by Art Bourgeau
"I will . . . Now, how about some lunch?"
"You’re on."
Downstairs the desk sergeant stopped them. "Mercanto, there’s a phone call for you. Line four."
On the line he heard the voice of DeBray, the man who worked for his brother.
"Nate, I’m at the hospital. When I got to the garage Frank was in a bad way. After I got him here he wanted me to call you. Nate . . . he’s not going to make it. They’ve called for the priest. You'd better hurry. The last thing he said was to tell you to stop by his place and pick up his rosary, the one that belonged to your mother."
He had known all along this day was coming, but now that it was here he was no more prepared for it than if it happened out of the blue. "I’m on my way," he managed to get out, hung up and told Erin.
"I’m going with you," she said, "and you’re not driving either. Give me the keys."
* * *
Spring Garden Street was the quickest way to Frank's garage but she had to slow down to twenty-five to make the lights. As they passed the Fraternal Order of Police building near Broad he thought of how he and Frank had celebrated his reinstatement to duty there with two many beers at the conclusion of the Rudy Gunther business. How proud he was
"God, we had some times," he said, then was silent again. She didn't try to make him say more, only gave his knee a squeeze.
They parked in front of Frank’s garage. "Want to wait here?"
"You're not getting rid of me so just forget it."
All in Frank's apartment was clean, in its place, unlike the last few times he’d been there. It was as if Frank had known, used his last strength to be sure no one would see it that way. She waited while he went to the bedroom, and in a moment heard him saying, "No . . . no . . ." She ran in to see him standing in front of an old bureau. One of the small drawers at the top was open. In his hand was a wallet. She looked inside the drawer and saw pictures, of Mercanto and Frank, the rosary and a pearl-handled derringer.
"What's wrong?" she said, then looked down at the wallet. It was open to a driver's license with a picture.
The name on the driver's license was Stanley Hightower. "But that’s the name of the dead man? What does it mean?"
He shook his head, remembering the day he found Frank's phone number in Hightower's address book. "I don't know."
He pocketed the wallet and started for the door. Erin took up the rosary and followed.
At the hospital they were met outside the intensive care unit by a black man dressed in work clothes and a cap advertising Colt .45 Malt Liquor.
"Nate, thank God you made it . . . You can't go in yet," he said, pointing to the door. "The doctor is with him now. They had to put him on a respirator."
Mercanto looked around. The sights and smell of hospitals was nothing new to him, dating back to their parents' death and continuing through his years on the police force. He'd been in corridors like this too many times.
"Where’s the priest?"
"Father Dom . . . he’s in there with him," DeBray said. Mercanto looked at him in silence for a moment, then:
"Come over here, I need to speak to you."
Erin remained while they went out of earshot. Mercanto took out the wallet. "You know Frank better than anyone, me included. What does this mean?" he said, handing it to him.
DeBray looked at the wallet. "I promised I wouldn't tell . . . I guess in the end he couldn't stand to get rid of it."
"Don't do this to me. I have to know. . ."
"On one condition . . . when you see Frank you can't let on you know. You have to do that or there's nothing you can do that will make me tell."
"All right, I promise . . ."
DeBray sighed. "He and Stanley, they were . . . were real close."
"I don't believe that, not Frank — "
"They met while Frank was working on his car. He showed him his paintings and I guess it went from there . . . Who do you think paid his doctor bills and his chemotherapy and — "
"His insurance."
"Frank didn't have insurance. Stanley paid them, that's who." He paused, then: "Being straight, you wouldn't understand — "
"He had me . . ."
"Not the same. It was something he needed. When he found it he recognized it."
"What about the wallet, how'd he get that."
"The chemotherapy wasn’t working. You know it, he was getting worse by the day. Stanley called late one night and asked Frank to meet him in the park. It was one of Frank's good days when he could get around. When he got there they must have had a scene. Stanley couldn’t face the idea of a life without Frank. I mean, he’d divorced his wife, changed his life around to be with him, then this. Frank tried to talk some sense into him but it was no good. He pulled out that little derringer and shot himself before Frank could stop him. It's true, Frank told me . . ."
Mercanto was numb, but knew it had to be like he said . . . it explained Hightower's mood change, the withdrawals, everything, except the mutilation that must have happened after Frank left and the . . .whatever it was . . . found the body.
"Why did Frank take the wallet and gun?"
"The wallet because he wanted something of Stanley’s to keep near him. They were so careful they didn't even have a picture of each other. The gun because he was going to use it on himself when he couldn’t stand the pain anymore. But he couldn't, he was too much of a Catholic for that."
"Why did he tell you this, not me? I’m his brother, damn it . . ."
DeBray looked down at the floor. "There was a whole side, that side of Frank, you didn't know about. He was afraid he would lose your respect if you knew. That would have killed him quicker than the cancer. Why me? We were friends for a long time. He gave me a job, got me out of the ghetto. I would have done anything for him."
Erin came down to them then: "The doctor wants you."
They turned and followed her. The doctor, a tall gray-haired man, looked tired. "It won’t be long . . . I’m sorry. . ."
Frank died less than an hour later.
* * *
"I work at midnight. Be here for me when I get home in the morning."
His words were what she wanted to hear. "I will, but now sleep, and as he rolled over on his side she fitted herself to him, savoring the feel and strength of him, marveling that this had happened to her, and grateful for it.
* * *
The sound of the telephone woke them. Mercanto reached for it. "Hello," in a voice thick with sleep. "Okay, I’ll be there," he said, sleep suddenly gone from his voice.
"What is it," Erin said, resting on one elbow, the covers around her waist.
Mercanto was up and pulling on his clothes. "It was Sloan. They've just found another body. Catherine Poydras, the owner of the Maison Catherine."
CHAPTER 25
RAIN BEGAN to fall as Loring sat in his car and watched Margaret’s house. It was a familiar sight. He had driven by it many times, imagining her inside with him . . . The rain splattering on the windshield brought back the night he found the man’s body in the park. How their paths crossed had been a mystery to him, though now he assumed Abaddon led him there. The man was sitting in the black BMW alone. A dark presence in a dark place, a servant of the devil preying on the unsuspecting.
It was the first time he had tasted human flesh, and had blacked out completely afterward. Not now, though. Now he remembered, and understood. . .
Finally he got out of the car, walked up the street and around the house. At the rear was a glassed-in porch with wicker furniture. A nice room. We could have had such nice evenings here, he thought as he broke a pane of glass in the door with his fist and reached through to open it. The glass cut his hand but he took no notice of it as he went from room to room, taking his time, touching things, taking in the feeling of Margaret.
He came to the study, and stood there for a moment, unsure. Something was wrong with this room. It wasn’t Margaret at all. Nothing about it spoke of her. Why?
H
e heard the front door open. No, it was not her room. It was his . . . the one who had hurt her at the party. The one he felt in the house now. His heart began to pound, he stepped behind the door, out of sight. And saw the sofa, and remembered the night, his mother's nudity. . .
Desire, fear, quickly displaced by overriding anger. But this time he was not helpless. This time he was the one with power . . . the power of the bottomless pit . . . Wolf, his boyhood friend and protector part of him now . . .
He picked up a liquor bottle from the top of the bookcase, waited to hear footsteps in the hallway. He looked down at his hand holding the bottle . . . a thorny claw. It reassured him. The man, the stepfather, came through the doorway. Loring stepped into his view, swung the bottle with all his might. It exploded against his old enemy’s face, shattering, and as it did, opening bloody zippers in the flesh.
Adam Priest sank to the carpet. With a low snarl Loring was on top of him, his teeth bared, feeling the ecstasy of revenge finally come. He sank his teeth in, ripping, tearing, the face, the throat, the stomach, skin coming away with the sound of cheap cloth. Childhood memories tinged in red played across his mind like a flickering, grainy home movie.
When it was over, Adam's life dissolving in sticky puddles around him, Loring moved back and looked on. He was satisfied, it was deserved. . .
He stayed beside the body, squatting on his haunches. Through the windows he could see the trees and the rain. What he had done was the way of the wolf, he had obeyed the laws of nature, an inviolate code to cleanse the herd by, to purge it. His stepfather would no longer spread his sickness, tainting everyone that came too close.
Now he noticed the picture on the table. It was of a much younger Margaret leaning against a railing, wind blowing her hair in her face, water in the background. She had been tainted, too, but for her, through him, there was still hope. The happiness of that time, gone now from her face, would return.
CHAPTER 26
AS HE drove he hoped Erin would keep her promise and till be there when he came home. Now that he’d found her, even the thought of losing her was not something he wanted to think about.
The rain made traffic worse, turning Kelly Drive into a series of slick curves, slowing cars to a nightmarish crawl. He tried to pick his spots, weaving in and out, moving ahead wherever possible.
The phone call, Sloan's words . . . Catherine Poydras? There was no way she should be a victim, not her. She was too full of life. He remembered their last meeting, waking up in the hospital after the shooting and seeing the worried look on her face. The comfort it had given him.
The Valley Green parking lot was filled with blue-and-whites. Policemen in slickers were milling about. He thought of the night when it started, when he found Hightower’s body there, then over near the steps to Maison Catherine he saw her old Ford station wagon. A dumb witness.
He parked and got out, grief pushed aside by anger. Unlike with Frank's death, he could do something about this one. See that it was avenged. If he had anything to say about it her killer would never make it to trial.
"Where did it happen?" he asked.
"On the other side, in the bushes right at Devil's Pool," the cop said, pointing across the creek.
He started down Forbidden Drive, the rain pelting him. At Devil's Pool he stopped. Across the creek he could see people moving about in the trees. He knew there was direct access to that spot from either side. After a moment he climbed down the steep embankment and waded across the rocks of the falls, ice-cold water soaking his feet and trouser legs to the knees. On the other side one of the officers helped him up the slippery bank. "Nate, another bad one. If you're looking for Sloan he's over there." The officer pointed further into the bushes. "We've had a hell of a time maneuvering down here.
Whoever did it had to know these woods like the back of his hand."
Mercanto started toward the spot.
Sloan was watching as the Medical Examiner's people wrestled with the body bag. When he saw Mercanto he nodded. No words.
"What have you got?" Mercanto asked.
"This morning just after you left we got a call from one of the restaurant staff, said they found her car and she was missing. We put out a search."
"That was mid-morning," said Mercanto. "Why didn't they call sooner? She usually came to work early."
"Good question. Even I thought of it. They said sometimes after she finished whatever she usually did she would walk across the bridge and have breakfast with some friends who live on the West Mt. Airy side. It was a routine thing for her, so when they didn't find her, that's where they assumed she was. But after three or four hours they began to get worried. That's when they called us . . . It took us all day to find her."
"The same as the others?"
"Yeah, only worse," Sloan said, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. "What he did to her makes the others . . . He really tore her up. Jesus, one of her arms was missing. What we talked about this morning, I’m a believer."
Sloan looked at his watch. "We’ve done all we can here. We’re losing the light and it's too far to bring in portables. The shift is due back at the station and I need to get their reports. Come on."
"My car is in the parking lot," Mercanto said.
"I'll drop you off, you can follow me."
* * *
At the station house they gathered on the second floor, some taking coffee, some sodas. Sloan and Dr. Foster sat at the head of the table that was the command post. The other officers either sat or lounged wherever they could find a place, including Captain Zinkowsky. Everyone was wet, tired, and disgusted.
"All right, let’s have it," Sloan said.
Team by team they gave their results. Busywork that added to a big zero.
When Donovan and Kane’s turn came, it was Mary who spoke for them. "Nothing, other than what we called in before lunch," she said.
Sloan was about to move on to the next team, then her words registered. "What did you call in before lunch?"
"I guess everybody was out on the search. That's why you didn't hear. It might not be anything, but I'll go over it again. This morning was moving along like everyone else’s. Nothing. Then we stopped at a house and spoke to a Mrs.". . . she paused to consult her notebook . . . "Mona Seidenberg."
"And . . ."
"She reported a prowler in her backyard sometime near dawn this morning. She couldn't give a description, other than that he was wearing dark clothes. When she woke up her husband the man was gone. We checked the backyard and she was right. There were signs that someone had gone into the woods there. We followed the trail for a couple of hundred yards, then it petered out. But there was definitely someone there."'
The room went quiet. "That was around the time Catherine Poydras went to work," Sloan said, voicing everyone's thoughts.
"Yes, right. After that we checked the neighbors. Two houses down" . . . again she checked her notebook . . . "a man named Loring Weatherby said he and his wife were awakened around the same time by someone trying to break in. The prowler smashed a glass bird feeder attached to the window. That's what woke them, but they didn't get a look at him either."
Dr. Foster, who had been drawing doodles on a pad, suddenly looked up. "Excuse me. What did you say this neighbor's name was?"
Mary Kane checked again. "Loring Weatherby."
"Please describe him."
"Early thirties, above medium height, slight build. Wearing a charcoal business suit. Handsome, blond hair. . ."
Every eye in the room was on her now.
"You say he mentioned his wife . . . ?" Dr. Foster said.
Mary checked once again. "Yes, name was Margaret. He said she wasn't home because she was a psychologist and had early appointments today."
Foster took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You are sure that's what he said? Did he say anything else?"
"I’m sure, and that's all he said."
He turned to Sloan. "Is. there someplace we can talk?"
; Sloan understood. "Right here . . ." In a louder voice to the group: "That’ll be it for now, we’ll take this up again at rollcall."
Reluctantly the group filed out, except the Captain Zinkowsky. She hadn't been there much during the lycanthropy talk earlier and he didn't much want her to hear what was going to be said, but he had no choice. She was, after all, the captain of the station.
As Mercanto started to go Dr. Foster said, "Detective, it might be helpful if you stay, too."
Mercanto closed the door and joined them.
"The coincidence is too great. . ." Dr. Foster began, as if trying to convince himself to say what he was thinking.
"Go on," Sloan said.
Looking at Mercanto, he said, "This morning when you were leaving my office, remember I said I had something to do before coming out here . . . ?"
Mercanto nodded.
"I went to see a colleague of mine, a psychologist who has been treating a very disturbed patient, one suffering from hallucinations similar to the profile of a lycanthropic. I went to convince her to give me his name." He added quickly, "Not that I exactly believed he was the killer, but to be on the safe side . . . schizophrenia is a highly individualized disorder that often resembles many other disturbances we treat. Still, it worried me . . ."
"What did she say?" Sloan said.
"She refused. I expected that, but during our-talk she mentioned his first name . . . an unusual one, the same that Detective Kane just mentioned. Loring."
He paused. "That’s why I asked about the wife. I'm confident our killer is single, but you heard what he said . . . his wife's name was Margaret and she was a psychologist . . . Margaret is the name of my colleague . . ."
Sloan was on his feet. "Goddamn, you're right, it sure does sound like too great a coincidence. Same first name, blond hair, and from the neighborhood." He crossed the room in a couple of strides and opened the door, yelling, "Kane, in here."
As soon as she gave the address, Mercanto was out the door, the others close behind. He got in his car and took off, not waiting for Sloan to assemble the backup. As he drove he checked his revolver, made sure it was loaded, anger boiling inside for the killer who now had a name.