by Tim Green
Luther was shaken from his trance, as if he'd forgotten she was there.
"Sure," he said, turning the key in the ignition and cracking all four of the windows about two inches.
"Thank you," she said.
Luther seemed not to hear her. His eyes again looked past her, out of the back window of the police car and into the horrors he had just described.
"I couldn't see him for three years," Luther told her. "I don't know where my brother was or what they did to him. I was the only one who cared. Our mother was dead. They kept putting me off, saying Leeland was involved in some secret military operation. Finally, I got a lawyer and used some pull I had with a senator and they had to let me see him. It was bad.
"He was in a state institution outside Atlanta, a maximum-security facility for the criminally insane. It looked like an inner-city high school, all red bricks and a flagpole out in front. But it was in the middle of nowhere, and it was surrounded by a double chain-link fence with dogs and concertina wire and the latest in surveillance stuff. Even my brother couldn't get out of there, and God knows he tried.
"By the time I got to him, he was spending a good portion of his time in a straitjacket. About the only way they could get him to take his drugs was by injecting him, and even that was a battle. Anyway, when they let me see him he was chained to a chair in the middle of a padded room. He was in the jacket, and the leather muzzle they used to cover his mouth was hanging around his neck like a broken dog collar. They had taken it off so he could talk to me. Normally, they said, they had to keep his mouth covered because he once tore someone up with his teeth."
"My God," Madison said.
Luther's eyes seemed to zoom in and out of focus.
"When I talked to him, he started to cry I know it was partly from the drugs, but I started to cry, and let me tell you, we weren't like that. We were raised to keep that stuff bottled up. We'd get whipped for crying. But neither of us could help it. I asked him what the hell had happened, and he told me it was all lies. He said he was sent on a bad mission and a lot of people had been killed. He told me the part about the heads. I knew that from the doctors and the story they'd given me. Everything pretty much matched up, but he swore the thing about the communications commander wasn't true. He said he had been infuriated at what happened to his men and that he promised the navy he was going public with the screw-up that cost eleven men their lives. It was just more bad decisionmaking up high in the military. You've heard of that kind of stuff before, everyone has. A lot of it happened over there. We lost more guys to friendly fire than we did to the Iraqis.
"He told me that it was the admiral of the ship who made the mistake. He based the whole decision on old intelligence reports and failed to double-check anything through navy intelligence. He had broken standard procedure and faced a discharge, the end of his career, maybe even a court-martial.
"My brother told me that they had been drugging him for three years and calling him crazy and it was all a sick cover-up. I told Leeland I would fight them. I told him I could get the best lawyers. But he said it would be too late. He begged me to do whatever I had to do to get him out. He begged me."
Luther sighed and pushed the base of his hand into his eyes one at a time, giving each a violent rub. Then he looked directly into Madison's eyes.
"He told me that they were going to lobotomize him. He said if I didn't do something, the next time I saw him--if ever--he would be a vegetable. I swore to him I'd do something. Before I left, I talked to the doctor who talked to me when I arrived. He danced around the lobotomy thing, saying that they would do everything they could before they resorted to something that radical, but that my brother was an incredible danger to himself and others. I told him I found that hard to believe. The doctor told me Leeland had a violently acute case of post-traumatic stress disorder, and that he had lucid moments when he appeared perfectly fine, but that for the most part he was incredibly dangerous and a sociopathic killer. I was told I could see him again in six months. Even my lawyer told me there was pretty much nothing I could do. Apparently they had done everything by the book. My brother was in there and he wasn't coming out. If they determined he needed to have part of his brain hacked out, they could do it. . .
"When I got back I tried to think of how I could get him out. No one could help me, though. I had used up my marker with the senator just getting in there to see Leeland. The lawyer told me it wasn't possible. The whole thing had been mandated by a navy tribunal, and it was all legal. Everyone seemed to think my brother was desperately manipulating me. I didn't think so, though."
Luther sighed and shook his head before continuing.
"At the time, I had been seeing Vivian on and off for about three months. We were getting pretty close. One weekend, we went away together to St. Bart's, just for a couple of days on the beach where we didn't have to worry about anyone seeing us or knowing us. Chase was in Hawaii on business. We both knew the kind of scum he was, and we never felt guilty about what we were doing. Anyway, she asked me why I wasn't myself and I told her. I asked her if she could help. She told me that if Pat Pdvet couldn't help me that no one could.
"I was desperate, and she said Pdvet was a guy who got things done one way or another, that's why he was Chase's attorney She said she thought that as straight as Rivet pretended to be, before he came to work with Chase, he supposedly worked for the mob in Miami. He was no stranger to breaking rules. I asked her to find out if he would help. I knew Rivet, but I don't think the two of us ever said more than three words to each other the entire time I'd been with the team. She set up a meeting for me with him when we got back. I told him my problem, and he said he couldn't help me but he might know someone who could. That was it. He never said another thing about it to me.
"I began to think it was all bullshit. Then, about two weeks later I got a call from some guy who I never heard from before or since. He said he heard I had a problem with my brother and I needed it solved. I told him I did and I asked him who he was. He told me that wasn't important. I didn't know what to do. I had to get my brother out of there. They were going to kill him, or as good as kill him anyway.
"This guy asked me if I wanted to get him out. I told him yes. He told me that he could get him out, but that my brother would have to do a job. I didnt know what the hell that meant, and I asked him. He told me it would require the skills my brother had learned as a SEAL. I asked if it was some kind of underwater demolition or something like that. He told me something like that,' but that it was none of my goddamned business. If I wanted my brother out, I had to write a letter telling Leeland to do whatever job that was asked of him by the people who got him out. I did that. What else could I do?
"I asked when I could see him again, and he told me when my brother was done with his work, but that afterward it would be best if he left the country. He told me that if they got him out once, they wouldn't be able to do it again. That was early last summer. I asked Pdvet about it, but he said he didn't know a thing, said he had no idea what I was talking about. He knows, though. A few weeks later I called the doctor who spoke with me at the hospital, but he told me my brother was no longer at that hospital. I didn't know what the hell was going on. I didn't know if my brother was in or out, or dead, or what.
"I got that lawyer who helped me get in to see Leeland to ask where my brother was. He finally found out that he had escaped. They said no one knew how. They said there was a warrant out for his arrest with the FBI and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, but it didn't seem to be a big priority on anyone's list. That was the last I heard from, or of, my brother until a few weeks ago--not that I've heard from him now, but I'm pretty sure he's behind all that's happened."
"bu're telling me that your brother is the one who's killing everyone?" Madison said.
Luther nodded.
"I think so. When Chase was killed, I had a bad feeling. I think probably Vivian and Rivet got together to use my brother to have him killed. She's rich now.
She has everything. She used to talk about how great things would be without Chase. She knew I would never do anything about it. When she heard the story about my brother and the kind of things he was capable of. . . I don't mean as a crazy killer, I just mean as a navy SEAL, I think she figured it was her chance. It makes complete sense, the drowning, the scuba diver. My brother was trained to do that kind of stuff. Vivian hooked me up with Rivet. She sent the note. She got me there. She rolled right over for the police, telling them she saw me. She set me up. Now she won't even see me. I tried calling her, but I can't even get her on the phone. I went to her house, but there were armed guards all over the place, and no way to get to her without causing some serious trouble."
"And your . . . brother," Madison said, "why didn't you tell me this from the beginning? It doesn't make sense. I told you you could trust me."
Luther shrugged.
"I didn't tell you from the start because I figured you'd get me off and everything would work out. That's why I wanted you. bu're supposed to be the best there is. I didn't want you or anyone looking for my brother. I figured if he bumped Chase, everyone would have what they wanted and they'd let Leeland just disappear. I didn't want him to get caught or captured or whatever. If they caught him, I knew what would happen. I couldn't live with that."
"And now?"
Luther sighed heavily. "I think he may have killed Charlene. He would never have done it if he had known who she was or what she meant to me. But how could he have known? I also think he may have killed whoever was in your hotel room last night."
"How did you know about that?" Madison asked suspiciously.
"I heard it on the radio on the way over to the hotel," Luther said.
"You just started shooting at the police, Luther," Madison said, still skeptical.
"That one cop shot at me, Madison," he said. "I didnt even raise a finger. He just saw me and pulled his gun and started trying to kill me!"
Madison fumbled with the inside pocket of her blazer. She took out the ring and passed it through the cage.
"What's this?"
"Its a championship ring. I want you to put it on."
"Why?"
"Just do it, Luther," she told him. Madison bit the inside of her cheek and watched as Luther slowly stuck the end of his ring finger into the smooth circumference of the brilliant yellow metal. Halfway down, it stuck.
"Doesn't fit," he said, looking curiously at her.
Madison could see that. She exhaled slowly, as if she'd just heard some good news she'd been waiting for.
"Who else would have a ring like this?" she asked.
"Anyone on the team," he said. "We all got them."
"What about Rivet?"
"Sure."
"How about Martin Wilburn?"
"feah, everyone gets one, the equipment manager, the trainers, the coaches, Wilburn and Rivet, too. Anyone who has something to do with football operations. Where'd you get it?"
"It was found outside a cabin," she said. "The same place where three severed heads were found on top of some wooden poles."
Luther's face crumpled.
"Jesus. That's what they said he did on that ship. That's what happened to his men. But why would he? Was . . . Charlene?" He choked.
"I don't know. I would think probably yes."
"But why?" Luther anguished.
"I think we should just turn you in, Luther," Madison continued, "and let them find your brother. If he really is out there, and sick, he needs help. You need help. You're bleeding."
"A lot of things aren't right," Luther said, shaking his head and waving off his injury in a way that suggested he was no stranger to pain. "Someone, somewhere, is pushing all the buttons. I have to find out who it is. If I don't, I'm going to end up in the same kind of place my brother did. I'm a black man with a gun and a history of psychological counseling. The police already think I'm a killer. I just shot a cop. You think anyone will believe he tried to kill me first? They may never find my brother and they may not want to. I make a nice story, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail, or worse. I've got to find the people who are using my brother and get to Leeland myself. If I can do that. . ."
"Then what?"
"If I can do that, then maybe my brother can get away and I can expose whoever's behind this. All of them."
"I don't think your brother's getting away would be good for anyone, Luther," she said gently.
"He's my brother, Madison," Luther said flatly "The other problem is you."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean, you're better off if everyone thinks you're dead."
"Why?"
"Look, for whatever reason, Leeland was ordered to kill you," Luther said. "Right now, he and everyone else think that's exactly what happened. If you turn up, it will be all over the news. Everyone will know. I'm just saying, my brother is not a guy I'd want coming after me, police protection or not.
He's like a heat-seeking missile. He was a SEAL captain. You don't get to be that unless you're pretty damn dangerous."
Luther's stare gave Madison cause to think seriously about what he'd said. She could call Cody and Jo-Jo and let them know she was fine. Cody could call her parents and her sister. Otherwise, everyone else could think she was dead. Luther was right. The last thing she wanted was to have to look over her shoulder every minute wondering when Luther's brother was going to blast through a window or a door with the intention of killing her.
"I know where we have to look," she said finally.
"Where?"
"Memphis."
Chapter 42
Mark Berryhill was stunned to hear the news of Madison McCall's death. He turned off the television and sat at his desk for a moment thinking of his own wife and children. He made a resolve to spend more time at home. The intercom buzzed, and his secretary told him the coroner was on line one.
"Yeah, Art?"
"Mark, I know this isn't your territory, but I talked with the sheriff's office, and Lieutenant Kratch, who's running the investigation, suggested that you might be able to help us get in touch with Madison McCall's next of kin. There was no identification in any of her things. I don't know if the killer took her wallet or what, but all I've got to go on is her name from the hotel registration. I don't even know where she's from."
"She's from Texas--Austin," Berryhill told him. "She worked for the firm of Caldburn, Baxter and Thrush, and she's married to the former Texas Outlaws player Cody Grey. He's the one you'll want to get in touch with."
"No chance you'd have a home number or anything? I'm going to need an identification, Mark. I don't know if there are any prints on file in Austin, but if not, the husband will have to help me determine if its really her, even though I cant imagine who else it could be."
The state attorney thought about that, a man having to identify his wife's headless corpse. He shifted in his chair as if someone had run a cold, smooth cube of ice down his spine.
"No," he said. "I don't have a home number. But I've got her office number. You can call there, and I'm sure they'll know how to get in touch with her husband."
Berryhill read off the number from the business card Madison had left with him. The coroner thanked him, and Berryhill replaced the phone. He wondered what horrible dementia could have caused Luther Zorn to do such a thing to Madison McCall.
Well, it was going to make his job easier. McCall was a fine lawyer. But Berryhill would gladly have faced the challenge of battling her in court if it would undo the horrible thing that had been done to her.
Leeland Zorn aimed carefully. The best shot was one that hit the brain stem. He pulled the trigger, and in a blur the spear shot through the head of the large grouper. Leeland allowed himself to exhale, and a storm of bubbles rushed from his regulator toward the surface seventy feet above. He reached between the arms of coral and tugged heavily at the spear that protruded from the fish, lifting both as he flogged toward the pale green glow of the surface.
With some effort he hoisted the fish over the side of the boat, then mounted a small platform at the stern where he began to remove his gear. He actually enjoyed the way he was living right now. He didn't have to think of money. They had given him more than enough to buy the old boat, a used car, and the supplies he required. As long as he had the speargun he would never go hungry, and his preferred dwelling was a tent. He felt trapped in any kind of building. When his work was complete, he would, in all likelihood, head to the islands. He could live even farther from civilization. But he wasn't finished doing what he had promised his brother.
By the time Leeland had his gear stowed and the motor running, the sun was high in the azure sky. He took a seat and chugged inland. The smell of spent gas filled his nostrils, and he bumped the throttle to outrun the fumes, heading toward land, where he would weave his way through the Intracoastal Waterway and west on the canal that would take him all the way to the big lake.
It would take less time if he drove, but he didn't like being in the car any more than he liked being inside a building, and the boat was a much less conspicuous way to travel. Six months ago it was the rental car that resulted in his need to kill the young ranger. In a boat he could avoid any police roadblocks, and in the open air there was always a way to escape. Leeland had no intention of ever being held captive again. Before that happened, he would impale himself on his survival knife. He had envisioned this act over and over so many times that he knew he could do it quickly, easily, and without hesitation, driving the point of the blade from just behind his collarbone down through the top of his rib cage and into his heart with one quick thrust the way the Gauls did so many centuries ago.
In a strange way he anticipated that moment. At times he was acutely aware that only the primal and inexplicable instinct to survive kept him from turning the almost constant rage he felt toward his own person. Killing was his only solace. When he extinguished the life from others, the animal within was soothed, and for a short time afterward he felt as if everything was quite good.