by Ilsa J. Bick
“What?” Ketchum and Amanda asked, simultaneously.
“The medal on that necklace. We thought maybe that was maybe a sword, right? Well, the Blakists used a sword on their logo.”
And Ketchum said, “Add to that a murder in a town where maybe Blakist factions were hanging out, and that now this fellow Limyanovich, or someone on his mom’s side came from Kittery . . .”
“And that the Blakists were heavily concentrated on Kittery, only the Blakists are supposed to be extinct. So there’s only one explanation,” Amanda said. “Don’t look now, guys, but I think we just found ourselves a dinosaur.”
47
1600 hours
The cat motored, its purr a deep basso rumble that vibrated into Gabriel’s thighs. The cat was happy, but Gabriel was pissed, his buoyant mood deflated like a blown tire.
Something wrong. He stared at the garbage his computer had spit out. They changed the encryption code. Either that, or there’s something I’m missing.
Just when things had been going so well! Frustrated, he abruptly pushed back, startling the cat, hacking its purr in mid-rumble. Dumping the cat, he stood, snatched up his sat-link and punched in. When the Handler clicked in, he said, without preamble, “Something’s wrong.”
“I cannot talk now.” The Handler didn’t sound surprised, or even upset. Gabriel heard the usual background chatter. “You know better than—”
“Shut the fuck up.” He was in no mood for a reprimand. “Just shut up and listen. Jesus H. Christ, I’m the one who’s really at risk here, remember? They put together a few more pieces, I’m toast. So back off and listen for a change.”
“All right, all right,” the Handler said, as if dealing with a fractious two-year-old. “I will shut the fuck up. This is about the crystal?”
“Yeah. This is some privileged code where I need the key to crack it. Unless this is doubly encrypted, the third crystal must contain the key.”
“Is it possible that the key is not a crystal at all? This DNA you talked about?”
“Maybe. But if it’s a crystal and it’s on the body, I’m screwed. There’s no way I can go back now without attracting a lot of notice. I got the night off for coming in this morning and . . .” He’d been about to say that he had certain plans, but instead added, “I won’t get a crack until tomorrow.”
“What about the Underhill boy?”
“That could go at any time. I just hope it’s not too soon. Schroeder . . . I think I can make something happen, but I have to do it soon. The better he looks, the more things are going to look suspicious if he dies.”
“Mmmm. And if the code really is in Limyanovich’s DNA?”
“Then we might be okay. Anything Amanda puts in the official record, I’m gonna see. The thing is, these guys always do things in threes. Always threes. So I think we need that third crystal. Give me a sec, let me check Amanda’s files.” A few commands later, and he said, “I got it. She ran another gel and some controls, and she got that garbage peak again. No doubt now that she’ll sequence it.”
The Handler said, “Ah. So, one woman’s garbage may be another’s treasure.”
* * *
Much later, Gabriel would remember he hadn’t checked up on that mDNA.
That was a mistake.
48
1630 hours
Things kept popping.
Ramsey told Amanda what Fletcher, the arson specialist, said about the explosive, then asked, “You have nitroglycerine and mannite in your hospital formulary?”
Amanda had already turned aside and was busy telling her computer which files to access. “Yup.”
“Any way of figuring out if any’s gone missing?”
Amanda’s smooth forehead furrowed. “Well, sure, but the pharmacy’s pretty good about keeping track. The last time the hospital had any problem was a few years ago. Some narcotics went missing.”
Ketchum said, “I don’t remember the hospital coming to me with anything.”
“They wouldn’t. Pretty bad publicity if word gets out that the guy with the scalpel might be high.”
“Did they catch anyone?”
“Not that I heard. The pilfering just stopped after the hospital instituted some kind of heightened surveillance system, and there’s a record of all transactions in the hospital’s database. Of course, that wouldn’t stop someone from either forging a prescription, or writing a legit prescription but stockpiling over months and months.”
“Any way to access that surveillance?”
“You’d have to talk to administration about that.”
“We should do that. Ask them to cull through their records, focus on who’s been giving out nitroglycerin tablets and see if they catch any scripts that look suspect. Just giving us a list of who’s been prescribing would be a start. But this is good.” Ramsey grinned. “Like the lady said: pop, pop.”
* * *
Ketchum left to make assignments and contact the hospital administrator. Ramsey was about to sign off when Amanda said, “Jack, are you going to get into trouble because of me?”
“Because of you? What are you talking about?”
“Jack.” Exasperation in her voice now. “I mean, because of last night. I heard the reporters . . .”
He cut her off right there. “Stop that. Stop that shit. You didn’t do a damn thing. If I get into trouble, it will be because of me. But I’d do it again.” He was going to say something else then thought, maybe, he didn’t want to scare her. So instead, he said, “I’d do it again.”
* * *
Ramsey tried Garibaldi, but another agent answered, said that Garibaldi had stepped out and offered to relay a message. Ramsey left word that he’d check in later that evening, and disconnected. He glanced out Ketchum’s window, saw that the clot of reporters hadn’t dissolved, and went to Ketchum with the problem. Ketchum agreed to an impromptu press conference as a diversion while Ramsey and Kodza ducked out the back. Five minutes later, Ketchum was surrounded by reporters who sounded like tar-eyed Makepeace grackles quarreling over a single worm, and Ramsey and Kodza were on their way.
Their driver was a deputy named Brett. Brett was older and jowly, with a smoker’s hack. Brett had run through three different sheriffs, and he knew Sandra Underhill. “In high school. Not real well, I was a year ahead. She wasn’t very good-looking, but she was smart. Talked about being a doctor, or maybe a big animal vet.”
“So what happened?” Ramsey was sitting next to Brett, while Kodza was in the back. “I heard she’s a bit of a drinker.”
Brett grunted. “She’s a lot of a drinker. What happened was Vern Underhill. Vern worked the chop shop north out of town, near Charlie’s. A dropout but an okay guy, good for a couple of beers, game of pool. Way I heard it, Vern took Sandy out as a dare. Like, you know, for money. I guess Sandy was so grateful, she let Vern pork . . . ah”—Brett shifted gears—“she got pregnant, and they got married mainly because Vern’s family was Old Roman. Trouble started right away, and with Troy’s medical problems, just got worse. Vern left a couple of years back, but Sandy was already drinking and fuh . . . ah, dispensing favors.”
Kodza leaned forward. “Tell me something. In a small town, everyone knows that this woman drinks, yes? And that she will, ah, sell her body? So why not help?”
A crimson band edged up the back of Brett’s neck. “Old Doc, he got Sandy into rehab a coupla times, and the hospital takes care of all Troy’s medical expenses. Church had a fundraiser, bought that insulin pump for him. But every time Sandy got dried out, she wasn’t sober more’n eight months or so.”
Kodza’s lips thinned. “So you mean to say that the poor woman returns to the same town, the same house, the same bills, and the same job that forces her to dispense favors. Tell me, did any of the men in town say that they should stop? I think the answer is no. I know women like this, and drinking numbs the mind, so a woman does not have to confront the ashes of her life. A pity, no one declines to offer her the match.”
&
nbsp; * * *
The Underhill house was a depressing two-story gray-on-white farmhouse with paint peels like carrot shavings. There were no lights except one bare bulb by a side porch. The unmarked crunched to a stop, and they all piled out, Brett in the lead. Brett leaned on the buzzer next to the front door. When no one answered by the third buzz and several knocks, Brett said, “Must not be home.”
Ramsey stepped back, surveyed the front. The house didn’t feel empty, just . . . asleep. There were a pair of windows to either side of the front door, but the curtains were drawn. He stepped to one window, cupped his hands around his eyes, and peered through the crack. “Looks like a living room.” Then: “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Kodza asked.
He straightened. “Someone’s on the couch. I see a foot. Brett, get your dispatcher to try the Underhills’ link. If no one answers, we’ll break down the door.”
Brett did. A few seconds later, they heard the characteristic shrill of a link. That went on for a few seconds, and then there was a sense of movement in the house, a bang as something fell over. Brett knocked again. “Sandy? Open up. It’s Brett. Just want to talk to you a couple minutes.”
The link was still screaming, but they heard someone stumble. A muffled “Aw, mother . . .” Then more clearly, a woman’s voice, cranky: “Yeah, yeah.” A rattle at the door, and then the door opened.
Sandra Underhill was a wreck. She wore a rumpled, low-cut black pullover and black pants pickled with wrinkles. She was barefoot, her honey blond hair was in disarray, and a crusted track of saliva tracked the angle of her left jaw. Her skin was ruddy with a network of broken capillaries, the whites of her eyes were the color of boiled egg yolk, and she smelled: old sex, cheap booze, wet ashes.
“What?” Sandra’s eyes were red-rimmed and her mascara smudged into black half-moons like a Terran raccoon. “I didn’t do anything.”
The link was still squalling. Brett edged in and said, loudly, “This is Detective Ramsey and Ms. . . .”
“Kodza.” Kodza stepped from behind Ramsey. “Dani Kodza, from the legate’s office in Slovakia. May we come in, Ms. Underhill?”
“Is this about Troy?” Sandra’s features puckered into an approximation of motherly concern. “Did he . . . is he in trouble?”
“Can we come in?” Ramsey pressed.
Sandra glanced at her clothes, seeming to become aware for the first time of what she must look like. She put a hand to her hair. “I . . . I’m not dressed for visitors.”
“That is all right,” Kodza said. “We should have called first. But we are here and I am a little cold and cannot hear well with your link. Perhaps you should answer?”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry.” Sandra pulled the door open, and they stepped into the front foyer as she ducked down the hall and disappeared into what must be a kitchen. The link stopped in mid-scream, and Sandra was back a few seconds later. “Please, ah, come in. Would you like tea? I . . . I can make tea. Or coffee, would you like coffee?”
“We’re fine,” Ramsey said. “Actually, we came to speak with Troy.”
“Troy?” Sandra’s hand went to her throat, and her fingers played with a length of chain. Her nails were coated with chipped paint, like the house, only red instead of white, and the cuticles were ragged. “Has he . . . did he get into trouble at school?”
“No, no. We just wanted to talk to him about last Friday. You know that we’re investigating that car fire out by the landtrain trestle.”
“That’s all they talk about at Ida’s. What does that have to do with Troy?”
“We think that Troy might have seen something. Has he mentioned this to you?”
“No, but”—more fidgeting with the necklace—“we haven’t spent much time together this weekend, and I only got home a few hours ago. I’d have to wake him up.”
“Wake him up? Does he always go to bed this early?” Ramsey asked.
“Early?” Sandra gave a crooked half-smile, and her bleary eyes flicked to the window. Her brows squirmed as if she were just now registering the fading light. “That’s funny, I could’ve sworn . . .”
Uh-oh. Ramsey had a sudden awful premonition. “Ms. Underhill, what day do you think this is?”
“Think it is? Why, it’s Sunday. Sunday afternoon.”
Kodza said, “It is Monday. Around”—she checked a fingerwatch—“six.”
“What?” Sandra looked startled, like a flushed quail. “I just got home from work or . . .” Sudden confusion swirled across her features. “I could’ve sworn . . .”
“Where’s your son, Ms. Underhill?” Ramsey grated.
“What? Why?”
“Because Noah Schroeder was shot on Friday evening and we think the boys were witnesses to a murder.”
“Witnesses?” Sandra echoed. Her voice was shrill. “Shot?”
But Ramsey was already looking past her, moving from the front foyer. “Where’s Troy’s bedroom? Where is it?”
“Upstairs, on the left,” Sandra said, panic in her eyes. She rushed past Ramsey and pounded up the stairs. “I’ll get him, you’ll see this is nothing, you’ll see. . . .”
Ramsey charged after, Brett and Kodza in his wake. Sandra hurried left of the landing then rapped rapid-fire on a door at the end of the hall. “Troy? Troy?”
She pushed open the door. A few seconds later, she screamed.
49
1800 hours
They ran hot all the way to the hospital: Ramsey and Brett in front; Kodza and Sandra crowded into the unmarked’s backseat; and Troy—unconscious, sweaty, and panting like a winded animal—draped across the women’s laps. As Brett roared into the hospital access road, Ramsey spotted Amanda, another doctor, and two ER orderlies waiting in the light of the emergency room breezeway. Brett slammed on the brakes, popped the unmarked’s back door and the techs had Troy on a gurney and were whisking him through the double doors before Ramsey had even gotten out.
Ramsey fell into a trot beside Amanda. “Where’s Summers?”
“Either not home, or not answering,” Amanda said. “Hank’s on his way in.”
“Got to stop him. We don’t need the press, and he needs to think about Joey now. Any place I can get in touch with him?”
“Reception.” Then, at the back bay, she turned, put a hand on his chest. “Wait outside. I called Carruthers back in, and he’s the best. I’ll let you know soonest.”
Just as Ramsey rounded toward reception, the sliding glass doors parted and Ketchum burst through on a gust of nippy April evening air, with Brett trailing a half step behind. “Reporters?” Ramsey asked.
“Left after I talked with them. Haven’t seen them since,” Ketchum said. “What’s the story?”
Ramsey quickly filled him in then said, “Hank, this is getting out of control. First Noah, now Troy. You got to keep Joey close, maybe out of town until this is over.”
The color had slowly leeched from Ketchum’s face until his stubble looked inked on. “Lottie’s got a sister in Clovis. Let me go make some calls.”
“Let’s go,” Ramsey said to Brett. They found Sandra Underhill perched on the edge of a chair in the lobby, and Kodza in an adjoining chair to her right. Sandra was rocking back and forth, a tissue knotted through the fingers of her right hand as Kodza hung on to her left.
Sandra looked up as they walked over, and said, “How is he?”
“We don’t know yet. No one could reach Dr. Summers, but Dr. Slade said she asked another doctor to take care of your boy,” Ramsey said.
“That’d be Dr. Carruthers,” Sandra quavered. “He’s a good doctor.”
“Ms. Underhill, I don’t want to embarrass you, but I have to know what happened on Sunday night. Have you, ah, ever slept through an entire day before?”
“You mean have I ever been drunk enough?” Sandra’s eyes bounced over Brett, standing behind Ramsey’s left shoulder, and then to Ramsey. “No. At my worst, I’ll sleep maybe until eleven the next morning because I have to be in at Ida’s by one. Troy kn
ows when I’ve had too much to drink, and he doesn’t bother me. Just takes himself off to school.” The tears started again, welling over the lip of her lower eyelids and trickling to her chin. “He never makes any trouble, and I’ve been such a horrible mother that—”
Ramsey cut her off. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for that.” Time was, it seemed, their enemy now, and the killer a few steps ahead.
But still here. Has to be because no one’s made a play for Joey. Noah was a lucky shot, but the only way he could’ve known about Troy was if he’d seen him.
Then he remembered the tree house and that broken step. The blood in the grass and on the tree. That the killer might’ve been there when Troy and Noah came back for Troy’s bike. That might also mean the killer didn’t know about Joey—not yet.
He said to Sandra, “It’s possible you’ve had contact with the killer. Did you bring anyone home with you Sunday night?”
The tip of Sandra’s nose glowed pink, and her cheeks flamed. “Yes, I did. I . . . I had a few drinks at the bar, and then I . . . we . . . I took him home. We might have stopped off somewhere else beforehand. I really don’t remember.”
“Okay,” Ramsey said. “Did you know him?”
“I’m pretty sure I did.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean, I have the feeling that I did.”
“But you don’t remember who, exactly?” When she shook her head, he said, “Okay. Can you describe him?”
“Just . . .” Her brows knit in concentration. “Bits and pieces. I don’t know why this should be so hard . . . I remember that I came home from Charlie’s—”
“You were at Charlie’s?” When she nodded, he said, “What time?”
“I don’t remember. Round about eleven, I think. Maybe a little earlier. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he came home with me from Charlie’s.”