by Candice Fox
Keeps took the lid off the reusable coffee cup she had filled for him and sipped the brew. He gave a small snort and she followed his eyes to the house across the road.
‘What?’
‘That outdoor setting there,’ Keeps said. ‘In the yard.’ Celine looked through an open gate and could see the outline of a six-seater wooden setting under a pergola.
‘What about it?’
‘That’s a Jacqueline setting,’ Keeps said. ‘Six seater, solid oak with UV and water-resistant Texteline and cotton-blend cushions.’
‘You’re an outdoor furniture connoisseur now?’ Celine frowned.
‘Yeah,’ Keeps sipped his coffee again, staring out the window. ‘I got that way. Used to be when I needed a quick buck I would slip into a nice neighbourhood like this, have a look around, find a house with a big ole expensive outdoor setting in the yard. I’d hop the fence, take a picture of the furniture, put it on the internet at a ridiculously low price. You’d have people turning up within a half an hour with a trailer to haul it away.’
‘How much would you get for a setting like that?’ Celine asked.
‘It retails for about three grand.’ Keeps said. ‘You’d list it for four hundred. Get people climbing over the top of each other to get to you.’
‘Don’t even have to break into the house,’ Celine said. Keeps didn’t seem to register her tone.
‘It’s a good play.’ Keeps shrugged. ‘Not the best.’
‘What’s your best?’
He thought for a moment.
‘The Burn and Return.’ He gave a smile, remembering. ‘It’s simple and it’s fast. You can play it anywhere, and it doesn’t require a huge set-up.’
‘How does it work?’ Celine asked.
‘You buy an electrical device – say, a waffle maker – from a department store. You don’t spend much. Twenty bucks. You take it somewhere, set it on fire. When it’s peak hour at the store, you bring it back and get hysterical with the manager that the thing almost burned your house down. You either demand a top-of-the-range, ultra-expensive replacement, which you then go and pawn, or you demand cash for your trouble.’
‘And you’ve done that?’
‘Plenty of times. When I was young and stupid.’ Keeps nodded. ‘I’d use my girlfriend sometimes, maybe, if I had one. She’s there screaming that she’s going to sue the franchise, she’s going to call CNN. If you can rope in somebody who’s got a little kid, that ups the stakes. You put a bandage on the kid’s arm and tell the manager your kid got burned. The manager doesn’t check with head office. You’re causing a scene. The kid’s crying. People are staring. He hurls money at you.’
Celine sat for a while, her stomach shifting uncomfortably.
‘Listen,’ she said eventually. ‘Now’s the time to bounce if you want to bounce.’
‘I’ll hang in for another day,’ Keeps sighed. ‘This game is a bit smarter than the old Burn and Return. I’m interested. And I need the cash.’
‘You think Trinity is really going to pay you a hundred bucks an hour for your services?’
‘It’s ninety now,’ he said. ‘I told you. A hundred was the release-day premium rate. And yes, I do. She’ll give me the money or I’ll take it.’
Celine felt a tremor of uncertainty in her core and reminded herself that she really didn’t know this man at all. She started the car and pulled out, and Keeps flicked on the radio.
‘. . . dinary tale of an encounter with two of the most wanted fugitives on the loose from Pronghorn Correctional Facility. The woman—’
‘Turn it up,’ Celine said.
‘—Shondra Aguirre, claims that the North Nevada Strangler, Homer Carrington, and family killer John Kradle abducted her when she stopped to assist them on the Route 15 highway in south Mesquite.’
‘That’s your boy,’ Keeps said.
‘. . . of true terror and survival, with an unlikely twist: “John Kradle let me go. He was going to hurt me, the big one, Carrington. The strangler. He was gonna rape me. I know it. I know it. But Kradle, he, like, set it up so I could get away. He made a show, like, ‘Ahh, yeah, bro, I wanna go first,’ and then he let me go out the back window of my house.”’
‘You want to put this in the Not Guilty column?’ Keeps asked. ‘Or should we save it for the Character Witnesses column?’
‘I don’t know where to put it.’ Celine gripped the wheel and tried to focus on the road. ‘I don’t . . . I mean, we can’t judge it. It’s not relevant. And there’s not enough information. I’m still undecided on Kradle, okay?’
Keeps took out his cell phone and began to dial.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Helping you decide,’ he said.
Celine drove. They had left the suburbs and turned onto the highway, heading towards Pronghorn, and as her speed rose so did a growing dread creeping like bile up her throat. She turned down the radio as Keeps’s call connected.
‘Ah, yes, hi. I’m calling to speak to Dr Martin Stinway,’ Keeps said. His voice had changed. His words were clipped, thin, his jaw jutting forwards as he snuggled back in his seat, eyes on the road ahead. ‘That’s you? Excellent. Listen, this is Damien Koenig-Hadley calling. I’m an investigative journalist with the New York Times.’
Celine widened her eyes, reached over and slapped his chest. Keeps didn’t react.
‘Yes, I know that, yes. It’s only a couple of quotes that I’m after, or a no comment. Whichever you’d prefer. I’m working on a story about John Kradle, one of the escaped fugitives from Pronghorn Correctional Facility in Nevada, and the ongoing investigation into his case. You’ve been watching it all on the news, I presume?’
Keeps took the phone away from his ear and put the call on speaker. Celine heard the high, sharp voice of Dr Stinway coming through the line.
‘What investigation? What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, well, I’m surprised you haven’t been informed. Perhaps the FBI hasn’t got to you yet,’ Keeps said. He gestured for Celine to keep her eyes on the road.
‘Son, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me here,’ the doctor snapped.
‘Let me explain,’ Keeps said. ‘My story about Kradle and the re-examination of his case has been cooking along for some time now, and with the breakout in the headlines, I’ve been approved for a massive feature. A source told me some months ago that agents from the Bureau were looking into the possibility that Kradle was framed for killing his family, that perhaps there had been some police involvement in that framing. Crooked cops tampering with evidence, trying to pin the murders on the husband.’
Celine yanked the car to the side of the road. Keeps covered the receiver just in time to mask her growl. ‘This is not how—’
‘Shhh!’ he hissed.
‘Are you still there?’ Stinway said.
‘Yes, I’m here. Sorry. I’m sharing my office today with another journalist who’s also on a call.’ Keeps shot Celine a warning glare. ‘She’s the loud, inconsiderate type but, you know, cutbacks in the media. What were you saying?’
‘I was saying I don’t know anything about a-a-a frame job.’ Stinway gave a hard, short sigh. ‘This is all news to me.’
‘So you recall the case and the evidence you gave in it?’
‘Yeah,’ Stinway said. ‘I remember it well. And I’ll tell you what I told John Kradle’s lawyer: That I stand by any evidence I’ve ever given in any case of which I’ve ever been a part. I’m a scientist. We value truth above all things.’
‘You testified that a microfibre examination of Kradle’s clothing definitively proved he and no one else committed the murders.’
‘Yes.’
‘That gunshot residue patterns indicated that he’d fired the weapon.’
There was a pause. Celine wrung the steering wheel.
‘Look, you can discount the gunshot residue stuff,’ Stinway said. ‘That doesn’t hold up anymore.’
‘But you believed at the time that it did hol
d up, as you say?’
‘It was . . .’ Stinway sighed again, making the line rattle.
‘The truth, above all else?’
‘Yes,’ Stinway said. ‘Gunshot residue evidence was, at the time, undergoing some . . . some, uh, peer review. It was tricky. But if you did it right . . . Look, never mind. The truth has to take into account not only what I’m examining on my table but what the overall picture is. The evidence I had before me was . . . was part of the story. The overarching story. You understand? It’s all part of a picture.’
‘What about the blood spatter? You said patterns indicated that Kradle had struggled with his son while the boy was still alive. That those patterns could not have been made after the fact – when, perhaps, Kradle found the bodies.’
‘Listen to me,’ Stinway said, ‘I’m a man of science.’
‘So you’ve said.’
‘And I’m not . . . I’m not the world’s tallest man.’
‘The . . . world’s tallest man?’ Keeps frowned.
‘Have you met the detective who worked on this case? Frapport? He’s a big guy. He’s a big, loud, intimidating guy. Full of confidence. Full of-of-of bluster. Okay? Imagine you’re there and he comes in with a stack of notes – a binder, a big binder with pieces of paper sticking out of it and photographs and witness statements. He tells you he just wants your piece of the puzzle – of the picture – to match up to everything that’s in this binder.’ Stinway cleared his throat. ‘This huge binder. You-you-you say you’re going to look into it. And the next thing you know, he’s calling you. Barking down the phone. Wanting to know if you’ve checked it out yet.’
Celine rolled down her window. The desert air was cool, but it gave her no relief.
‘So you’re saying Detective Frapport intimidated you?’ Keeps asked.
‘No.’ Stinway gave a pause. ‘I mean. Some of the evidence . . . sometimes it’s the kind of thing that can go one way or the other.’
‘It can?’ Keeps asked.
‘Sometimes you’ve got to make a ruling. Is it inconclusive, or is it positive? Maybe it’s inconclusive on its own. We’re talking about a couple of specks of blood on a shirt. But you have to interpret the evidence. And you have to consider what else you know about the case.’
‘What else did you know?’
‘I knew that the father confessed.’
Keeps reached over and slapped Celine’s arm. She didn’t move.
‘The detective told you that John Kradle had confessed?’ Keeps asked.
‘Yes,’ Stinway said. ‘Detective Frapport said I wouldn’t have to testify, because the guy had already confessed.’
Keeps was tugging on Celine’s arm. She brushed him off, her eyes locked on the horizon.
‘What else did you know?’ Keeps asked.
‘Well, I knew there was an enormous goddamn binder full of evidence Frapport had collected which said he did it. Imagine you’re there, and he’s leaning on you to say the same—’
‘He leaned on you?’
‘No. I mean. He never said he—’ Stinway made a sound, like a groan, an exhalation. Celine could almost see him leaning his forehead in his hand. ‘I can’t have another scandal in the papers,’ Stinway said. ‘I can’t have the FBI turning up on my doorstep. I mean, when it was the lawyer looking into it, I could blow it off. But I’m not . . . I can’t be talking to the FBI and . . . Not now. I’m already on thin ice here.’
‘With your employer, you mean?’ Keeps asked.
‘No, with my wife.’ Stinway laughed sadly.
Keeps and Celine stared at the phone resting now in Keeps’s lap, the green light indicating the call was on.
‘It made sense that it was the husband,’ Stinway said. ‘It’s always the husband. And my job is to look at the evidence and make it make sense.’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Celine said. Keeps ended the call and the two sat quietly, the car engine ticking as it cooled down. ‘How did you know that would work?’ she asked.
‘People always talk to journalists,’ Keeps said. ‘Sometimes not right away. But eventually. They figure the story is going to get written one way or another, and this is their chance to put the record straight.’
Celine nodded.
A sheriff’s cruiser breezed past them on the road, heading for Pronghorn. Keeps started to speak again, but Celine held a hand up to silence him. She started the car and pulled out onto the road.
CHAPTER 25
Kradle tugged back the hood, certain that the light of the kitchen would reveal his true identity to Shelley Frapport and that some change would come over her. That she would cower and scream, twist away, that the numb terror that had infected the woman named Shondra would envelop her too, once she fully realised the situation she was in. But none of that happened. The boy named Tom took all of the shock into his thin frame instead, stepping back hard into the countertop and gripping it with his hands.
‘Oh, wh-wh-whoa,’ he stammered. ‘Whoa. Whoa!’
‘Tom.’ Shelley took the boy’s arm. He grabbed her in response, his fingers buried deep in the fluffy fabric of her robe.
‘Mom, Mom, that’s—’
‘John Kradle. I know.’
‘You know?’ Kradle said.
‘Tom, it’s okay.’ The woman smoothed her son’s hair. She had an eerie calm about her, as though she had been prepared for one of the nation’s most wanted men to turn up in her kitchen. ‘Just sit down. Sit here.’
She pointed to a chair at a small dining setting in the corner of the room. The boy didn’t budge. His eyes were on Kradle, huge and quick, like those of a frightened bird. Kradle went and sat instead. He felt as if he was walking in a dream and, if this was indeed some kind of hallucination, getting into a chair seemed like a good idea in case he started floating around the ceiling. Shelley went to the cupboard and took out a loaf of bread, opened the fridge and extracted a gallon of milk, and the man and the boy watched her from their separate strongholds in the small room. The black dog treated itself to a trotting tour around the dining room and, not finding the cat or anything else that interested it, came back and sat by Kradle’s chair, eyes on the bread.
‘You must be starving.’ Shelley selected a knife from a drawer. ‘Let me make you something, and then we can talk.’
‘I . . .’ Kradle found himself looking at the boy, almost for help. ‘This is . . . You’ve been . . .?’
‘Expecting you.’ Shelley nodded. ‘Well. Not exactly expecting you. I thought it was a long, long shot that you’d make it all the way here. But I told the detectives assigned to the house that we were going away to stay with my sister in Minnesota. Just in case you did show up. I said we would be back once they gave us the all clear that you’d been captured.’
‘Mom.’ Tom was shivering from head to foot, still clutching the countertop as if floating around was also a concern to him. ‘What the hell?’
‘Would you sit down, please?’ Shelley pointed to the chair beside Kradle. Again, the kid didn’t move.
‘Is your husband here?’ Kradle asked.
‘He’s dead.’
Kradle felt a whump of pain, like a punch, to his chest. He gripped the fabric of his shirt and stared at the floor at his feet, bracing against the impact as the walls of his plan began to fall, one after the other.
‘Patrick had a heart attack in the garage three years ago,’ Shelley continued. She put a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a tall glass of milk down in front of Kradle. ‘I think he’d been trying to lift a tyre. I found him. Luckily, it happened while Tom was away for the weekend. Probably the nicest thing Paddy ever did for this family.’
‘I’m calling 9-1-1,’ Tom announced.
Shelley walked over, confiscated the cell phone that the kid produced from his pocket and pushed him towards the table where Kradle sat. Even in the chair, the boy was a half a foot taller than Kradle. The child and the fugitive sat face to face, both with their hands on the tabletop and their backs rigid,
like poker-playing gunslingers about to draw over a fifth ace.
Shelley sank into third and last chair at the table. She put Tom’s cell phone down near his hand, the screen up, blank. The dog at Kradle’s side started scratching its ribs with one back paw, its bony leg joint knocking rhythmically on the floor. It gave a dry kind of cough, as if it had a hairball, and then slid down into the sphinx position, and the room fell back into icy silence.
‘Nobody’s calling anyone,’ Shelley said. ‘Not until I explain.’
Kradle stared at his sandwich. He wondered if he would be able to keep it down. His body was both raging at him to eat it and flooding his belly with nausea.
‘I was going to divorce your father,’ Shelley said, taking her son’s hand.
‘What? When?’ Tom shook his head sharply. His voice slowly rose to a yell. ‘What are you talking about? What divorce? How is this relevant? There’s a goddamn murderer in our kitchen!’
‘Don’t lose your mind, Tom,’ Shelley cautioned.
‘I’m losing my mind!’ the kid yelled.
‘He always says that.’ Shelley looked at Kradle knowingly. ‘Just listen, Tom. It’ll all make sense.’
The boy and Kradle locked eyes again. Kradle felt the sudden, strange urge to apologise for his smell. For the smell of the dog. His hands on the pale pine tabletop were filthy, the nails black.
‘In 2015, I told Paddy I wanted a divorce,’ Shelley said. ‘Actually, I started raising the possibility about a year earlier. Paddy was working on a gangland shooting that was driving him nuts, and he was never home. You know these gang guys, they’re up all night like cockroaches. Paddy started living their way, and he was always on the phone, trying to sort this guy from that guy. They all had nicknames. They all had records and pasts. He would come home for an hour to eat dinner and try to explain it all to me until I had a headache trying to figure out who Fisho was and who Nettles was and who stole whose girlfriend or corner or stash or whatever the hell. By the time Paddy was done it was as if he’d just vented and blasted steam all over me, and then he was out the door again before I could even say goodbye. I climbed into a cold bed every night for a year, and I just thought, I don’t want to do this anymore.’