“Shouldn’t be long.”
“Take your time, Charlie.” The more time, the better.
“The telephone service is probably cut off. You got a cell phone?”
“No problem.” She pulled the phone from her purse and held it up for him to see.
“Marge is covering for me at the station. You call her if—”
“I’ll be fine.”
As his car turned and headed toward the main road, she walked to the house, guided by the beam of Charlie’s flashlight. Her fingers explored the ledge at the top of the door frame. No key. The utility people had probably taken it with them. Well, that was where Charlie had put his key. The householder might have had a more imaginative hiding place for a spare.
Now think like an old woman.
Charlie had mentioned arthritic knots in the hands of the corpse, so the hiding place would have been more accessible. She flashed her light on a birdbath of cement. No, too heavy to tip back. On the other side of the door was an old bronze sundial on a pedestal. A frog of a lighter shade was sitting at the edge of the circle. But for the slightly mismatched patinas, it might have been a solid piece. She tipped back the small frog. There was the key.
She entered the house through a modern kitchen. The carved door set into a far wall was somewhat grand for this room; it must have been the original front door before the exterior was added on. She trained the flashlight on a row of copper pots, and then found the mushroom clock Billy Poor had described. Perhaps the chief was right, and this was a waste of time.
The house was cold. She flicked on the wall switch, and the ceiling light bathed the kitchen in a warm yellow glow. So only the furnace had been turned off. Odd there was no entrance to the basement off the kitchen, but in this hash of add-ons, she no longer expected to find anything where it was supposed to be. The next room was a dining area, originally the front parlor.
Stashing the flashlight in her pocket, she turned on the lights in all the rooms as she passed through them. Each was filled with a collection of ceramic mushrooms on shelves and tables. Painted mushrooms lined every wall, but there were no signs of any living fungus, no truffles. She opened a door onto a narrow stairwell.
Above her head was a lamp, but the switch failed to turn it on. Pulling out the flashlight again, she descended the stairs and passed through a doorway to the cellar. The yellow beam passed over a washing machine and a dryer. As Billy had said, it was cramped down here. The oversized furnace dominated the space. Only a few steps into the room, she brushed against its cold metal housing as she focused her light on the tight space between the furnace and the corner walls.
Another door. It was a small one, perhaps only five feet high, and it was ajar. No wonder Billy had missed it. It had probably been more visible and accessible when the house had a furnace of normal proportions.
She flashed the light on the knobs. The button above the catch was set to lock when the door closed. She depressed the button to disable the mechanism. Her eyes followed the flashlight’s beam down yet another flight of stairs.
A subcellar? She touched the switch for a wall fixture, but this lightbulb didn’t work either. She turned around and washed the beam across the laundry room walls, looking for a fuse box.
Now Mortimer Cray was being haunted by the living as well as the dead. He avoided looking at Agent Pyle’s face, for there he saw evidence of possession. Yes, the eyes belonged to Paul Marie. They were chilling, terrifying.
He had seen the priest’s eyes in his hospital room. At that time, he had put the delusion down to lapsed medication and his massive anxiety. How to explain it away here and now? He would not even make the attempt. What was the use? Reason had fled; the agent’s eyes were proof. In the next moment, the earth might open to disgorge fire and smoke, and he would think nothing of it.
The psychiatrist directed his gaze toward the glass wall and watched as men in uniforms milled around outside in the garden, trampling plants and bushes. Another ghost of past sins was standing among the troopers and policemen in the yard, the only one not in motion—so like his sister. Rouge Kendall opened a cell phone and extended the antenna.
A moment later, Dodd appeared at Mortimer’s right hand, carrying a cordless telephone. “It’s a patient, sir. He says it’s urgent.”
The psychiatrist spoke to the FBI man without looking at him. “Agent Pyle, this could be serious. I assume you have no objections?”
“Just keep it short and don’t promise to make a house call.” The agent walked off to the far side of the room to oversee the destruction of another row of orchids.
Mortimer held the receiver to his ear. “Yes, who is this, please?”
“Come closer to the glass, Doctor,” said the familiar voice on the telephone.
Mortimer did as he was told and looked through the panes.
“To your left.”
Mortimer turned to see the young man standing in the garden and speaking into a cell phone.
“Good, I can see your face now,” said Rouge Kendall. “This makes it a little more personal.”
The FBI man with the priest’s eyes was walking back to him, saying, “Cut it short, Doc. My business takes priority here.”
“I heard that,” said Rouge’s lower voice on the telephone. “Don’t listen to the fed. He’s only trying to rattle you. You don’t have to say anything unless your attorney is present.”
Mortimer turned to the federal agent. “I have to take this call. I’m exercising my right to remain silent.”
Pyle forcibly turned him around and pushed him back to the wall. “I don’t have time for your rights, Doc. Two kids are dying. I’m flat out of time.”
Rouge’s disembodied voice said, “You have all the time in the world, Dr. Cray.”
“We picked up your patient,” said Arnie Pyle, stepping back a pace. “He’s chattering like a magpie.”
“Pyle is lying.” Rouge’s tone was all contempt. “The FBI has nothing solid, and Dr. Penny isn’t under arrest. Feds, cops—they’re all idiots spinning their wheels.”
The troopers left the garden to enter the main house. Rouge remained to hold him prisoner from the dark side of the glass wall. Yet the young man was as close as a lover when he whispered through the phone connection and into Mortimer’s ear, “You told your niece that I was your patient.”
“I never did.”
Agent Pyle was yelling now. The priest’s eyes were furious. “Your patient is quite a sadist, isn’t he, Doc? But you would know all the details better than I would.”
The old man closed his eyes to blot out Arnie Pyle’s face—Paul Marie’s eyes. Mortimer’s hands began to tremble, and he nearly dropped the phone. When he opened his eyes again, the agent was gone, walking away.
Rouge said, “He’s bluffing. Ali gave him the profile of a sadist. That’s all he has to work with. And by the way, a sadist was all Dr. Penny ever was. But you knew that, didn’t you? You told Ali all about me—about us.”
“I never told anyone that—”
“Liar. She was on my case the day she got into town. She knows something. How could she know unless you told her?”
“What could I have told her? This is—”
“Stop lying. Dr. Penny promised you’d keep my trinkets safe. But you gave them to the police.”
“That’s not true, none of it.” Mortimer watched Rouge pace the garden, one hand rising in a fist.
“I saw you puttering around with that stupid little pot. You did everything but hang a sign on me.”
“I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How stupid do you think I am, old man? You gave the cops my property—mine. I want it all back, and I don’t care what you have to do to get it. That bastard, Penny. First he only wants to watch, and then he takes my things. He said they’d be safe with you.”
“I never—”
“I was there.” Rouge’s voice was rising. “I saw you and that damn blue pot. You wanted them to find m
y things—my things.”
“No, I swear—”
“You think your hands are clean because you didn’t say my name out loud? You gave them the evidence. And you did tell Ali. I can’t let her tell anyone else. She doesn’t have your ethics. Ali will be Dr. Penny’s first solo killing. He’ll probably botch it. But I can’t be everywhere at once, can I?”
“Time’s up, Doc.” Arnie Pyle was back and standing very close, too close. “I need a name, a place, something. I need it now. Get off the damn phone!”
Rouge whispered in his ear, “Maybe Dr. Penny will record Ali’s screams. You can play them back at his next session.”
“No, please don’t. She’s—” Mortimer waved off the FBI agent as the man grabbed at the phone.
“Not a purist, Dr. Cray? It’s all right to kill other people’s little girls, but not your own precious niece?”
It was a penetration of sorts, this voice on the phone, in his head, an invasion, a rape.
“Unlike me,” said Rouge, “Dr. Penny always preferred grown-up victims. He had to make do with little girls. Those were the only murders he had a ticket to watch. But I’d say his first bona fide kill is a sign of real personal growth, wouldn’t you? You must be so proud. Do you know how much he really hates women? Of course you do. And he’s a doctor. Who knows more about pain? All those sharp instruments—”
“You can’t let him do this!”
“Not so loud,” said Rouge, so softly. “You don’t want everyone to know you betrayed a patient. Not after all your sacrifices. Oh, wait—those were other people’s sacrifices, weren’t they? Well, perhaps what Ali’s going through—this is retribution for your sins. I guess you’ll have to eat it, won’t you?”
“Please, you have to stop Myles before—”
“Myles?” The connection was severed, and the young policeman in the garden was folding up his cell phone and hiding it away in his pocket.
With only the mention of Myles’s name and Rouge’s inflection of a question, Mortimer realized, with stunning speed and hellishly clear insight, that he was both betrayer and betrayed.
“Just tell me this,” Arnie Pyle was saying—yelling. “Did the pervert tell you where he took the girls? Can’t you tell me that much? They’re only ten years old. You think I can’t touch you because of the doctor-patient confidentiality?” said Pyle. “I might just reinvent the fucking law—all for you, Doc.”
Chief Croft entered the room and walked up to Agent Pyle, trying to get his attention.
The FBI man waved him off and turned on Mortimer again with renewed anger in his eyes—eyes of a priest. “Oz Almo rolled over on the pervert, Dr. Cray. Almo’s been blackmailing William Penny. I know what the doctor does with little girls.”
One of the village policemen stepped forward. “That’s not why Oz was blackmailing Dr. Penny.”
Arnie Pyle’s expression showed real pain. “Oh Jesus, kid, could you just back off for six seconds?”
“Come on, Billy.” Chief Croft was pulling the officer out of the fray and back toward the wall.
The young man’s voice was still clear and carrying to every quarter of the room. “But Rita Anderson confessed. Cracked wide open. She helped Oz blackmail the doctor. Rita really hates Dr. Penny.”
Chief Croft put one arm on the young policeman’s shoulder, leading him toward the door. “Go back to the station and make out a report, okay, boy? It’s quieter.”
“When we picked up Dr. Penny at the motel,” said the officer, missing his second cue, “Rita thought we were after her. She just broke down, right there in the parking lot. Everybody in screaming distance knows Dr. Penny was screwing his patients’ wives.” Billy’s voice trailed into the garden. “You should’ve seen that guy’s face while we were cuffing him. Rita was just screaming away and running her mouth likea—”
The FBI man was suffering in silent resignation, staring at some distant point, eyes gone to soft focus.
“It’s okay, Arnie.” Rouge Kendall was standing in the doorway. “We had the wrong Penny brother. It’s Myles we want. Dr. Cray confirmed it on the telephone.” He turned to the door leading into the main house. “Hey, Donaldson?” A state trooper stepped into the room. “Donaldson was listening on the extension—two witnesses.”
Rouge had just shoved his old doctor into the abyss.
With Chief Croft back at his side, the young policeman was directing all the officers in the room. “Harrison? Call Marge and have her run a license plate for Myles Penny. Donaldson? Chief Croft says there’s no one at the Penny house, so check the clinic.”
Mortimer stared at his garden beyond the transparent wall, pondering a case of ethics and betrayal. More officers were flooding into the greenhouse. In the dark reflection of the glass, he watched Rouge raise his hand for silence.
“I need all the units on the street. You’re looking for Myles Penny’s station wagon. Marge Jonas has the plate. She’ll be giving out the search coordinates. You’re gonna cover all the roads around town. Wherever you find his car, that’s where the kids are. Now move.”
The room had been quickly cleared of state troopers and local policemen. Rouge and Charlie Croft stood in conversation at the center of the room. The FBI man was some distance away from them, speaking into his cell phone. And where was Ali? Why wasn’t she here in her moment of triumph? The old man walked in halting steps, unsteady as he moved across the stone tiles. Rouge turned around at his approach.
“I need to know,” Mortimer began. “About Ali—”And then he lowered his head, deciding that he did not want to know if she had planned his destruction. Instead he asked, “Where is my niece?”
“Ali’s checking out a vacant house at the lake.” Charlie Croft glanced at his watch. “I told her I’d—”
“Checking for what?” Arnie Pyle appeared at the chief ’s side. “What’s Ali doing out there?”
“She told me she was looking for truffles.”
Ali saw the cellar with more detail now, the film of dust on the appliances, the wadded towels in a wicker basket below the laundry chute, and the dials of the furnace. But no fuse box. Maybe she would find it in the subcellar.
She turned to the top of the stairs leading up to the parlor floor, straining to hear a distant noise. It was the sound of a car engine. So Charlie Croft was back. She debated waiting for him to join her, and then decided to take the second staircase to the subcellar.
The door at the bottom of the stairs opened when she turned the knob. There were no buttons on this lock. And now she saw a shaft of light, interrupted by the trunks of large trees. Trees in the house—incredible. Her flashlight followed their branches up into the darkness of a ceiling crossed and recrossed with pipes and lined with a million dark lightbulbs.
How amazing.
She let go of the door and rounded a tree trunk to find the source of the second light. It was another flashlight, trained on a prone figure in a little red jacket and long blond hair. As Ali moved toward the small body, the door slammed shut behind her. She whirled around. Fingers tore at her hair, twigs of a low-hanging branch.
There was no one at the door.
Ali turned back toward the small figure lying beneath a tree at the far side of the little forest. She was running, high heels spiking into the dirt, when she tripped over something that blended well with the dark. Another body. Her flashlight shone on the carcass of a dead dog. She stumbled to her feet again and moved on toward the child with the little red jacket, Gwen Hubble.
Ali sank down on her knees, directing her light to the girl’s face. The eyes were closed, as if in sleep. The skin was luminous white against the dark soil and dead leaves. Her golden hair lay across the ground, spread around the small head in a fantastic halo. Ali touched the child’s body.
Just like the dog, cold and stiff.
Something green and light as dust trailed from the little girl’s clenched hand, and there were traces of it on the breast of the red jacket. Ali wet her finger, dipped it into t
he green powder and tasted it. Only a few grains burned her tongue at first contact, and she spat it out. Her brain was reeling, trying to make sense of this. Very small children did not commit suicide—not on this planet. This could not be.
The cellar lights came on, bright as day and blinding Ali before her hands could rise to shield her eyes. Her vision was slow to adapt, and she could barely make out the shape of a man standing in the narrow stairway, holding the door open with one hand.
“Charlie?”
She could see more clearly now, but the man’s face was averted as he closed the fuse box. It was high on the staircase wall and set into a niche of rock.
“Let there be light,” said the familiar voice. He nudged a block of concrete against the door to prop it open. Ali was seeing afterimages of every object in reverse shadows, nebulae of light. He was coming closer, saying, “So you found Gwen.”
“Myles?”
He stood over the child’s body and nudged it with the toe of his shoe. “Little bitch.” The prod of the shoe moved the stiffened corpse all of one piece like a statue. “Stonedead. What a waste.”
Hammerfall.
“You seem surprised, Ali. I gather you didn’t backtrack this place through me.”
So William was only a cheap opportunist. Myles was the true sadist in their family, and she had overlooked every one of his signals. “No, I’m not surprised, Myles.” Not anymore. “It was the light. It hurt my eyes.”
Now she could see, and she was looking backward, working through the details she had missed. That day in the greenhouse must have thrilled him to orgasm—discussing the autopsy, divulging intimate details of Susan’s Kendall’s anatomy, setting Uncle Mortimer’s hands to trembling, forcing the old man to spill his wine, to lose his mind.
“You didn’t know it was me.” His tone was challenging. This was important to him, that Ali could not have guessed.
No, she had never suspected him. “Remember my first grown-up dinner party, Myles? It was the year I came east for school. I was eighteen years old.” How soon before Charlie Croft returned?
The Judas Child Page 39