by Harker Moore
Akira had understood, even in his ninth year, that to walk on foot the henro-michi—the pilgrim’s road—would be walking in Zen. That he must not take such a journey lightly, that even seasoned pilgrims were sometimes misled by the signs along the roads—some told too much, some too little. That such a journey required each man to set his own pace—to hear one’s own breathing was to walk too quickly. That the first days of the pilgrimage would be days of walking toward pain, the next of walking in pain, and the last of walking above pain. That such a journey was a pilgrimage more for the soul than the body, each step holding within it its own message. That the walk was a reflection of the Buddha’s life, and as such should serve as a mirror of how one’s own life should be lived. And most important, that if such a pilgrimage should be attempted, one must find meaning in the process rather than the destination.
He opened his eyes. The Shikoku pilgrimage was a template to place over his investigation, but unlike the actual journey, this journey to find Michael’s sons and their kidnapper, this journey to bring their mother’s killer to justice, did not afford him the luxury of holding the process above the destination. The destination was everything.
Darius had been prepared for difficulty. But entrance had been easy. The flash of a badge at the downstairs desk, a simple pick to overcome the single lock, and he was in.
The apartment was ample, with high ceilings. The rooms carved from the spaciousness of a decades-old building. The colors neutral; the furniture square. The ambience as sterile as that drawing he had seen rolled out a month ago on Margot’s dining table. He stood in the cold space that served as both living room and office, his vision darting. Taking it in.
Facing sofas. A huge slab of coffee table between. A drafting desk near the floor-to-ceiling windows. On the wall beside it, a honeycomb of diamond-shaped cubbyholes containing rolls of plans.
He lifted his face to the dead air. Ears pricked. A predatory inhalation. But no echo of residual energy, no molecule of scent was there to suggest that anything so alive as his children had lately breathed within these walls.
He went back to the foyer to begin a careful circuit. Beginning at the beginning. At the entrance and then through the living space. Then kitchen, bedroom, and bath. A potential crime scene to the part of his mind that was still half-rational. Something else entirely to the instinct that screamed in every nerve. The lethal impulse that would have him remain. That would beat truth out of this man.
“. . . still missing.” Zoe’s distinctive voice filling the darkened room. Zoe’s larger-than-life face hyperinflating in the pixels of the plasma wall screen in his bedroom.
“It’s been more than a week now since the murder of Margot Redmond and the kidnapping of her sons, three-year-old twins Jason and Damon Darius”—a picture of the red-haired boys had replaced Zoe’s image—“acts widely believed to be the work of the serial murderer who has taken the lives of seven other women in the New York City area.
“The twins’ stepfather, New York financier Reese Redmond, in an appearance on Fox Network’s America’s Most Wanted, said that he has not given up hope for his children’s safe return.” Footage of Redmond with John Walsh.
“But time is surely running out, despite one of the most intensive law enforcement efforts of recent years.” Zoe’s face, now woeful, blossomed on the screen. “As was revealed last week on this show, the boys’ father is Sergeant Michael Darius, who, until his recent leave from the NYPD, had been one of the prime investigators in the so-far-unsuccessful hunt for the serial killer. Some authorities now concede that recent public taunting of the killer may have backfired, providing the motive for the murder of Darius’s ex-wife and the kidnapping of his sons.
“My question for our next guest, well-known psychologist Dr. Judith Singleton, is this: Was it smart tactics to bait this killer? And would the police have been so quick to provoke this monster if they had guessed he’d strike out against one of their own? Dr. Singleton . . .”
The heavy tumbler missed the screen by inches, breaking against the wall in a crash of splintery shards and amber liquid. Victor Abbot felt the heat go out of his tantrum. He didn’t want to be angry at Zoe. She surrounded him as he sat in the bed, his hundred-plus little Zoes snipped, and stapled, and grommeted. Zoe was still his girl. He just felt . . . well, depressed.
It had been a whole week since she had even mentioned the special creation he’d sent her. It had been great that first day when she’d showed it on TV. He had it on tape—he always taped Zoe’s show. And he’d played it over and over, but it wasn’t the same. Not like being a real part of everything. Right now. Today.
He looked back at the screen, where Dr. Singleton hadn’t shut up, claiming that the police had indeed wanted the killer to react. It was clear that she thought that what had happened had served them right. Then, quickly, she was covering, talking about the precious missing children, the odds that they might be found alive. It was stupid and boring. It made him want to scream at her that those kids were long dead.
The sharp needles of broken glass winked at him from across the room in the shifting light from the set. Messy. Very messy. He had to get hold of himself. Remember that he had a plan. Transformation was something that would impress Zoe, give her something new and better to talk about.
He had wanted to tell Dr. French about it first. Psychiatrists were doctors, and he’d thought she might refer him to someone who could help. But he’d been able to tell that she couldn’t handle it. She’d looked at him funny that last time, and he hadn’t gone back. Though he’d kept her messages. He liked to play them. Dr. French had a nice voice. Nothing like his mother’s.
It was okay that he hadn’t spoken to Dr. French about transformation. He’d been thinking about it for so long now that he knew he could do it. The first stage anyway. He’d gotten everything he needed off the Internet. All surgical stainless steel—316LSi. The best grade. It was really surprising what you could find with a little surfing.
Hattie Solomon loved talking, and talking to the police about a murder-kidnapping involving people she knew was an invitation to oratory.
“The world is a terrible place, Detective. Of course, you see it all the time, I’m sure. How old are you, Detective?”
“Just turned thirty,” Talbot volunteered.
“Married?”
“No, Mrs. Solomon.”
“Now that’s hard to believe. Good-looking, smart young man like yourself.”
“I don’t have much time to socialize. The job keeps me busy.”
She nodded, stroking the poodle curled in her lap.
“The matchmakers will be in high gear now that Reese Redmond’s on the market again. And poor Margot not cold in her grave. He’s a good catch, though, and life does go on. Doesn’t it, Imogen?” She kissed the dog on its muzzle.
“How well did you know the Redmonds?”
“Not well. Just enough to say hello when we saw each other. She was a lovely woman. Looked like a niece of mine. Died young too. Breast cancer. Wear my pink ribbon every day.”
“What about the twins?”
She laughed. “What a pair. With all that lovely red hair. Dynamite One and Dynamite Two. Talk about bundles of energy. They always gave little Imogen a run for the money.” She ran her nose against the poodle’s.
“When did you see them last?”
She looked suddenly startled. “Last? That’s an ominous way of putting it, Detective. Surely you’re going to find them. I mean God couldn’t be that cruel. Losing a wife like that should be enough for any one man to bear.”
“We’re hopeful, Mrs. Solomon. . . . You need a key to gain entrance to the park, is that correct?”
“You got it. No one without a key gets in.”
“And who gets keys, Mrs. Solomon?”
She laughed again. “Now that’s a stew. In order to secure a key to Gramercy Park, your residence must face onto one of the park’s four sides.”
“What about guests of th
e Gramercy Park Hotel?”
“The hotel does have a key. Guests must request to be let in by the doorman, I think. Though I don’t see too many strangers in the park.”
“Anyone who stands out in your mind?”
“A stranger?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “You think those tykes were spotted in the park?”
“That’s a possibility, Mrs. Solomon.”
“Well, you just go out and find that son-of-a-bitch, Lieutenant. And bring those boys home.”
Although he’d missed last Friday’s appointment, and had been late on at least one occasion, Willie’s instincts warned her that something was wrong when Victor Abbot’s voice on her answering machine told her he was canceling this week’s appointment, and didn’t know when he would be able to reschedule. Something terribly wrong. And the feeling in her gut didn’t improve on the cab ride over to his apartment, or when he didn’t answer his door after she knocked, then banged and shouted. She had made enough racket to cause the lady living in the apartment across the hall to crack open her door and peep through the opening, secured by a chain, and give her the once-over. Apparently she’d passed muster, because the woman had answered her when she asked about the building super.
Her instincts manifesting now as butterflies and an acid buildup in her stomach, she stood waiting for the apartment manager, who lived off premises. She’d gotten the number from the nosy neighbor and had called him on her cell. It had taken some convincing to get him to come over. But she’d pulled out all the stops: She was Victor’s psychiatrist and was afraid he had done harm to himself.
The manager’s fifteen minutes had stretched to thirty. In the meantime she’d tried again to get a response by banging on the door and calling out his name. Though logic told her he could be anywhere, she felt certain he was inside his apartment and . . . She didn’t want to think beyond the and. Although she’d told the super Victor was depressed and might have hurt himself, she tried not to believe the full import of her own words. To hell with the instincts that had driven her over here.
She was about to knock again when she heard the elevator doors open. It was the manager. She could instantly see why he hadn’t wanted to come over. Any kind of movement had to be a monumental effort. The man must have weighed three hundred pounds. She watched him struggle onto the landing, and felt sorry for him.
“Dr. Wilhelmina French.” She offered identification. “Sorry to make you come over like this, but I’m rather concerned.”
“Monroe Kemp,” he got out between bouts of breathing. He took the ID, examined it. “This looks okay. I just don’t want to get into any trouble. Violate anybody’s rights.”
“I completely understand. And I’ll assume full responsibility if there is any problem, Mr. Kemp.”
“Call me Monroe.” He was trudging to the door, fumbling with a large ring of keys, trying to locate the passkey that would open the door to Victor’s apartment. “Too many keys. Don’t even know what half of them open. Just keep collecting them. . . . Here, this is it.” Reaching, he shoved the key into the lock and opened the door.
She hadn’t gotten out the words “Don’t touch anything” before Monroe Kemp bolted from the bedroom. Then she had fished for her cell in her purse and dialed 911. Her damn gut had been right, she thought as she moved over toward the bed, where Victor lay nude on his back, arms stretched out, legs spread-eagle. There had been significant bleeding, and she thought that exsanguination might prove the cause of death.
She bent over the body and examined the large industrial bolts driven into both of the knee joints. The hammer lay on the floor, flung aside after it had served its purpose. What was difficult to understand was how he’d been able to do it. How had he endured the pain? She shook her head. Of course she understood. What Victor Abbot wanted more than anything was to be a machine, and no price was too high to pay. She just hadn’t been listening.
She would have liked to cover Victor’s mutilated body, hide his pitiful madness from the world; she seemed to at least owe him that. But she would follow the rules. Though they seemed pathetically foolish when everything pointed to “death by one’s own hand”—an infinitely kinder expression than “committing suicide.” In Victor’s mind, he had not died alone; but there was no consolation in that. For they were hideously obscene, scattered in the bed around his body, those dozens of awful paper dolls, with Zoe Kahn’s face staring up at her over and over again.
Did the stars in the trees shine with less ferocity tonight, their random syncopation playing to the rhythms of his uneasy heart? If it were true, he yet had the will to blind himself to their dimming, as he had blinded himself to everything that lay outside the borders of the Kingdom. No news was good news.
Except for what he fed in, he had allowed nothing on any of the televisions. He had planned ahead with a library of tapes. It turned out he had stumbled upon his boys’ favorite. Had let them watch it too many times before he’d realized the implications of the bright and silly thing. Finding Nemo had had to go. And that had not been pretty.
Could he admit to himself that he was tiring? That the rejuvenation he sought remained more than ever elusive? He could control the time and length of their sleep, but he had not wanted control. The Kingdom, if it was anything, was freedom.
He rubbed his burning eyes, realizing it was late. But it was always night here. He gazed up from where he sat on the artificial turf to the blacked-out glass that kept the Kingdom safe, then over to where the twins sat playing, a little dispiritedly, with a collection of toys. They had begged again today to go to the park. In all his plans, he had never factored in dissatisfaction. He did not wish even to entertain the possibility that his boys were less than perfect, his little rubies larded with inclusions that would crack under stress. But if they were not fit for the freedom he had gone to such lengths to provide, would that not explain the continuing drain of his energy?
He did not want to believe it. Would not allow himself to believe it. But the ticking of seconds was the beat of his heart.
“Pun’kin Man . . .”
Jason’s voice surprised him. He had sunk so far within himself that he had not sensed the boy moving toward him. “Yes?” he answered.
“Damon wants Mommy.”
This was a new formulation. It was Jason, the more dominant, who would now bear the burden of this weakness.
“Sailing in the clouds.” He repeated the mantra.
“Airplane.” The boy’s tone stubborn now. “Coming home.”
“Soon,” he said simply. He would not let Mother’s anger into his voice. He opened his arms.
Jason did not move. “Damon wants Mommy.” The boy looked back to where his mirror sat listlessly staring.
“Time for a bath.” He got up, smiling. He picked up Jason, who squirmed, feet kicking. “Don’t want a bath.”
“We’ll play the game.” He focused his mind on that pleasure, ignoring his labored breathing, scooping up Damon in his other arm. The boy had been sniveling, mucus running clear and stringy from his nose. He’d caught Jason’s cue, both of them kicking now as he carried them toward the bathroom.
The Kingdom was chaos. Was not rebellion a good thing?
CHAPTER
28
God, I’m glad you came last night.” Willie sank into a chair in front of Sakura’s desk, pulling over gratefully the cup of tea he’d offered. “I still feel terrible, and I don’t mean because of lack of sleep. I feel bad about Victor Abbot.”
“You said you didn’t think it was suicide.” Sakura picked up his own cup, leaned back in the swivel chair.
“No, I don’t believe his intention was to kill himself. You saw those diagrams next to his bed. He wanted to insert those bolts into all the joints of his body. I just blame myself for not realizing how sick he was.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt that he sent Kahn the doll.”
“Maybe I’d have figured that out too if I’d been p
aying better attention. How many of those things did he have? A hundred?” She set down her tea to brush back the dark hair that seemed especially wild this morning. “He talked to me once about Zoe Kahn, told me that he’d seen my appearance on her show. It was probably the reason he came to me.”
“You told me last night you only saw him a couple times.”
“Three if you count the third appointment, which was just a few minutes. But don’t try letting me off too easy, Sakura. I’m getting good at self-pity.” A wry smile, then, “Well, at least I was on target with something. I never really thought that the guy who sent Zoe that ‘paper doll’ was the killer.”
He smiled. “Are we that sure Abbot’s not our man?”
“As sure as we can be at this point. But you saw his place. No easy in and out, and all those neighbors. Awfully hard to imagine him bringing in a parade of drugged women and smuggling bodies out. . . . And no old blood or anything. The techs were very thorough; I watched them.”
“He could have killed them somewhere else?”
“True. But where? And what about the van? Where’d he keep that? According to the neighbors he didn’t have a vehicle. And there’s nothing registered in his name with the DMV.”
“And . . . ?” He was still smiling.
“And he just feels wrong,” she admitted. “Michael’s rubbed off on me, I guess. I’m leading with my gut. Because technically he could fit the profile.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, he doesn’t feel right to me either. And there’s nothing at all to connect him to these murders except that thing he sent Kahn. And that’s really nothing. But we’ll follow up just in case, check into his background and his movements over the last several weeks. Farther back if we have to.” He poured more tea for himself, gestured toward her cup.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Hanae thinks they’re alive,” he spoke again after a moment.
She had no trouble following; she knew he meant the twins. “I hope she’s right. Statistics say otherwise.”