by Jan Burke
Ben’s hand reached through the hole in the door and unlocked the doorknob.
I stared up at him in amazement as he opened the shattered door.
“Why in God’s name did you do that?” I asked.
“I wanted to apologize.”
It hit me first. I started laughing. He started laughing. I nearly lost my perch on the tub.
The doorbell rang. I went to answer it, wiping tears from my face. It was one of the patrolmen.
“Mrs. Harriman?” he asked, looking past my shoulder, then back at me. “We heard a loud noise — and the dogs. Are you all right?”
“Oh yes,” I said, straining to keep my composure.
The officer looked at me warily.
“I made the sound,” Ben said sheepishly. “I broke a door.”
“I locked myself in the bathroom and couldn’t get out,” I said quickly. “Dr. Sheridan kindly rescued me.”
“Oh,” the officer said, and after a fleeting look back at Ben, left us.
We had cleaned up the wood splinters and tacked some brown parcel paper over the opening in the bathroom door when I saw him wincing and rubbing his thigh.
“Ben, rest for a while.”
I half expected an argument, but he moved off to the couch. By the time I walked into the living room, all the color had drained from his face.
“I think I overdid it yesterday,” he said. “Lately, I’ve noticed that’s the only time the phantom pain really bothers me.”
“You tried to keep up with Bingle’s SAR group?” I asked.
He nodded. “I would have been fine, I think, but just when I got home they called to tell me about the skull, so I went into the lab, too. I stayed on my feet too long.”
“So why are you keeping your rig on? Take it off.”
“Some protection I’ll be to you then.”
“You’re right — besides, it’s better entertainment to watch you writhe in agony.”
He smiled a little. “More entries for your Horrible Ben Diary.”
“That bathroom door would probably still be in one piece if you had just admitted that pain was making you crabby. Give me your car keys and I’ll get your chair out of the trunk.”
“Do you still have that extra set of crutches here?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll just use those,” he said, reaching down to push the release button on his prosthesis.
There were two basic sections to Ben’s rig: the socket, worn over the end of his leg, and the Flex-Foot itself. A liner between his skin and the socket held the socket on by suction. A long metal pin extended from the bottom of the socket and fit into a clutch lock, which in turn was attached to his Flex-Foot. By pressing the button on the lock, he removed everything except the socket and liner. The socket and liner couldn’t be pulled off, they had to be slowly rolled off. While he went to work on those, I got the crutches.
After bringing him an ice pack, I let the dogs in and fed them.
Frank came home, looking as if he was highly amused over something and greeted me by telling me that it was all over the department that his wife had alarmed the surveillance unit by getting stuck in the bathroom. Ben looked so mortified that I decided to hold off telling Frank the whole story until we were alone.
We invited Jack and Ben to have dinner with us. Afterward, we let Ben have the couch again, and he tried the ice pack once more.
We sat in companionable silence. Cody was on my lap, Deke and Dunk moved back and forth between Frank and Jack, and Bingle refused to let any of them near Ben. Ben had his eyes closed and was stroking Bingle’s ears. “Tell me the rest of Parzival,” he said.
“Jack could tell it better,” I said.
“No, go ahead,” Jack said. “You’ve read it more recently.”
So I told of how Parzival went to Wild Mountain, and noticed that the Fisher King suffered some ailment, but having been warned by his mentor not to appear overly curious or to ask others too many questions, Parzival made no inquiries about the Fisher King’s health.
I described the great feast in the hall of Wild Mountain, during which the Holy Grail itself was brought forth. Parzival noticed that all the people of the castle looked to him in anticipation, and he was filled with curiosity about all that he had seen — but remembering his mentor’s admonitions, he asked no questions.
The next day, after a night of disturbing dreams, he awoke to find himself alone. Thinking it rude of his hosts to abandon him without so much as a servant to help him dress, he donned his clothing and went into the courtyard, where his horse was saddled, his sword and lance nearby. Angry now, he mounted and hurried to the drawbridge. But as he reached the end of it, someone gave the cable a yank, so Parzival nearly fell into the moat. He looked back to see a page, who cursed him and called him a fool. “Why didn’t you ask the question?” the boy asked, shaking his fist at the knight.
“What question?” Parzival asked.
But the boy merely shut the iron portcullis and left Parzival with nowhere to go but away from the castle.
“What was the question?” Ben asked.
“Parzival has to go through a lot to find out what it was he should have asked,” I said. “But basically, it was long ago foretold that only one person would be allowed to ever find the enchanted Wild Mountain, a knight who would end the suffering of the Fisher King by simply asking one question: ‘What’s wrong with you?’ So Parzival blew his big chance.”
“Does he get another one?” Frank asked.
“Yes, but it isn’t easy. Parzival is so ashamed, he loses all faith in himself and in God. Eventually he regains it, and eventually, he meets the Fisher King again. He finally asks, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ The king is healed, and everybody lives happily ever after.”
“Thank God Travis isn’t here,” Jack said, almost angrily.
“Why?”
“I’d hate to have that be his impression of the story! You skipped the most important parts of it!” he grumbled.
Ben yawned. “Don’t give her a hard time. I enjoyed it. And she’s given me something to look forward to when I read it myself. Thanks, Irene.”
Jack said good night, and Ben and Bingle went home. Frank and I stayed up a little longer, talking and not talking, more than satisfied with both, and with few thoughts of medieval poetry.
He fell asleep before I did, and I thought about the next day being Monday, and that he would be leaving again early the next morning. I decided I would try again to get in touch with Phil Newly and Jim Houghton.
Plans or no plans, it would still be a Monday. I started softly humming the song I had heard at Gillian’s apartment — “I Don’t Like Mondays.”
That Monday would be one of my worst ever.
51
MONDAY AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 25
Las Piernas
The Moth knew about the dog. Because of its work, the dog was trained to be friendly. And even if it had been asked to guard the house, the Moth had spent time getting to know it, and getting to know Ben Sheridan’s schedule as well.
Sheridan had cut back on his work at the college. He was teaching the usual number of courses, but he allowed his graduate assistant, Ellen Raice, to handle more of the duties. Ms. Raice had been very forthcoming about Ben Sheridan’s schedule.
Knowing when the professor would be on campus made it easy to figure out when to start coming by to talk to the dog. The dog was lonely when his owner was gone, and so he liked the visits, wagged his tail when the Moth approached.
It was really not too surprising, then, that the dog hadn’t barked when the Moth once again broke into the garage. Dr. Sheridan had put a different lock on the back door, but not one that prevented breaking the door itself.
The Moth went into the house and carefully searched again.
And failed again.
Angry and frustrated, the Moth swept a gloved hand over a shelf full of videotapes, knocking them to the floor. This time, a little damage should be done. Swinging
the crowbar, the Moth watched with glee as other things flew off the shelves — books, framed photographs. The most satisfying moment came when the iron bar hit the screen of the television set with a bang. At the sound of breaking glass, the dog started barking.
This had a slightly sobering effect. If the dog heard it, had the nosy old neighbor heard it? The old woman’s attention to everything going on around here had already forced the Moth to park on another street, to climb fences to get here.
The dog kept barking.
Frightened, the Moth hid in the bathroom. After a while, the dog was quiet again. “What would Nicky say if you were caught?” the Moth asked aloud, but the thought was more irritating than frightening.
Nicky had been ignoring his Moth.
Angry again, but more under control now, the Moth opened the medicine chest, found Ben Sheridan’s pain medication and stole it.
In the kitchen, the Moth did a search of the cabinets and quickly found the dog’s food. The Moth opened a can of this, put a small amount of it into a bowl and began opening the capsules of pain medication over it. Mixing a dozen or so of them in well, the Moth put the cap back on the bottle and was about to take it — then paused. Wouldn’t do to be caught carrying something with Sheridan’s name on it, now would it? Spilling the pills out and pocketing them, the Moth left the container on the counter and went outside.
The dog did not perceive an enemy. This was a familiar person carrying a bowl of food. The dog was alert, and studied the Moth now. The dog was already interested in what the Moth had brought for him.
The Moth opened the gate to the run just slightly, then slid the bowl in.
“Good dog.”
The dog looked up at the Moth, then cocked his head to one side. The dog stared at the food, licked his chops, but didn’t touch it.
Was there some command it was waiting for?
The Moth opened the gate again, reached into the bowl and took a handful of the food and held it under the dog’s nose. The dog looked between the Moth and the food, then gently, almost reluctantly, ate the food out of the gloved hand.
This will take forever!
The Moth heard the neighbor’s dog barking, then several other dogs barking as well. The big shepherd’s ears pitched forward. Was someone approaching the house? The Moth hurried out of the enclosure. Scaling the high back fence, the Moth left through another backyard — a yard whose owners were without a dog, whose owners were never home during the day.
Reaching the car, the Moth closed and locked the door, then sighed, feeling safer now. Driving away, looking in the rearview mirror, satisfied that no one was watching or following, the Moth smiled and said, “Adiós, Bingle.”
52
MONDAY AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 25
Las Piernas
Jack waited patiently in the van, using his cell phone to have a long talk with Stinger Dalton. This time, the police had left the van, but took my cell phone. They had promised to have it back to me later today, after they had made some recordings of Parrish’s call.
I rang Phil Newly’s doorbell a dozen times, and knocked until my knuckles were sore. Newly didn’t come to the door. I told myself that I should simply accept that he was either not willing to see me or was out of town. I told myself that I should leave — but something kept me from going back to the van. At first, it just seemed to be one of those one-size-fits-all cases of the creeps. I tried to narrow it to something a little more specific.
The house wasn’t just quiet, it seemed abandoned. There were a few handbills and a real estate broker’s notepad on the front porch. And while the lawn and flower beds, which would be watered by automatic sprinklers, were green, the potted plants on the front porch looked dried out.
I walked over to the front window, but the miniblinds were closed. I thought back to my last visit here. No dogs. I opened the gate to the backyard. I called Phil’s name. Nothing.
There were more windows along the back of the house. The blinds were down here, too, but one of them hadn’t closed properly. I realized that it was the room where Phil spent most of his time. I moved closer to the window and peered in.
“What the hell are you doing?” a voice said behind me.
I jumped back, hand over heart. “Damn it, Jack, don’t do that!”
“Don’t sneak up on you when you’re sneaking around?”
“Right.” I looked back into the house, then at Jack. “Something’s wrong here.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Look in there. What do you see?”
He looked, and said, “Nothing much. A couple of chairs, bookshelves, and a little table.”
“A few days ago, there was a pile of books on that table, and he was looking at maps.”
“When?”
I thought about it. “About two weeks ago, I guess.”
“Irene . . .”
“He lives in this room. It’s too neat. I can even see the marks the vacuum cleaner made on the carpet.”
Jack shook his head. “You were in it once and you know for a fact that he never cleans this room? Don’t you think it’s possible that a cleaning lady or someone else with a vacuum cleaner has been through here in the last two weeks?”
“I don’t know, Jack, you’re probably right. But doesn’t the house seem a little empty?”
“Maybe he went off to see his sister again.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “Maybe I’m overreacting.”
But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to me to worry about Newly’s whereabouts while Parrish was on the loose. By the time we were back at home, I was convinced that someone should try to locate the lawyer.
“What is it you’re imagining?” Jack asked. “That he’s been killed? If so, where’s his mail? Where’s the pile of newspapers?”
“Newspapers!” I went to the phone and called circulation. They don’t give out subscriber information as a rule, so I decided to do a little acting.
“Hi, this is Mrs. Phil Newly,” I said, and gave his address. “I just wondered what’s been happening to our newspaper.”
The service rep asked for my phone number. After two seconds of mad panic while I fumbled to find it, I gave them Phil’s. She looked up his records by using the phone number.
“Mrs. Newly, your husband canceled that subscription.”
“He did!” I said in mock outrage. “When did he do that?”
She named the date — it was the day after I visited Phil Newly.
“Do you want to reinstate the subscription, Mrs. Newly?” the rep asked.
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I’d better talk to Phil and see what he’s up to first.”
I called Frank. “Something fishy is going on with Phil Newly,” I said, and told him what I had found out. “Did he give you the number at his sister’s place?”
“I’m sure we have it here somewhere,” he said. “You worried about him or suspicious of him?”
“Both. I suppose — it’s a little difficult for the police to get a search warrant for a criminal defense attorney’s house, right?”
“A little.” He laughed. “I’ll see what I can find out from his sister, though.”
I received a surprise phone call at about three o’clock.
“Irene Kelly?” a male voice said. Familiar, but not someone I had heard recently. Then it struck me.
“Jim Houghton?”
“Listen, I’m a private citizen now, and I don’t have to talk to any reporters. So stay the hell off my tail, would you? You and your PI friend.”
“Rachel contacted you?”
“Yes. Now, she told me if I called you, you would probably leave me alone. So I’ve called you.”
“Wait — I didn’t call you because of the newspaper.”
There was a long pause, then he said, “Oh no? Why then?”
“I just need to talk to other people who survived being up there.”
“I didn’t. You don’t call it surviving when you ar
en’t there for the action, okay? I wasn’t anywhere near the place. I left with Newly, remember? So, I’m safe and sound, and you’re safe and sound. So’s Parrish. Good-bye, Ms. Kelly. And tell Harriman I said he ought to keep you at home if he wants you to live.”
He hung up.
Jack saw me shaking my head. “What is it?”
“That call. I don’t know what to make of it.” I told him what had been said.
He called Frank, and told him that I had been threatened by a former LPPD cop. I grabbed the phone away.
“Not exactly, Frank.” I thought a verbatim recitation of the call would calm him down, but Frank was as unhappy with Houghton as Jack was.
“I’m going to go over this guy’s background with a microscope,” he said. “And I want Rachel to tell me where she found him. I want him watched.”
“But the department would have checked him out when he signed up, right?”
“Very thoroughly,” he agreed. “But five years ago, when Houghton joined the LPPD, the name Nick Parrish didn’t mean anything to us, so there could be a connection nobody saw back then.”
Ben came by on his way home from work.
“Do you remember those videotapes of Bingle’s training sessions with the search group?” he asked.
“Yes, the ones I brought to you in the hospital. You left them here after you stayed with us. Do you want me to get them for you?”
“Yes, please. I’ve watched the ones I have at home so often I could narrate them for the blind.”
I got the box of tapes from the garage. “How is everything going?” I asked when I came back in.
“Fine — in fact, you should see the place now. I’ve made a few changes. Why don’t you and Jack come over this afternoon?”
Jack was agreeable. We followed him over to the house. I was amused to note that rather than going in through the front door, the first place he headed was to the backyard, to see Bingle.
We followed him through the back gate, where he came to a sudden halt. I nearly plowed into him.