“ ‘If thy eye offend thee,’ ” Phillip said. “There are any number of interpretations of that one.”
“I’ll just bet. Listen, are you up for digging in yet tonight? Or should I come back tomorrow?”
Phillip glanced at his wristwatch, then shrugged. “We could spend an hour or so, yet tonight. I’m up for that if you are, Detective. But if I may be frank? You look a little tired to me.”
“I could use some coffee,” Mark admitted.
“I’ll make some,” Phillip said, rising. The lipless smile managed to seem pleasant. “Give me five minutes. You just relax… if you fall asleep, I’ll nudge you awake.”
Alone in the living room now, Mark got up, stretched, walked around a little. He would need that coffee. At the mantel, he paused at the framed photos.
He started at the left end, working his way right. The photos went back decades, to Phillip’s childhood, probably, although Mark didn’t recognize a young version of him in any of them. First in the row was a family portrait, everyone blond, their attire conservative, not unlike Phillip’s preferred fashion now. The man and two young boys in shirts and ties, the woman and a girl in long, high-neck dresses. They stood in a yard, in front of a white crackerbox, not unlike the anonymous midcentury modern houses in the Sully family’s neighborhood.
The next photo was just the kids, the three of them in a park, sitting on a playground bench in their Sunday best, not playing despite the setting. They rarely seemed to smile in these oddly joyless pictures. The family in these photos seemed to consist of two adults and three little adults. Nothing like his own family’s smile-filled photos.
A shot at the end of the mantel stopped him cold—was this portrait of a blond young man in his twenties that of a pre-disfigurement Phillip? It might have been Phillip—it was hard to tell, though the thin-lipped straight line of his non-smile seemed to foreshadow the lipless future.
Yet there was something familiar about this face, something that had nothing to do with Phillip. He had seen that face before.
Where?
Then he had it—this was the face Jordan had drawn, the face she kept magnet-pinned to her refrigerator, and in a flash he knew why she did that, and in that same flash he knew exactly who Phillip was, and in the next moment, he broke a very old promise.
He said, “Oh shit.”
He was going for the pistol on his hip as he spun, and there Phillip was, and he was swinging something, it was blurring toward him, though the bold signature ALBERT BELLE told Mark exactly what he was being hit with, before the world exploded in shiny, tiny stars against a black background, as if a firecracker had gone off inside his skull.
He crumpled to the floor. Though the pain centered in his head, his body burned as if his every nerve ending had fired simultaneously.
“Sentimentality,” Phillip was saying, from somewhere in the room, “is not a sin, but it’s probably a failing, particularly for a man with my calling.”
Mark tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t make his legs obey. His eyes were half open, the world a distorted blur.
“Those family photos should probably go,” Phillip said, thoughtfully. “That one you were admiring is from back when I was Brad Slavens. I was Brad a rather long time.”
On his back, Mark tried to roll to one side, vaguely aware that Phillip was pushing on him, then pulling at something. The detective’s right hand managed to find its way to his hip holster, but the gun was gone.
He fought to keep his eyes open, which were swelling shut at an alarming rate, his vision filling with a curtain of blood. His face burned so hot that he thought Phillip might have set him on fire after hitting him with that bat.
Reality came back with a painful vengeance as the bat crashed down into his ribs. He actually felt them splinter. The pain burned like spreading flames. His breathing became a ragged, labored thing, not unlike Phillip’s.
His host brought the bat down on Mark’s leg, crushing his shin, pain exploding through him again, white-hot and everywhere.
Mark tried to roll into a ball, but could not. Again the bat, this time on the other side, struck Mark’s ribs. Breathing was impossible now. Short, tortured gasps, each weaker than the last. To his surprise, the pain settled into the background. Still there, powerful, constant, but not at the forefront of his consciousness. That honor went to Jordan. He loved her so. On the floor, helpless, life leaking quickly away, he fought against the worst agony of all.
That he would never see her again.
Stabbing pains all over his body brought him back. He was in his car, in the driver’s seat, with no memory of getting there. Barely able to see, yet looking through the windshield, he somehow knew the Equinox was perched atop Ninth Street’s notorious Suicide Hill. Car running… but not in gear?
The driver’s side door opened. Mark, eyes nearly swollen shut, could still make out the hideous countenance of Phillip Traynor.
Mark’s broken lips somehow carried one word out to his tormentor: “Why?”
Phillip ignored him, leaning way over him, jamming something in next to the detective, and the engine began to race.
The driver’s side door closed, and a moment later, the passenger side opened. Phillip leaned in again. He took Mark’s chin in his hand.
“I will possess her again,” Phillip said, his noseless breathing audible over the engine noise. “She is my reward, you see, for serving a merciful God.”
“You… sick… fuck,” Mark moaned, trying to move, not moving.
Phillip laughed, jammed the gear shift into drive, and jumped clear.
The Equinox roared down the hill toward Lake Erie. In the forties, Suicide Hill became famous for cars hurtling down its steep incline and intentionally flying into the lake. So many times had this happened that the city fathers installed concrete pylons at the foot.
Speeding down the hill, Mark helplessly hoped that cross traffic might stop him before he hit bottom—getting broadsided would be better than crashing into those concrete pylons! At this hour, though, no other cars were around, just the Equinox making its inexorable journey.
Too many things were broken in him, the pain too great, for him to move his legs to get to the brake pedal. He looked down at the gear shift… if he could just put the car into park. That would slow it down, stop it dead.…
His hands would not move. He felt glued to the seat. The speedometer read over eighty now, the concrete pylons waiting, unmovable, practically beckoning him.
His cell!
If he could just get to the phone, it might be charged now, and he could warn Jordan, save Jordan. He saw the thing, sliding back and forth across the passenger seat, as if playing keep-away. With all his remaining strength, he reached for it. His fingers touched the cell, barely, then it slipped away.
When the Equinox slammed into the concrete, Mark was aware of the sound of tearing metal, breaking glass, and his own pitiful scream, a scream so weak even he couldn’t hear it. Hardly feeling the sharp shards tearing at him, Mark was thrown backward when the airbag exploded in his face, hitting him with nearly as much force as had Phillip’s bat, a lifetime of minutes ago.
The last thing he said, before blackness took him, was “Jordan.” Soft as a whisper, urgent as a prayer. Heard by nobody at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jordan sat in the ER waiting area next to Captain Kelley, Mark’s boss. Kelley had called her about Mark’s accident and asked her to join him at the hospital. He’d told her nothing more than that Mark was still alive. It had still been dark when the Vespa took her to top-rated Cleveland Clinic on Euclid.
Whether that was encouraging or a sign of the seriousness of Mark’s condition, she could only guess. That was one of a thousand thoughts that careened through her mind as she raced through a chilly predawn city in a fresh sweatshirt and last night’s jeans. Was it the cold that made her feel so numb? No tears, though her heartbeat was accelerated, providing a percussive beat for her reckless ride through mos
tly empty streets.
Kelley had met her outside the ER, where he stood smoking. Despite the early hour, the commanding-looking captain was unmistakable, though she’d never met him before, impeccable in a dark gray suit and darker gray tie, a lanyard badge identifying him with photo ID.
Mark was in surgery, his condition critical.
The circumstances of the accident, as reported to her by Kelley, were mystifying to Jordan—she knew all about Suicide Hill, and its history of accidents and suicides, but how Mark—apparently in the middle of the night—had been at that location, speeding and losing control of the Equinox, made no sense. Unless… unless.…
She said to Kelley, “You said you couldn’t give me any details. I understand this is a police matter. Obviously that’s what it is.”
“It’s good you understand.” His half-hooded eyes in that African mask of a face had a brooding quality. This man could explode, and somewhere in there, his fuse was lit. Why?
She made an educated guess—ten years around mental patients gave her certain insights.
“You approved Mark’s off-duty investigating, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
The hustle and bustle of the ER, the dings of periodic bells, intercom voices, provided a backdrop of urgency as they sat enveloped in a bubble of quiet.
She asked, “Why would you do that?”
Fire flared in eyes that, momentarily, were not hooded. “What do you mean, Ms. Rivera?”
“I mean you either believed he was on to something, or you had a special regard… maybe even, affection? For Mark.” She shrugged. “Maybe both.”
Kelley shrugged. “He’s got a lot on the ball. Also, he’s impetuous. Naive.”
“Yet you let him poke around out there alone.”
He frowned at her. “What are you saying, Ms. Rivera?”
“I’m guessing you know all about our little support group spin-off team. Victims who’ve gathered together to, well… to do your job?”
“Ms. Rivera, I understand you’re upset—”
Calmly, she said, “You would never dream how upset I am. I might be upset enough to go to your superiors and ask why you allowed a young, inexperienced officer to go out by himself into harm’s way.”
Kelley shifted in the plastic chair. “I called you, Ms. Rivera, as a courtesy. Because I know you and Mark are friends.”
“That’s nice of you. And I think you do like Mark. He sure spoke well of you. Looks up to you. He lost his father at a fairly young age—not as young as I did, but… well.”
“What’s your point, Ms. Rivera?”
“My point is, I can be an adversary, Captain, or an ally. I’d rather be your ally.”
“I’d rather you were.”
“Good. Then stop fucking around and fill me the fuck in.”
He frowned, then smiled a little. “I could use another smoke.”
“Let’s step outside.”
“You say that like somebody about to give somebody else an ass whooping.”
“No. I just did that. Now we can talk.”
Outside, where it was still chilly, though the sun was climbing, Kelley exhaled smoke and said, “A witness said the car never slowed down—no brake lights. Said it looked like Pryor intentionally ran into the pylons.”
“Suicide? Well, that’s bullshit. Not Mark.”
Kelley shrugged. “He’s a sensitive kid. He may have blamed himself for the Levi Mills murder.”
“Mark was with me, Captain, just a few hours before this travesty happened. When he comes out of that operation, you’ll see. He’ll tell you. But for now, you’ll have to take my word for it.”
Kelley sighed. “I already do. That kid was happy. High as hell that he’d hauled that suspect in—Carlyle.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think Carlyle’s your man.”
“Ms. Rivera, you haven’t been in for the lineup yet.”
“Mark showed me his picture—hey, I didn’t tell you that. I’ll deny I told you that.”
“You never told me that. Go on.”
“I told Mark that Carlyle might have been the guy. There were things that were off about him, and I allowed that somebody could change in ten years, and… I think Mark kind of heard what he wanted to hear.”
“I don’t know—Carlyle seems right for this.”
“Not now he doesn’t. He was in behind bars, wasn’t he, when this ‘accident’ went down?”
Kelley frowned. “You think this… this family killer did this?”
“Don’t you?”
“We have a witness…”
“Your witness is full of shit.”
Kelley grunted a laugh. “Probably. It was a guy on foot, half in the bag.”
“Well then.”
“Anyway, I only mention that Mark may have done this intentionally as it’s a possibility we have to rule out. Our crime scene team has just started investigating, and we need to cover all the bases.”
“What does Phillip have to say?”
“Phillip? Phillip who?”
She frowned at him irritably. “Phillip Traynor. Recent addition to our support-group team? Mark was heading to Traynor’s house when he left my place. Why, didn’t he make it there?”
Kelley tossed his cigarette and it sailed away spitting sparks. “You got contact info on this Traynor? Phone? Address?”
“Sure,” she said. She got out her cell. “What’s your number? I’ll text it over.”
Soon she was sitting alone in the ER waiting area, Kelley off dealing with this new information. She checked her watch—it was six. Fucking early, but she had to do it. She started making the calls, David first.
“What’s up?” David said. Obviously he knew if she called this early, there was a good reason.
She quickly filled him in.
David said, “But it’s not an accident, is it?”
“No. And the suspect Mark arrested yesterday is a dead end. Either that, or he’s half of a team.”
Kelley was coming back over.
“Can’t talk,” she whispered. “Just stay inside, and keep alert.”
“I’ll call Phillip and Kay for you.”
“Thanks. But just Kay. The police are getting in touch with Phillip, ’cause Mark was heading over there last night. All I can say.”
She ended the call.
Kelley was sitting down next to her again. “Who was that?”
“David from our team. He’s calling Kay. Also on our team. Didn’t Mark tell you anything?”
He ignored that. “Well, Phillip from your ‘team’ isn’t answering. I’ve got officers on the way there. Should know something soon.”
Jordan nodded.
“Ms. Rivera, with Mark sidelined, I need to meet with you and your friends as soon as possible. I want to be filled in, in depth, on everything you’ve shared with Mark, and frankly anything you haven’t.”
She nodded again.
“As a show of good faith,” he said, turning almost sideways in his chair to really look at her, “I’ll give you some information we’re withholding, for now. Thanks to Mark, we’ve matched a shell casing from a family killing in the Bronx to the gun found at the Walter and Katherine Gregory crime scene.”
She squinted at him, as if she were reading fine print. “So Kay’s sister and brother-in-law… that wasn’t a murder-suicide?”
“No. And it’s now linked to the other family killings. Almost certainly the same perpetrator.”
“Have you told Kay?”
“Not yet. We need to get our ducks in a row, first. Please keep that to yourself for now.”
“All right.”
“I have a call in to the FBI,” he said, “and I anticipate they will be getting involved—maybe taking over—very soon. Perhaps yet today.”
She gave him another nod.
“You should feel good about what you’ve accomplished,” he said. “But I’d suggest you accept that from here on out, you’re going to be on the sidelines.”
“Like Mark.”
“I hope not like Mark. If you’re right, and we have a serial killer who is accelerating and devolving right in front of us, you and your friends are in danger, until we’ve either determined Carlyle is indeed our man…”
“Unlikely.”
“… or find the son of a bitch who is. You’ll be kept under top-level police protection, and so will your friends.”
She cocked her head. “You think Phillip is dead?”
“No reason to think that.”
“Yet.”
He nodded, and admitted, “Yet. I don’t mean to be unkind, Ms. Rivera, but there’s been a high cost to what you’ve accomplished. You’ve flushed out a killer, yes… but Levi Mills is dead, and Mark is in the operating room. Are you ready to leave this to the professionals?”
“Sure.”
This seemed to satisfy him. “Good.” He rose. “I have a few things to check up on. I’ve instructed the nurses at the station to let you know when Mark is out of surgery, if I’m not back first.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded, gave her a tentative smile, perhaps not entirely trusting her, and left the waiting area.
Was Phillip dead? If so, had she caused it? Was Levi’s murder her fault? Mark’s accident?
She almost flew into the little restroom nearby and leaned over the stool and threw up, or rather tried to—there was nothing in her stomach, and the effort was as wrenching and pointless as she suspected her investigation may have been. She sat there and cried and cried, for how long she wasn’t sure. Then she rose, threw cold water on her face, dried off, and looked in the mirror at the blank countenance that she provided the world.
About five minutes after she’d returned to her chair in the waiting area, David and Kay blew in, two uniformed cops trailing in behind them, then lingering near the nurses’ station.
Jordan got up as Kay came up to embrace her. The urge to push the woman away came and went in the same breath. She didn’t mind being touched, being held, not by this good woman.
And not by Mark. Never again would Mark’s touch be anything but welcome.
What Doesn’t Kill Her Page 23