What Waits for You

by Joseph Schneider

  Jarsdel stepped nearer. The tack box was thick and sturdy, the lid fitted with a heavy hasp and staple. “That where you kept him?”

  Sponholz gave no sign that he heard. “Might wanna stand back. Could get sprayed.” He dropped the brush, picked up the hose, and squeezed the nozzle. A jet of water slapping wood, Sponholz wiggling his wrist back and forth, rinsing away the bleach. He put down the hose, retrieved the brush, and went back to scrubbing.

  “Where’s the horse?” said Jarsdel.

  “Sold. Twenty grand. Guy wanted to put him out to stud, just like Jack Woltz was gonna do with Khartoum.”

  “How’d you find him?” said Jarsdel.

  “Who? Guy who bought the horse?”

  “The Creeper.”

  “The Creeper,” said Sponholz. “Pretty crazy question.”

  “Not really. Not as crazy as kidnapping him and framing him for your wife’s murder.”

  “Tully, I’m starting to get a little annoyed. I don’t remember inviting you in here, and I’d really like some alone time right now.”

  “I’m putting you under arrest, Lieutenant.”

  Sponholz gave a low chuckle. “No, you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “Detective.” Sponholz threw the brush into the tack box, hard, then glared at Jarsdel. “Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. Incorrect, understand? If you don’t get out of here immediately, like right the hell now, you’re finished as a detective. You’ve got no probable cause to be harassing me.”

  “I’ve got you on video going into Send It Packing.”

  Sponholz laughed. “So what? I go there all the time. They’ve got a very funny greeting card section.”

  “They’ve also got a photocopier. The one you used to make up the latest Creeper letter.”

  “That’s a hell of an accusation. Especially since the only print you’ve got on it is from some hoodlum somewhere.”

  Jarsdel reached into his front pants pocket with his left hand, ignoring the sting of his wounds, and took out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to the lieutenant, who opened it. When he saw it was a copy of the Creeper letter from that morning, he looked unimpressed. “I’ve seen it.”

  “You didn’t know his print was on it. No way you could have, because it would’ve been invisible until they hit it with the ninhydrin. You thought by photocopying it again and again, you’d make it harder to trace. Ironic—don’t you think?—that the final copy you settled on happened to bear the thumbprint of a convicted felon. The most beautiful print the guys over at FSD ever saw, right? I wondered about that, how it got on there that way, with no amino acids on the back of the sheet. I mean, how do you handle a piece of paper without touching both sides? That’s why I was so sure it was him at first. I thought he’d gotten sloppy, put his thumb on there when he mailed it. Classic confirmation bias. Decided he was guilty, then tried to make the pieces fit.”

  Jarsdel shook his head. “Ever load a copy machine, Lieutenant? Something I had to do pretty often when I taught college. It’s easy, though. Grab a ream of paper. It’s kinda heavy, so you grip it like this…” He demonstrated, shaping his hand as if he were holding a cheeseburger. “Load it in the tray. You do this a couple more times—those big machines can hold several reams. Close the tray. That’s it. Of course, you’d leave a nice set of prints on the top and bottom page of each ream. The top one in particular, that’d be the real star, with the angle of the thumb being so straight, and all that downward pressure.”

  Sponholz looked bored. “You want this back?”

  “Five hundred sheets in a ream. Copier probably midsize at a place like that, say five reams max. Means at the most there were ten sheets in that copier that would’ve sunk you. Ten, out of twenty-five hundred. You should play roulette.”

  Sponholz let go of the letter. It seesawed downward, landing in the wet dirt. “None of this impresses me, Detective. And it won’t impress anybody else.”

  “Not to file charges, I agree. But it was enough to get the warrant.”

  The lieutenant cocked his head. He was affecting casual curiosity, but his lips had tightened. A crease appeared on his forehead. “Warrant? You don’t need a warrant. You’re welcome to look around as much as you like, if it makes you happy. I don’t care—bring in a whole FSD team if you think I’m hiding something. I promise you there’s nothing to find.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. You had to have known we’d eventually figure out Bengochea didn’t do it, and we’d find you on the security footage. Couldn’t take the chance we’d come out here and find your prisoner. Had a good head start. And this bleach job looks about as thorough as you can get.”

  “Like I said,” Sponholz shrugged, “feel free to take a tour. You won’t find anything to corroborate these fantasies of yours. But if a warrant makes you feel better, I’ll call Judge Monson and put it through myself.”

  “Oh, the warrant’s not for here,” said Jarsdel.

  The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “Where… I mean, okay, fine. Go execute it, then.”

  “No need. Detective Rall’s on his way there now.”

  “Goodwin?” Sponholz looked uneasy. “You dragged him into this nonsense?”

  Jarsdel examined the lieutenant carefully, paying close attention to his hands, making sure he didn’t reach for anything.

  “Where’s he going? Wait—you know what? Don’t tell me. See, I don’t care, because it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you can find anywhere that’s going to implicate me. For the sake of argument, let’s say I wasn’t innocent of these bizarre and very ungentlemanly accusations. You’re speaking to one of the most experienced murder cops in the world. A guy like that wouldn’t make stupid mistakes.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” said Jarsdel. “It was a mistake to alibi yourself at the gym when you normally don’t sign in.”

  Sponholz’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “That’s your big reveal? Sign-in logs? Forgive me if I don’t throw myself at your feet, pleading for mercy. And I gotta be honest with you, I’m not seeing a whole lot of the whiz-bang intellect you’re supposed to have.”

  “Your letters, those were the big slipups,” Jarsdel went on. “I understand why you wrote them, though. With the first one you wanted to back up your creaky demonology, numerology angle, get us all sniffing in the wrong direction. You had prints and contact DNA on it, too. With the second letter, you wanted to give a reason why the Creeper murders were about to end. He had to still be out there somewhere for you to get away totally clean. But you also knew he wasn’t going to be making any more crime scenes, so you came up with that bit about his moving on and changing up his MO.”

  “Wow, you’ve got me,” said Sponholz. “Oh, wait. No, you don’t.”

  “No Creeper prints on that second letter. No DNA, either. Didn’t have him anymore, did you?”

  Sponholz seemed to notice Jarsdel’s gun for the first time. “Holster that, Detective.”

  “Don’t run when you’re not being chased. Had a professor used to say that. Don’t go out of your way to defend points that aren’t being attacked. It just calls attention to them. You ran, Lieutenant, and nobody was chasing you.”

  “Holster your weapon, that’s an order.”

  “You’re under arrest. Against the wall.”

  “You’ve got no fucking proof!” Sponholz roared. “Not one thing! You’re out of your goddamned mind if you think I’m going anywhere with you. Why don’t you hand me that Glock and I’ll blow your fucking head apart, because you might as well just kill yourself. I can’t even tell you how many ways you’re done.”

  He made a move toward him, and Jarsdel raised the gun, pointing it at Sponholz’s heart.

  Color left the lieutenant’s face. “You’ll burn for this. My God, what I’m gonna do to you.”

  “You’ve already done it,” said Jar
sdel. “Besides, I have a feeling you’ll be pretty well occupied in the foreseeable future. That hole punch is going to be a major problem for your defense.”

  Sponholz stared at him. Blinked once, twice. “Hole punch?”

  “You know, the one you used to make the letters in the first Creeper note.”

  “Hole punch,” the lieutenant repeated. He spoke the words softly, almost lovingly.

  “I’m guessing in a desk drawer back at your house.” When Sponholz didn’t answer, Jarsdel nodded. “Every tool’s unique. Wear and tear, dullness, microscopic imperfections in the metal. FSD’ll be able to match it to the note. Even if for some reason they couldn’t, I bet we’d find the punched-out bits of paper in the little collecting tray.”

  Sponholz put out a hand, bracing himself against the side of the stall. His knees trembled. Jarsdel kept the gun on him anyway.

  The lieutenant mumbled something.

  “Again, please?”

  “I said I’m very tired.”

  “Then I guess it’s not all bad news,” said Jarsdel. “At least you’ll have plenty of time to rest. Turn around, hands on the wall.”

  Sponholz didn’t move. “I feel so old now. I’m not that old, not really, but I feel like I am.”

  “The wall.”

  “I’m a peaceful person. Before all this, I never even got into a playground scuffle. It’s a horrible thing, to be pushed into violence.”

  Jarsdel dipped his hand to his cuffs. “Hands. That’s the last time.”

  Sponholz sagged, but he did as he was told. Jarsdel stepped forward. Keeping the gun pointed at the lieutenant’s spine, Jarsdel snapped the first bracelet around the man’s right wrist. The ratchet rasped loud in the empty barn. It was at that moment, just when Jarsdel had finished cuffing the first wrist and was reaching for the second, that it happened.

  It didn’t matter that Jarsdel had feared such an attack for so long. Even as it occurred, he marveled at the sluggishness of his reaction time. Sponholz went from stooped, dazed victimhood to pure animal frenzy so quickly that Jarsdel hadn’t managed to put an ounce of pull on the trigger.

  The lieutenant spun, whipping the free handcuff bracelet toward Jarsdel’s face. It took him high on the cheek, right on the bone. Sharp, explosive pain, like a brand. Still, he tried bringing the Glock around to fire, but Sponholz was on him, both hands cinched around his forearm, swinging the barrel upward toward the ceiling. A knee flew into Jarsdel’s ribs—once, twice. His gun arm weakened. He tried keeping Sponholz back with the palm of his left hand, planting it on the man’s chin and pushing hard.

  Sponholz angled out of the way, and Jarsdel’s hand went forward into empty space. Before he could recover, Sponholz darted in and seized Jarsdel’s fingers between his teeth. Until then, their fight had been mostly silent. But as the lieutenant’s teeth found the wounds and sawed through the stitches, Jarsdel screamed. He forgot about the gun—it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that tremendous, consuming agony. It eclipsed all other thoughts, all other needs. Getting the pain to stop, that was all he wanted.

  He let Sponholz have the gun. Sponholz let him have his hand back.

  Jarsdel fell to his knees, cradling his mangled fingers. His dressings were sticky with blood. Drops pooled in his nail beds, welled, and fell to the dirt floor. Jarsdel could hear them hit.

  “Sorry ’bout that.” Sponholz said from somewhere far away. “We don’t have a lot of time, though. Can you walk?”

  Jarsdel’s vision had blurred, even though he could feel his glasses were still on. He blinked, and everything cleared. Tears. He was crying. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried from pain. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “C’mon, get up. You gotta get up.”

  Groggy, Jarsdel lifted his head and found himself staring into the small black eye of his own weapon. A shudder passed through him, and he grew dizzy.

  “Uh-uh, stay with me. You pass out and I’m gonna have to shoot you. I don’t want to do that unless I absolutely have to.”

  “Feel sick.”

  “Throw up if you have to, but stay with me. Seriously, I also need you to get up and get moving. If you don’t move, that’ll be another reason to shoot you.”

  Jarsdel gripped the side of the stall and pulled himself to his feet. A new wave of dizziness hit him.

  “Take a breath,” said Sponholz.

  Jarsdel did as he was told. Slowly in and slowly out.

  “Hate to rush you, but again you’ve got about five seconds to get going before I put you out of your misery.”

  Jarsdel stumbled out of the stall toward the open barn doors. Once outside, he tried to turn and look back at Sponholz.

  “Eyes forward,” said the lieutenant.

  Jarsdel continued on until he reached the steep, sandy slope near the barn. He angled his body sideways and picked his way carefully down the steps to the path below. The crunch of boots against the hard-packed earth told him Sponholz was very close behind.

  “Where to now?” Jarsdel asked.

  “Well, since I imagine they’ll be looking for my car, we’ll have to take yours. Give us a bit of a head start. You’re parked down the road, I presume?”

  Jarsdel nodded.

  “Is that a yes? You’re stumbling a little and it’s pretty dark. You’ll have to answer me vocally.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Straight down the path to the gate.”

  A strange new warmth descended on Jarsdel. A feeling of relaxation totally at odds with his circumstances. He guessed this must be a wave of endorphins dispatched from his brain to help him survive. Part of him understood that if the pain took over, he wouldn’t be able to continue, and that would mean the end of his life.

  “Can I ask what the plan is?”

  Sponholz gave a weary exhale. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m kind of winging it here.”

  “Should I assume I’m not making it out of this alive?”

  “I don’t know. Please don’t put that kind of pressure on me right now.”

  They were almost to the gate. “You can go ahead and open it,” said Sponholz.

  Carefully, keeping his left hand pressed protectively against his chest, Jarsdel pushed the gate away from him. It swung out, once again screeching and groaning.

  “Awfully loud,” said Sponholz. “Never really realized how loud it is. Okay, keep going.”

  “To where?”

  “Oh, sorry. To your car.”

  The pain and the shot of endorphins acted as a kind of heavy blanket on Jarsdel’s cognition. His thoughts were poorly defined, just shapes beneath the fabric, and he struggled to make them out. Soon they were to the main road. Jarsdel turned left, keeping to the shoulder.

  “If a car comes, put your hands in your pockets and look casual. Two guys out for a stroll. If whoever’s driving stops for whatever reason, I’ll have to shoot you and anyone in the car.”

  “Why’d you kill your wife?” Jarsdel doubted it was a good idea to ask such a question, but he needed to keep his mind moving. If he could do that while keeping Sponholz’s thoughts occupied, stalled out on the past, even better. To his surprise, the lieutenant answered.

  “That’s a very personal question. It’s funny—I’m surprised at my own reaction to that. But it’s true. Just seems oddly personal. In a way I’m glad you asked—helps to say it aloud. Okay. Number one, it was a loveless situation. I didn’t hate her. It was just a cold, cold lifestyle. Never showed any interest in my work. And not in the things that really moved me. You know in all the years we were together, she only went to one play with me? Miss Saigon, and that was like two decades ago.” He cleared his throat.

  “I’m not explaining this very well. It sounds superficial to you, I imagine—You nuts? Killed your wife over that? Well, yes. She
was a joyless nothing. And she had, as you know, this very lucrative policy in place, and… Well. It wears down on you, being married to someone who doesn’t value you, doesn’t appreciate you. Murder doesn’t have to be about hatred. It can be about freedom. Even when I had my hands around her neck, it was less about doing violence than it was about moving on to something better. It was the least malicious murder in history.”

  Doing violence. The words echoed in Jarsdel’s head, and he realized with a sense of gushing relief that all wasn’t yet lost. He still had the Bodyguard Morales had given him. It was there, strapped to his ankle, packed with .357 special wadcutters that would act like mini deer slugs, each capable at this range of putting a hole in Sponholz the size of a quarter on one end and a softball on the other.

  How to get to it without Sponholz sending a bullet into his spine?

  “When you came to work that day, all beat up,” said Jarsdel, “that was the Creeper, I’m assuming. You’d already caught him.”

  “It was worse than it looked. Fought like an animal. The scratches and bruises you saw, that was nothing. Bit me twice. One on the side and another on my left bicep. Didn’t break the skin, but the bruises were hideous.”

  “And you made sure to bring coffee to Amy’s work. Showcase your wounds so everyone could see them, see her alive, too. Roomful of witnesses.”

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  Maybe if he pretended to sprain his ankle, he could reach down and pull the gun from the holster. “You kept him in that tack box? In the barn?”

  The lieutenant didn’t answer, and Jarsdel stopped moving. “How long?”

  “Keep moving.”

  When Jarsdel resumed his shambling walk, Sponholz said, “Eleven days. Cut a little hole in the side so he’d have fresh air. Fed him. Hosed him down when he got too rank.”

  “And your wife? What was his role in all that?”

  “Generous donor. Donated blood for Amy’s mouth and the spatter on the lamp. Few strands of his hair, which I scattered judiciously. And of course he donated his right hand for all the prints I needed.”

  “Why the broom?”