"Stay behind me," I told Robin and Moreland. "If she's waiting for us at the hatch, Mr. Gourmet here will be her first course."
• • •
The return trip seemed a lot quicker, Moreland maintaining a good pace despite his age and his injury. Silent, no attempts to convince us of anything.
The one time our eyes met, his begged.
To let go? Forget about the things he hadn't revealed?
Creedman was limp with dejection, but conscious. He tried to get me to do all the work, and I had to shove him every other step. The silence of the tunnel emptied my head, until I thought of Haygood, perforated.
Remembering what he'd done to AnneMarie and Betty helped . . . the shark, the molding of bleached white jaws nailed over the door.
Trophies. I didn't want one.
• • •
Fifty feet from the hatch, I ordered Creedman to stay silent. His face was so bloated that his eyes could barely open, and his nose leaked filmy, blood-streaked mucus.
We reached the AstroTurfed steps and the open hatch. The lab above was a square yellow sun.
Someone had turned the lights on.
No choice but to go on. Motioning Moreland and Robin back, I propelled Creedman up, one step at a time. His rain boots squeaked but he kept quiet. Then, as we approached the top, he began to struggle.
A sharp jab of the gun in his back stopped him.
Three more steps. We waited.
Quiet from above.
Two more steps. One.
No sign of Jo.
We were in.
The room was just as we'd left it. Except for the doorway to the front office.
A man sat there, bound to a chair, gagged.
Thin, scraggly gray beard, spiked hair.
Carl Sleet. The gardener whose voice had drawn Ben to the park.
His eyes zoomed to Creedman, pupils constricted. His fingers flexed below wrists secured to the chair legs with plastic ties. The kind policemen used. Had Haygood taken care of him first?
But no: Creedman looked as confused as I was.
I stood there trying to figure out what to do next.
Jo appeared in the doorway, hands up. No weapon.
"Don't shoot," she said cheerfully. "Now, how about I move my scumbag out of the way so you can get your scumbag through."
• • •
Her gun sat atop the books on Moreland's desk, well out of reach.
She produced something out of nowhere and held it up.
White card in a black leatherette holder, next to a silver badge. Some sort of government seal on the card, but I was too far away to read the small print.
"Where're Robin and Dr. Moreland?" she said.
"Waiting for me to give them the okay."
"I heard shots. Anyone actually hit?"
"Moreland was wounded."
"I heard six shots. One, then five more."
I said nothing. She laughed and waved the card. "Don't worry, it's genuine. Except for the name."
I stepped closer.
Department of Defense, a numbered division that meant nothing to me. JANE MARCIA BENDIG, SENIOR INVESTIGATOR.
I stood there, gripping Creedman. Wishing I had three more arms and a weapon for each.
"Look, I can understand your being wary," she said. "But if I wanted to shoot you, you'd be dead. I am a crack shot."
I didn't respond.
"Okay," she said. "I can get in big trouble for this, but would giving you my gun make you feel better?"
"Maybe."
"Suit yourself." She stepped back and I managed to keep my gun on Creedman and pocket hers.
"Happy?" she said.
My laugh scared me. "Ecstatic."
"Okay, you're the guy in charge now. Why don't you give your friends the word."
• • •
Moreland and Robin came up.
Jo said, "Looks like that arm needs attention, doctor."
"I'm fine."
"Doesn't look fine to me."
"You're not a physician."
Carl Sleet made a noise.
"Put a lid on it," she said, and Sleet obeyed.
Moreland said, "Carl?"
"Carl's been naughty," said Jo. "Pilfering petty cash, tools, your old surgical kit. Putting cockroaches in people's rooms. When he thinks no one's looking he tends to skulk around places he shouldn't be. I've had my eye on him for some time. Tonight, instead of leaving with the other members of the staff, he stayed in one of the storage sheds. Thought he was watching me."
She smiled.
"After I dropped Pam off, I went back and watched him some more. Did you know that you hum when you're bored, Carl? Not advisable when skulking."
Sleet writhed in the chair.
She turned to me. "When you and Robin showed up at the bug zoo, he was off in the bushes, watching you. After you went in, he waited, then made a call from the lab phone, right here. His pals got over in a jiff— probably waiting down the road, outside the gates. They left him here to stand watch, went into the lab, were gone for a long time, and came back. Then they headed for the walls, and that was the last I saw of them. I decided to take Carl's place. I'd like my gun now, please. I have others in my room, but like I said, I could get in real big trouble."
I hesitated.
"Pretty please?" she said, in a harder voice.
I handed her the automatic.
"Thanks. I'll take custody of your scumbag now." Producing more plastic ties.
I gave her Creedman, and she bound his wrists behind him and moved him closer to Carl Sleet.
"Carl," said Moreland, sadly.
Sleet refused to look at him.
"Okay," said Jo, "let's get these losers locked up and see to that arm."
"After all these years, Carl," said Moreland.
"All these years, Carl's been bearing a grudge against you, doc. Or at least that's his excuse— I'm sure the money they paid him didn't hurt."
"A grudge?" said Moreland.
Sleet still avoided looking at him.
Jo said, "Something about a cousin who saw a monster and died of a heart attack. Carl says you told the guy he was crazy instead of giving him heart medication."
"That's not true. His arteries were clogged. Highly advanced athero—"
"You don't have to convince me." Freeing Sleet's limbs from the chair, she stood him up, placed him face to the wall, and flipped Creedman around in the same position.
"Did Sleet say anything about calling Ben to the park?" I said.
"No."
I summarized Ben's alibi.
"Well," she said, "I'm sure old Carl will be forthcoming when he finds out what it's like to be charged with multiple murder."
Creedman stiffened, and she said, "Watch it. Can I assume some of the five shots went into Haygood?"
"All five," I said.
"Dead? Or did you leave him to bleed down there?"
"Dead."
"Nothing worse than a bad cop," she said. "Even before he got busted in Maryland he was a suspect in some burglaries. He and Mr. Creedman have been doing bad things for a long time."
"Who pays the bills?" I said. "Stasher-Layman?"
"You won't find their name on any checks. All cash. Mr. Creedman here is the bursar. Haygood's really dead, huh?"
Big smile for a split second, then it was gone. Slip of professionalism. Something personal.
Haygood monkeying with the plane.
"Your husband—"
"He wasn't my husband. Though we did have a . . . relationship."
"Was he also—"
"He was a botanist, just like he said. Keeping me company."
She frisked Creedman. "I tried to talk him out of going up in that heap. Traveling with me was always tough for him— okay, let's put these morons somewhere safe and see to that arm. Does the tunnel lead all the way into the forest?"
"Yes," said Moreland.
"What do you keep down there, Dr. M.?"
M
oreland didn't answer.
She frowned. "C'mon, I'm one of the good guys."
"It's a long story," I said. "It's a very long story."
• • •
We moved Sleet and Creedman to the house, locking them in separate basement closets, and put Moreland on a sofa in the front room. Gladys ran in from the kitchen, stared at the bloody sleeve, and put her hand to her mouth.
"He's been shot but it's not serious," said Jo. "Tell Pam to bring her medical stuff."
Gladys ran up the stairs, and Pam came rushing down seconds later, carrying a black bag.
Moreland waved at her from the couch. "Hello, kitten."
She suppressed a cry, unsnapped the bag, and crouched next to him.
"Oh, Daddy."
"I'm all right, kitten."
Pulling scissors from the bag, she began cutting away at the sleeve.
"Clean through the latissimus. No arterial . . ."
Jo hooked a finger at Robin and me.
As we left, Moreland called out my name.
I stopped.
"Thank you, Alex." Another beseeching look.
• • •
Once in the living room, Jo took an armchair under Barbara Moreland's beautiful, sad face.
"Tell me what's down there," said Jo.
We did.
She tried to maintain her composure, but each revelation knocked it looser. When we were through, she was pale. "Unbelievable— six of them, down there all these years?"
"Locked up for their own good," said Robin.
"Twilight Zone . . . unbelievable. Think he's crazy? I'm asking you professionally now."
"Obsessive," I said. "And a hero of sorts. Everyone else went down on that plane."
"That plane . . . they like plane crashes, don't they? . . . Must have somehow heard Defense was sending someone here and figured it was Ly. All he wanted to do was see the trees, bring some photos back for his pals. But they assumed he was the agent, me the tagalong— top of everything else, they're sexist pigs."
Cold laugh.
"Six of them," she said. "Crazy . . . are they— is there any danger going down there?"
"They're harmless," said Robin. "But sick."
She described some of their physical anomalies.
Jo said, "And what did he call this toxic injection?"
"The "paradise needle."'
She repeated it. "Talk about a Christmas gift. For years, we've been watching the financial angles, but this is gorgeous—Moreland actually kept records of the injections?"
"So he says."
Her eyes sparkled. "These . . . people. They're all retarded?"
"Yes," I said.
"But not vegetables."
"No. More like small children."
"Any way they could testify in court?"
"I don't see how. Apart from mental incompetence, they can't speak. Damaged vocal cords."
She winced. "Still . . . just the visual impact— we can video them, get Moreland to list all their problems. A whole other line of evidence. Thank you, Dr. M."
"Are you after Hoffman?" I said. "Or the entire Stasher-Layman organization?"
She smiled. "Let's just say we've been working on this for a long time."
"Major financial angle."
"The kind of thing that raises everyone's taxes by a couple of bucks but the taxpayers never find out about. . . . I've got to go down there and see them with my own eyes. Start documenting. I'm going upstairs to get my camera, then I'd appreciate it if one of you would take me back."
"I wouldn't approach them without Moreland," I said. "Apart from what they just went through, they've got all sorts of physical problems— sensitivities."
"Such as?"
"He mentioned sunlight, there may be others."
"What does sunlight do to them?"
"Destroys their skin."
"My flash isn't UV."
"At the least, they'll panic when they see you. They've been down there so long, let's hold off till we're sure we can't hurt them."
She thought. "All right . . . but I've got to see this. If he's right about the arm only being a flesh wound, he should be able to take me himself."
She tapped her leg very fast, checked her watch, and stood. "Let's go see how he's doing."
"His whole purpose in life all these years has been sheltering them," said Robin. "He's not going to use them."
"I understand the man's got principles. But things change, you have to adapt."
A strand of hair looped over one eye and she shoved it away. The gun was in her waistband. She ran a finger over the butt. "Things change quickly."
38
Moreland's arm was bandaged and it rested on his chest. A thermometer protruded from his mouth.
Pam read it. "A hundred. Are you comfortable there, Daddy, or should we try to get you up to your bed?"
"This is fine, kitten." He saw us. "I used to call her that when she was little."
Pam's look said it was another lost memory. She snapped her doctor's bag shut.
"How're we doing?" said Jo. I thought of how she'd waited upstairs, knowing we were down there with Creedman and Haygood.
Using us. But I'd just shot a man in the back, and there was no anger left in me.
"I'll survive," said Moreland. He stole a glance at me.
Jo said, "I know about what you've got down there, Dr. Moreland. Whenever you're ready to show it to me."
"He's not going anywhere," said Pam.
"It's something of an emergency. A lot's at stake. Right, doctor?"
Moreland didn't answer.
"What are you talking about?" said Pam.
"It's complicated," said Jo. "I think I can help your father in a big way if he can help me."
"What's going on, Daddy?"
Moreland held out a hand to her and grasped her fingers. "She's right, it is complicated, kitten. I should get down there—"
"Down where?"
Moreland blinked.
Pam said, "Who's she to tell you what to do, Daddy?"
No answer.
"Who are you, Jo?"
Jo flashed her badge.
Pam stared at it.
"Long story," said Jo. "Come with me for a sec."
She put her arm around Pam just as she'd done a few hours ago. Pam shook her off angrily.
"I'm not leaving him alone."
"It's fine," said Moreland. "Thank you for taking care of me. Go with her. Please. For my sake."
"I don't understand, Daddy."
"Robin," said Moreland, "could you go along and help explain things?"
Robin said, "Sure."
"Why can't you tell me, Daddy?"
"I will, kitten, all in due time. But right now I need some rest. Go with them. Please, darling."
The three women left and Moreland beckoned me closer. The rain was hitting the picture windows sharply, like buckshot on metal.
He stared up at me. Chewed his lip. Blinked. "Your questions down there, about what Hoffman had over me . . . the things Creedman said about me down there. There's some truth to them."
Moving with difficulty, he faced the back of the sofa.
"I was a different man back then, Alex. Women— having them— meant so much to me."
Forcing himself to face me, he said, "I've made mistakes. Big ones."
"I know. Dennis thinks the man who died at sea was his father, but he's wrong."
He tried to speak, couldn't.
"I'm not judging you, Bill."
Though the room was dim, I could see dark spots on the white couch. Spots of his blood. His eyes were sunken and dry.
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