Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Never mind. This won’t take long. In an hour and a half, with these clouds, it’ll be dark. I’m going to find that kid.”

  “But the kid could be dead.”

  “Then we’ll find his body. I’m going to my car. I’ll see you at Fulton and Thirty-second. Let’s move it.” I turned abruptly away, ignoring his rule-book protests.

  Twenty-five

  AS I SLID INTO THE cruiser I felt Canelli’s eyes on me.

  “How’d it go?” he asked, glancing at my disheveled clothing.

  “No problem. But he won’t tell us where the kid is.” I lay back against the seat, eyes closed, and surrendered to the sudden ache of a deep, despairing fatigue. “Drive to Fulton and Thirty-second,” I muttered. “Anything on the radio?”

  “No. I canceled the sharpshooter.”

  “Good. Is Friedman coming?”

  “Not now. He said he’d wait to hear from you. He said that—”

  “Inspectors Eleven.”

  Wearily I acknowledged the call.

  “This is Sigler, Lieutenant. Is everything all right?”

  “If we can find the boy, it’ll be all right.”

  He paused briefly. Then: “We just found something that looks like it could’ve been used for a club, Lieutenant.” I could hear a note of regret in his voice. “It’s a branch, about two inches in diameter, twenty-four inches long. It’s, ah—” Again he paused. “It’s got fresh blood on it. I don’t think the blood’s more than an hour old.”

  As Canelli was muttering “sonofabitch” I heard myself breathing a string of obscenities. I was thinking that a cop’s business is blood. He’s an expert at judging its age and its significance, and its probable origins within the body.

  “How far is the club from the jacket?” I asked.

  “About a quarter of a mile, I’d say.”

  “Is the terrain rugged?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well,” I said slowly, “the only thing we can do is start another search, with the club as a center. We’ll use everyone who’s here. We’re bringing the suspect, too.”

  “The suspect?” Sigler was plainly surprised.

  “Yes,” I answered firmly, “the suspect. We’ll be there in a few minutes. All of us. I’ll give the necessary orders.”

  “Yessir.”

  I beckoned to Markham and Culligan, standing on either side of the handcuffed prisoner. Culligan was a tall, angular man with a sallow complexion, a duodenal ulcer, and a nagging wife. As he prodded Cross forward, Culligan looked more than usually unhappy.

  “Bring him over here,” I ordered. And to the four policemen assigned to crowd control: “I want everyone back. Even the reporters. I’ll talk to them later.”

  “Yessir.”

  As Markham came within a few paces of me, he said in a low voice, “I want you to know that I’m doing this under protest, Lieutenant. The regulations—the law—states that a suspect is to be taken directly to the appropriate station house and charged.”

  I turned to Culligan, who’d been listening covertly, eyes averted. “You’re his witness, Culligan. I’ll expect you to so testify.”

  Culligan’s sad, hollow eyes, sunk deep into a long, gaunt face, were expressionless. Almost imperceptibly he shrugged, still looking away.

  “Bring Cross over there,” I ordered, “behind those trees.” And to Canelli I said, “Get the walkie-talkie, will you? And get set up with someone in a car so that you’re in touch with Communications. Then catch up with us. I want you to stick with me.”

  I led the way behind a thick-growing screen of trees. The bridle path was just ahead—and the boy’s yellow jacket, still lying where we’d first found it. I stopped beside the jacket, turning to face Cross.

  The suspect stood quietly, his pale face rigid. Now his mouth twitched slightly, as if he were suppressing some subtle, secret joke.

  I decided on an oblique opening, hopefully to catch him off balance. “We’ve just interviewed your stepdaughter, Cross,” I said quietly. “While you were running—threatening to kill that little girl—we were interrogating your stepdaughter.” I paused, watching him closely. “How does that make you feel?”

  His sardonic eyes didn’t answer, his mouth remained steady, composed. He moved his head toward Markham. “You’d better listen to him, Lieutenant. When my lawyer hears that you’ve been…”

  I realized that I’d stepped close to him, was whispering furiously, “I want to know where the boy is, Cross. I figure that you picked up a stick and beat that kid until he’s bloody. Maybe you killed him. And if you did kill him, then I want to know where the body is. And if…” I deliberately turned, pointing to a nearby cluster of thick, high laurel. “And if you won’t tell me about it right now—right here—I’ll take you behind those bushes and I’ll beat you till you bleed inside.” I paused, still with my face barely a foot from his, still whispering, half choked by my own boiling fury.

  “Do you understand, Cross?” I finally asked, my voice still hoarse.

  He didn’t answer. Looking me directly in the eye, he seemed no more than an indifferent spectator, watching me as I fumed helplessly.

  “You killed June Towers because of what she knew about you,” I said softly. “And you probably killed Kent Miller for the same reason. But the boy—ten years old—” I stopped, suppressing a sudden desire to crash my fist into his simpering, supercilious face.

  He’d never tell me. Not now. Not here. I was wasting time—and daylight.

  I turned away from him, saying, “Get him out of here, Markham. Take him downtown. Interrogate him for the record, and book him.”

  I heard them leaving, walking noisily through the underbrush. I heard Markham say something, and heard Cross answer. In the distance, I heard the sounds and the shouts of my men, searching.

  The boy was dead. I could sense it—feel it. I could clearly visualize the battered, bludgeoned body.

  A pine bough, cone-laden, hung close to my face. Suddenly I was balling my fist, striking the closest cone, sending it flying. My knuckles stung. Looking down, I saw blood flecks on my hand. “An interior decorator,” I said softly. “A goddamn interior decorator.”

  Canelli had come to stand beside me, patiently waiting for my anger to subside. In the two years I’d known him, I’d never once seen Canelli angry.

  Exhaling slowly, I glanced at my watch, then looked up into the sky. “We’d better arrange for searchlights,” I said finally. “In another hour it’ll be dark.”

  “Yessir.” Canelli lifted the walkie-talkie, relaying my instructions. Then, for a long, futile half-minute we stood side by side, avoiding each other’s glance, staring silently at the thick-growing trees, listening to the muffled shouts of the searchers.

  They could come across him at any moment. Dead leaves would cover the body; mud would be mixed with the drying blood.

  Or, instead, some wayward stroller would someday stumble on a hand, or a foot, perhaps first unearthed by marauding dogs. Sometimes the exposed limbs were found half eaten. Sometimes…

  “It’s too bad we can’t find some of the kids he plays with,” Canelli was saying. “He might have some kind of a secret place, or something, where he’s hiding.”

  At first I heard him only dimly. But in the next moment I turned on him, grabbing his arm. “Call in to Friedman,” I said. “Tell him to bring the uncle out here. Fast.”

  He frowned. “The uncle?”

  “The uncle.” I shook the beefy forearm. “Hurry up, Canelli. Put in the goddamn call. Tell Friedman I’m expecting him in fifteen minutes.”

  Twenty-six

  IMPATIENTLY, I GLANCED AT my watch. The time was precisely four o’clock. It had been almost ten minutes since Canelli had called Friedman. We’d taken up a position behind the first fringe of trees, allowing us to observe the crowd clustered on Fulton Street. Canelli had propped the walkie-talkie in the crotch of a huge pine tree—a “good climbing tree,” the kids would call it. Would Canelli forget the
walkie-talkie? Should I…

  A blue sedan was erratically angling across Fulton, pulling to a stop behind a police station wagon. Marge and Bill Fisher got out of the blue sedan, heedlessly leaving the door open. Both were gesturing furiously, confronting Sigler. I saw Canelli watching the Fishers. He was clicking his teeth, registering a wry distaste.

  “Tell Sigler to let them come up here,” I said briefly.

  Looking at me with mild puzzlement, Canelli reached for the walkie-talkie and contacted Sigler.

  “Maybe you’d better put that in your pocket,” I said, gesturing to the walkie-talkie.

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  We watched the Fishers approaching. The man was ten feet ahead of the woman, who was laboring over the uneven terrain in pink plastic playshoes. It was a slight uphill grade, and Fisher was breathing hard as he reached me, saying, “Where is he? Is he all right? Is he…” He paused, gulping for air. His wife pulled up at his side, panting.

  “We haven’t found him yet,” I answered shortly. “Do you have any idea where we could look, Mr. Fisher?”

  Scanning the silent trees with a baffled, baleful stare, Fisher shook his head sharply. He stood with his big fists bunched at his sides, his bullet head lowered on his thick neck, chin out-thrust. He looked like a prizefighter awaiting the bell.

  “Do you have any ideas, Mrs. Fisher?”

  Ignoring the question, she was looking back the way they’d come, momentarily oblivious of me. “What’s he doing here?” she whispered.

  Following her line of sight, I saw Friedman and James Fisher walking slowly toward us. Friedman’s head was down as he trudged doggedly up the grade. Fisher was walking easily, his blank stare focused straight ahead, unmindful of the rough ground.

  “What’s he doing here?” Repeating the question, her voice was very low, barely audible. “Why isn’t he handcuffed?”

  She didn’t know about Cross, then. She’d learned of our search for David, concentrating in the park. But she hadn’t heard about Cross, or about his capture. She still thought David had simply run away. She didn’t realize that her son might have been injured—or killed.

  “James is innocent, Mrs. Fisher. He was innocent all the time.” I paused, turning to assess her reaction as I said, “You knew that, didn’t you? Even when you were contradicting David’s story—even when you were phoning in the tip to us—you knew James was innocent.”

  Her eyes were fierce as she twisted to face me. Her fingers were claw-crooked, involuntarily half raised against me. “You’re a liar—a dirty liar.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed Bill Fisher turning to look at his wife. I could sense the force of the husband’s dull, incredulous outrage as I said, “You obstructed justice, Mrs. Fisher. You…”

  “He was in the park when the girl was killed,” she flared. “That’s all I said. That’s all I…”

  “But you had no reason to think David lied. And in fact you lied, suggesting that David and James weren’t together all the time on Sunday. So when you led us to believe that David hadn’t told the truth, you were—”

  “You phoned the police?” Fisher’s voice was ominously low. “You?”

  She swung on him, her hands twitching. “You’re away all day. You don’t know what it’s like, locked up with a maniac. You don’t care. You don’t know what people think—what they say. You just—just—” Her mouth was working furiously as she glared at her husband, finally forcing him to drop his eyes, defeated. As Friedman and James Fisher joined us, the woman turned to face her brother-in-law. But her rage-choked words were meant for her husband as she said, “If he comes back in that house, I’ll leave. I swear to God, I’ll leave.” Her voice vibrated with a venomous, low-pitched sibilance. She took a single quick, threatening step toward James. Friedman stepped forward to ward her off, raising a beefy hand.

  Bill Fisher gazed first at his wife, then at his brother. As he began to speak, Bill seemed dazed. “You’re talking about what people think?” he said dully.

  She whirled, rounding on him, her eyes blazing. “That’s right,” she whispered. “That’s right—that’s what I’m telling you. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him. I’m…” Whatever she was going to say was lost in a sudden sob and her eyes glazed with angry tears. Then, wheeling blindly, she started to run down toward the cars, stumbling, half falling.

  Her husband stood quietly, gazing after her. “That’s all she cares about,” he said finally. “That house. Lately, whenever she’s getting ready for company, it’s like—Well, I can’t do anything around that goddamn house. It—it’s like it didn’t even belong to me any more.” Mutely he looked at each of us in turn, as though seeking something from us. Finally his eyes settled on his brother. The two men looked at each other sadly. Then, turning slowly away, moving heavily, Fisher followed his wife down the slope.

  James Fisher’s dark, inscrutable eyes were utterly calm—dead calm.

  Could I reach him with mere words, spark those dead eyes into life?

  Speaking very slowly, trying to compel his attention, I explained what had happened in the past few hours, beginning with the proof of his own innocence, ending with our discovery of the bloody club. I pointed up into the sky, explaining that it would soon be dark and rainy. If we didn’t find David soon, I said, the boy could be out all night in the rain, injured.

  As I finished speaking, I saw Friedman glance at his watch. The time, I knew, must be well after four. Visibility was lessening by the minute.

  I saw James Fisher’s lips stir.

  Was he struggling to reply?

  Could he reply?

  The lusterless, lifeless eyes gave no clue. The pale face was frozen, catatonic. Only the lips moved, struggling with some half-formed thought. Finally he managed a single word: “Rain?” As he said it, the dark brows drew together. “Will David be—wet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fisher. If we don’t find him soon—if we can’t help him, he’ll get wet. He could lie all night in the rain. And right now he could be injured—badly injured.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, maddeningly deliberate. Then, turning his whole body, he stared at Friedman questioningly.

  Friedman nodded solemnly. “That’s right,” he said softly. “He’ll get wet. And we’re almost certain he’s hurt.”

  Another moment passed. Then, oblivious of the three of us, Fisher turned woodenly away, walking stiffly, his dead eyes staring straight ahead. He was striding parallel to the bridle path, moving in the opposite direction from the yellow jacket and the bloodied tree limb.

  “Have someone bring us a couple of lights,” I whispered to Canelli.

  He fell back, relaying the order in a low voice, using the walkie-talkie. Friedman and I followed Fisher, letting him go ahead. Now he was angling away from the path, climbing a low ridge, thickly overgrown.

  “Was this area searched?” Friedman asked softly, breathing heavily.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I hope he knows what he’s doing. We’ve got about twenty minutes of daylight, at the outside.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Carrying two small searchlights, Canelli was trotting after us, puffing. I put my finger to my lips. Nodding, Canelli slowed to a walk.

  “Frank. Look,” Friedman was whispering now.

  Turning, I saw Fisher standing near a gnarled, big-boled cypress growing at an improbable angle out from the side of the hill. Downhill erosion had exposed a cagelike, tangled cluster of cypress roots. As I watched, Fisher sank to his knees.

  “David?” Fisher spoke softly, querulously.

  I stepped forward and knelt beside him, and saw a dark cave-cage that went back into the hillside. I beckoned to Canelli, requesting one of the lights.

  “David? Are you in there?” Fisher’s voice was very low.

  There was no answer—no sound of movement.

  “Here—” Canelli handed one light to me, the other to Friedman. Kneeling side by side, we switched on the lights.

>   The boy lay curled in the fetal position, wedged far back in his tiny cave. Blood matted his hair, streaked his face, soaked his shirt front.

  I handed my light to Canelli as I stretched out on the ground, reaching to my arm’s full length through the twisted roots. My groping fingers fell a foot short of the motionless body.

  But with his two-foot club Cross could have reached him. Cross could have…

  “Let’s get some axes up here,” Friedman snapped. “And a stretcher. Hurry it up. Call the fire department rescue squad.”

  Hastily Canelli relayed the orders. Friedman held both lights, training them on the boy’s face. “He’s alive,” Friedman said softly. “He’s breathing.”

  “Just breathing.”

  “That could be shock.”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “I don’t know,” Friedman said critically. “No more than the usual head wound, I’d say. And I don’t see any brain tissue.”

  “Great,” I answered dryly, getting my legs under me, rising to face Fisher, also on his feet. “Losing that much blood,” I said, “and being in shock—unconscious—he couldn’t have gotten through the night, probably. If he lives, you can thank yourself for it.”

  In the gathering darkness, he nodded gravely, just once. Then he turned back to face the cypress—head bowed, waiting quietly.

  Twenty-seven

  “WHAT’S THE DOC SAY?” Canelli slumped beside me on the waiting-room couch, extending his legs full length, crossing his ankles. Canelli invariably wore low-cut black shoes with white sweat socks.

  “It’s just a concussion,” I answered. “The skull isn’t fractured.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes. His parents are with him now. We can talk to him in ten minutes or so.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. About the concussion, I mean—and no brain damage.”

  “We hope there’s no brain damage.”

  “Yeah. I—Oh, say, I forgot. Your friend is downstairs. Mrs. Haywood.”

  “Ann?”

  “Yeah. She said to tell you she’s waiting dinner for you. But I think she wouldn’t mind seeing the kid. She used to teach him, she said.” He hesitated, then added, “She’s sure nice. She’s got real class.”