas was his own father, then soon no one would be guarding him.
“When?” Desmond asked, “When was Phil killed?” He felt the cuffs tightening around his wrists. Too tight. Fournier ignored the question and told the officer who wasn’t holding Desmond, “Start tearing the place apart.”
“I was at Cedar Junction this morning,” Desmond said. “I'm in the visitor's log. Check it.”
“We will.”
“What time was Phil killed? You know how long it takes to get back here from Walpole, what time?”
“Did you ditch the blade on your way back here?”
Desmond could hear the cop who had gone upstairs, his footsteps creaking through the ceiling, and the sound of a closet door sliding open on rollers.
“I know you took the sword that killed Sandy into this apartment. Why would you do that, Desmond? Huh? Why would you want that thing around your boy?”
Fournier had been watching him, spying on him. Was that with the approval of his superiors? Was there a tap on the phone line from a court order? Desmond's head was swimming. He didn't know if the surveillance would help or hurt him, and it was too hard to think it through with the shock of Phil's death and the delirium of the beating.
He felt as if the cursed katana were dangling from a string above his head, like the sword of Damocles. If he told them where to find it, the string would break and the fact that he had concealed it would come down on him for better or worse. Maybe the dry joint compound would be evidence that the weapon had been placed in the wall before Phil was killed. Or maybe not. And maybe wasn't good enough. Fournier had a hard-on for convicting him, and the two uniforms were an unknown factor.
Now that Desmond was handcuffed, the cops left him kneeling on the living room carpet while they searched the apartment and bagged his laptop. Fournier brooded over him.
“You're not going to find what you're looking for,” Desmond said. “You might as well take me in because I'm not talking to anyone but a lawyer. And the first thing I’ll have him do is photograph the bruises, so you should quit while you're ahead.”
“Is that right?” Fournier said. His face contorted with a flash of frustration, then he sucked on his teeth and hitched up his slacks while apparently contemplating the effectiveness, or at least the satisfaction, that might be afforded by further violence. Desmond couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him. Fournier had lost a mentor in Phil Parsons and a friend in Phil's daughter. They had that in common. Only, Fournier believed that he had the killer of both right here in front of him.
Desmond opened his mouth, afraid of what might come out, but before he could say anything, the other cop descended the stairs and handed Fournier a small slip of paper, a receipt. “I found it in his jeans pocket.”
Fournier studied the slip, then squinted at Desmond and held it out for him to look at. Desmond felt that sinking sensation again.
“I wouldn't peg you as the home improvement type, Des. Home Depot, huh? Just yesterd
ay, in fact. Care to tell me why a renter like you would need…spackle, drywall tape, razor knife, sandpaper, and a lock set?“
Desmond kept his mouth shut.
“Doesn't your landlord handle repairs?”
“I replaced the back door lock after the break-in.”
Fournier snorted. “Break-in…right. And what does that have to do with wall repair?”
Desmond knew that any little lies he spun now would only entangle him later. Damn, it was hard to not talk when you were being prodded by cops. When they had you cornered it was too goddamn easy to forget the Miranda. Anything he said would be remembered, written down, and used against him.
“You lose your temper with your son and punch a wall, Desmond? No crime in that, but a violent man might want to hide the evidence of it.”
“I don't....“
“You don't what? Punch walls? What did you do, Desmond? Huh? Don't want to talk about wall repair. Why is that? Oh, you didn't! You sly devil…you put the sword in a wall?”
Desmond tried for a poker face and saw his failure written all over Fournier's.
“He did, he put it in a wall. Holstein, check the floors and molding for dust, and start looking behind posters and shit. Check for wet paint.”
“I'm on it. Bound to be a rough job if he was in a hurry and got no skills.”
“That's what I'm thinking,” Fournier said.
The shorter of the two officers, Holstein apparently, climbed the stairs again, and Desmond contemplated just giving it up. He didn't have long to consider the benefits of cooperation. Only about a minute had passed when he heard a whistle from upstairs, followed by, “Think I found it.”
Fournier hoisted Desmond to his feet and frog-marched him up the stairs. When they reached the landing where the staircase turned, Desmond could see that the mirror had been removed from the wall. At the top of the stairs Holstein was kneeling in front of the patch, running his hand over the smoothly sanded joint compound. His fingers came away white with fine powder. “Not a bad patch,” he said with teasing admiration, “but it's not painted.”
Fournier squatted and ran his fingers over the wall. “Looks long enough. But maybe too smooth for fuckface here. Could be the landlord never painted it because he knew he was gonna hang the mirror there.”
Holstein shook his head. “I found it from dust on the carpet. See? Looks vacuumed but he missed a spot.”
Fournier turned to Desmond. “You vacuum one spot in the whole shitty apartment and it kinda stands out, Des.”
“It's dry,” Desmond said. “Look at how dry it is. If you think I patched it today and had time to sand it, you're crazy.” He thought Fournier would look for the razor knife, or some kind of tool to cut the wall with. Instead, Fournier just raised his knee and kicked the sheetrock in, leaving a cavity of torn paper and crumbling chalk. Through the hole Desmond could see part of the scabbard. If he'd had any doubts before, he knew in that moment that Chuck Fournier was one brash son of a bitch. No concern for preserving evidence, no concern for the possibility that the sole of his shoe might be sliced open by a bare blade inside the wall.
Fournier grabbed a chunk of sheetrock and pulled on it to widen the gap, tearing away an even larger section of wall until it folded and broke off in his hand. He brushed away some dust and peered in at the sword.
“I dunno, Holstein,” he said absently, “That spackle look dry to you before I kicked it? Felt a little mushy to me.” Fournier took a latex glove from his back pocket, blew into it and rolled it over his meaty hand. Then he cracked more of the wall with his elbow, ripped the sheetrock away with his ungloved hand, and gingerly removed the sword with the gloved one.
The scabbard and hilt were speckled with white dust. Fournier appraised the weapon with a grimace, wrapped his gloved hand around the hilt and drew the blade from the metal sheath, turning it over in the light that spilled into the hallway from the window in Lucas's room. Desmond knew the blade was as clean as a steak knife in a drawer, and he could see the disappointment registering on Fournier's face. No blood. Fournier slid the sword back down into the scabbard. He shone a small flashlight into the hole, up and down, making sure there wasn't anything else in there—maybe a bloody rag, a pair of gloves or a mask that Desmond might have worn for the kill. Fournier’s jaw had an odd set to it, like he was grinding his teeth. He wheeled around, cocked the metal barrel of the flashlight back and clipped Desmond across the temple with it.
* * *
At the station, Desmond kept his mouth shut while they booked him. It was a pretty quick process because his prints were already in the system from his wife's murder case. He was grateful for the slight reduction in the amount of time he had to spend among men who believed he had killed a veteran cop.
They left him in the cell for what felt like an hour before moving him to one of the interrogation rooms with the mirrors and microphones. There was a sheet of paper and a pen on the table. A man was waiting for him. Desmond recognized him as one of the men who had worked on Sandy's case, but he couldn't remember the name. One of the incompetents who had put away a blind drunk lunatic and let the real psychopath run amok to revisit the family with a blade, and the best they could do now was rerun the harassment they had doled out on him a year ago.
“Take a seat. I'm Detective Sanborn. You might remember me.”
“I do.” Desmond said. “You're one of the guys who didn't catch my wife's killer.”
Sanborn put his hands on the back of the chair opposite Desmond and looked at him with tired, hooded eyes. “Lot of people think that now,” he said. “Lot of guys around here feel guilty about not being able to prove it was you. Might have saved Phil's life.”
Sanborn slid the chair out from under the table and sat down, folded his hands and twitched a finger at the blank paper. “Why don't you write it all down for me, Desmond. How you killed your wife and father‐in-law. Proving that you did it is pretty much a done deal, but why is still a matter of interpretation, and I figure you had your reasons.”
“Reasons?”
“Sure. There's always a reason. You felt they wronged you in some way. You can get it off your chest now, so people don't just think you're a nut job. You're an artist, right? A writer. You think in terms of…poetic justice, right? So you probably had reasons. Why don't you share them with me? Do what you're best at, Des. Can I call you Des? Write your story, or other people will write it for you.”
Desmond picked up the page, but not the pen. He said, “My son found a piece of paper folded into an origami butterfly yesterday. It had a message on it in Japanese. I don't know how to fold origami or write kanji…but I do know that all of this Japanese culture must mean something to whoever killed Sandy and her father. So I asked a Japanese man to translate it for me, and it said fly. I think it's a warning, like the haiku I found typed into my laptop. I called the police about that, but no one wanted to take me seriously. If you guys had listened to me then, Phil might still be alive. You’re asking me for motive because you've got nothing.”
“I have nothing? I think I have a pretty simple explanation of events. You were cracking under the pressure of being a single parent, cracking under the guilt of killing your son’s mother. So you start projecting your violent urges outward onto an imaginary character, a samurai. This is something you're well practiced at—inventing imaginary warriors. You inhabit the role; wear a mask to scare your kid…. You're trying to bring this character to life. But then, when everybody sees right through it and starts to question your soundness of mind, your fitness as a father, maybe even your innocence, you get angry. Phil Parsons takes Lucas from you, and you snap. You kill again and decide to hide the weapon in your wall. That's my Cliffs Notes version. You want to flesh it out for me?”
“Where's Chuck? Did the sheriff replace him with you when he saw my temple? Or are you supposed to be the good cop, and they'll send him in to rough me up some more if I don't say what you want to hear? Is he watching on the other side of the gla
ss?”
Desmond looked at the mirror and waved. “Hi, Chuck,” he said, and frowned at the sight of his swollen eyebrow where the flashlight had clipped him. He touched a finger to it and winced. Turning back to Sanborn, he said, “There's more on my torso. You understand that I will probably sue the holy hell out of this police department when all of this is over. You guys fail to catch my wife's killer, and when he starts coming for the rest of my family, you help abduct my son, harass me, beat me.... Look, I just want to know that Lucas is safe, and that the killer can't get at him. I don't care about anything else. Just promise me you won't leave him unprotected just because you have me.”
“Lucas is fine. He's safe.”
“Is he in the building?”
“You know I can't answer that.”
“I'd feel a lot better if I knew he was in a police station. Do you really think Karen can keep him safe? Do you have officers watching the house?”
“Let's talk about you, Desmond, how you spent your morning.”
“I'll talk about anything you want, but first you need to tell me where Lucas is.”
“It doesn't work that way.”
“No? You guys make deals all the time. I can shut up and wait for a lawyer who will advise me to keep my mouth shut, or we can talk. But I need to know that my son isn’t sitting in an unguarded house with just his grandmother. Do you have kids? Because this is on you. If you're wrong about me and anything should happen to him….” Desmond could feel his voice breaking, could see the genuine desperation he radiated having an effect on Sanborn. The inspector was getting just a little bit confused. A seed of doubt had been planted.
“You visited Harwood at Cedar Junction this morning. Made the appointment yesterday. Why? What did you talk about?”
“Tell me about Lucas, dammit! Does he know about Phil? For God’s sake, he lost his mother and I don't know what he's been told about being taken from me…now his grandfather is dead. Does he know?”
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