They ascended the steps and reached the double set of doors. Through the glass, Addison saw a small artificial Christmas tree blinking merrily. Randall opened the door. She walked in, feeling her palms dampen with anxiety.
The first thing she noticed was the distinctly unpleasant smell. It was the medicinal smell of a hospital tinged with the dust and lemon wax redolence of a church. It reached into her, the smell of the old, of the neglected, saddening and offending everything inside her that was human.
Parson's Home for the Retired had looked different from the highway. Addison had expected to find caroling grandchildren, gossiping parents, and the smiling faces of the elderly. Instead, she had walked into an atmosphere that more resembled an ill-kept funeral home.
The lobby was deserted. Recessed lighting illuminated a large reception desk. On the wall behind it, a bland oil painting depicted a huge tree covered with pink flowers. A spindly ficus in a plastic pot stood near the front door, soaking up more cold than light.
"Nice place," Randall said dryly, closing the door behind them. "Let's skip the front desk."
Even as he said the words, a skinny, black-haired man with a thin mustache appeared behind the desk and looked over at them.
Pasting a smile to her face, Addison squared her shoulders and approached him.
The man offered a plastic smile. "May I help you?"
"We're here to see Al Stukins," she said with her best college student inflection.
Smiling spuriously, the man opened a notebook and began paging through it while she held her breath. "Your name?"
“Addie Fox.”
His brows went together as he flipped the page over and then back again. "You don't seem to be on the list to see Mr. Stukins."
"I don't get home very often." Addison forced another smile, hoping it didn't look as phony as it felt. She didn't like this little man, and she'd never been good at hiding her emotions. "I'm home for the holidays. He's my grandfather."
"Well, you're not on the list." He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you in to see Mr. Stukins without permission from his family."
"I am his family." The lie came easily, and she let it fly with the fervor of truth.
"You can have his son give me a call tomorrow to put you on the list." He closed the book. "Until then, I'm afraid I can't let you in."
She was just beginning to think they'd met another dead end when Randall leaned forward and flipped open the notebook, ripping the list in question from inside.
"We didn't drive all the way from Columbus to be told we're not on the goddamn list," he growled.
Addison's heart began to pound.
The man's mouth opened, rivaling the width of his eyes.
"Sir, you can't do that."
''When's the last time that man had a visitor?" Randall looked like an incensed bull about to maul a cowering matador.
"Uh, I don't—" The man stepped back, eyeing the notebook, not daring to reach for it. "I ... I need my register back."
''What the hell's your name?" Without waiting for an answer, Randall plucked the man's name tag from his shirt, leaving a hole the size of a dime in the fabric. "I'll need this for my lawyer."
"Sir!"
"Who owns this dump?"
"You can't do this!"
"Watch me." Turning the tag over in his palm, Randall read it aloud with great distaste." Adrian Grigsby." His eyes were black with anger when they swept to the terrified clerk. ''When's the last time the health department inspected this dirty little hellhole of yours, Adrian?"
Addison stepped back, astonished.
Adrian's Adam's apple bobbed twice in quick succession.
"I bet they'd love to get their bureaucratic hands on you, wouldn't they? You'd probably be able to keep them busy for days, wouldn't you?" Randall smiled wickedly before turning to Addison. "Let's go."
She was so caught up in the drama, she had to clamp her mouth shut against a protest. If poor old Adrian didn't fall for it, they were sunk. Praying Randall knew what he was doing, she took his hand and they started toward the door.
"Wait a moment!"
Relief bubbled through her. Next to her, Randall stopped. Simultaneously, they swung around to face Adrian.
The man was panting, his slicked-back hair falling about his forehead as he came around the desk. "I can let you see him tonight and add you to the list tomorrow," he said.
Randall stared at the clerk as if he were trying to decide whether to punch him or strangle him. "Now, why didn't I think of that?"
A skinny hand clutched the fabric where his name tag had been stripped away. "After all, it is the holiday season."
"Yeah, no need to be unreasonable." Randall tossed the name tag and wrinkled list onto the desk. "Where's his room?"
Adrian led them down a wide, tiled hall trimmed with stainless steel handrails and wheelchair ramps.
"You drive a hard bargain, Talbot," Addison whispered as they made a right and started down another hall.
"No thanks to you." He grinned. "You're a terrible liar."
"Thanks, I think."
"When we get to the room, I'll deal with Stukins," he said. "You get rid of the skinny jerk."
"Shouldn't be too hard since you've got him warmed up for me."
The unpleasant smell of neglect seemed to emanate from beneath the doors they passed. Only then did she realize Randall had been dead serious about calling the health department. Parson's Home for the Retired was as inhumane as Adrian was irritating, and Addison promised herself that when all of this was over if Randall didn't call them, she would.
They reached the end of the hall and Adrian bent to unlock a door painted an institutional blue. "We keep the rooms locked after dark," he said in a conspiratorial voice. "To keep the folks from wandering off." He swung open the door and turned to them with the uneasy smile of a realtor about to show a filthy house. "Albert! You have company!"
The single-room efficiency was small, cold, and poorly lit. Addison held her breath as the stench of dirty linens and bathroom mildew permeated her nostrils. A single, grimy window faced the street. The sight of Christmas lights beyond made her feel like she'd just stepped into a prison.
A gaunt man with a day's growth of white stubble sat on a rumpled bed staring at a small black-and-white television. He raised his head when they entered, acknowledged their presence with a glazed scowl, then turned his attention back to the rerun of M.A.S.H.
"He hasn't had his shower yet today," Adrian said, ducking into the bathroom to scoop up a pile of towels littering the floor. "We've been short-handed because of the holidays."
"I'll bet," Randall grumbled.
Saddened and disgusted, Addison could only stare at the old man sitting on the bed, .hoping this charade wouldn't harm him in any way.
Having collected the soiled towels, Adrian headed for the door. "Visiting hours are over at eight P.M.," he said over his shoulder. "But you can stay a few extra minutes if you like."
She forced a smile. "Thank you."
A few feet away, Randall took a chair and pulled it close to the bed. "Mr. Stukins?"
The old man raised his head and regarded Randall through cloudy blue eyes. "Are you the fella from the service station?"
"I'm Randall Talbot." He extended his hand. "I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."
Stukins stared at him blankly before accepting the handshake. "Questions," he repeated and turned his attention back to the television. "I don't have time for questions."
Needing to move, to be involved, Addison stepped forward and switched off the TV. "Mr. Stukins, we need to ask you some questions about a story you wrote for the County Crier."
"I was a reporter for thirty-two years. Worked my way up from the printing press." For a moment, he looked lucid. ''The master cylinder went bad on my Chevy." He turned his gaze back to Randall. "Are you the fella from the gas station?"
Addison didn't miss the frustration on Randall'
s face, and she wondered if he had the patience for such a delicate interrogation.
"You were a reporter for the County Crier," he said.
The old man smiled, revealing a set of pearly white dentures. "Thirty-two years."
Addison slipped into the chair beside Randall. "You did a story back in 1974 about a young woman who was raped," he said.
"I bought my Chevy in '68," Stukins said argumentatively.
Randall leaned forward, caught the older man's gaze, and held it. "You wrote a story for the County Crier in November of 1974 about a young woman by the name of Agnes Beckett. Do you remember Agnes Beckett? Do you remember what happened to her?"
Stukins's eyes widened. His mouth quivered. "They killed my dog."
To anyone else the statement might have seemed like an Alzheimer patient's rantings. To Addison, the old man's words made terrible sense.
"Who killed your dog?" Randall prodded.
"They were going to kill my family."
"Because of the story?"
The old man began to shake. Alarm skittered through Addison when his eyes rolled back. For a moment, she thought he would faint. He looked frail. Unable to keep herself from it, she rose and put her hand gently on his shoulder. "You're doing fine, Mr. Stukins."
His eyes focused on her. "Yale ..." he mumbled.
"Yale?" Randall repeated.
"He graduated the same year he hurt that girl."
"Who hurt her? Who are you talking about?"
"They were going to kill my family." Stukins looked over his shoulder as if he were expecting someone to come through the door. For the first time, Addison saw fear in his eyes. "I did what they told me to do," he said, his gaunt hands waving in agitation.
Randall cast her an uneasy look, then focused on the old man. "Who threatened your family?"
"That son of a bitch was guilty as sin."
"Who?"
''Tate beat the hell out of that girl. Did terrible things to her. Put her in the hospital."
The words went through Addison like a knife. She shivered, knowing he was talking about her birth mother. A sixteen-year-old girl. Beaten and raped. The thought sickened her. Was it possible she'd been conceived through such a vile act? Had someone threatened Stukins to keep the crime from coming to light? Had the people of Siloam Springs swept the entire ordeal under the rug?
"Tate? Is that his last name?" Randall asked urgently.
A string of drool stretched from the comer of Stukins's mouth to a stain on his pajama shirt. "Are you the fella from the garage?" he asked. "I'm stuck here until you fix my Chevy."
Frustration billowed through Addison. Rising, she went to the sink and dampened a paper towel and knelt before Stukins. "Who is Tate?" she asked, blotting the saliva from his chin.
He swatted her hand away. "If you're not from the garage, I don't want to talk to you. I want my master cylinder fixed." The old man's eyes turned toward the blank TV. "I don't like it here."
Grimacing, Randall rose and laid his hand lightly on Stukins's gaunt shoulder. "Thanks, old man." He looked at Addison. "I think that's it."
"But he remembered a name," she protested.
"At this point, we don't know if Tate is the first name or the last name," he pointed out.
Addison started to resist, but he stopped her. "What we did find out is that Tate may have graduated from Yale in 1974. That's something Jack can help us with." He cast a final look at the stooped old man sitting on the bed watching the blank TV. "Let's go."
* * *
Randall had just pulled the rental car onto Route 40 when the pager clipped to his belt chirped twice. Shifting, he reached for it, expecting to see the office number. Instead, he found himself squinting at a Denver number he wasn't familiar with.
"Is it Jack?" Addison asked.
"No." An inexplicable jab of anxiety rushed through him. Recalling a telephone booth nearby, he made a U-turn and sped toward it.
Addison remained silent, but he felt her eyes on him as he stomped the car to a screeching halt at the curb next to the phone booth. Without speaking, he swung open the door and sprinted to the phone. Pulling his gloves off with his teeth, he snatched up the receiver and punched the phone and credit card numbers from memory.
"Van-Dyne."
Randall's heart pumped hard. "This is Talbot," he said, knowing instinctively something was wrong.
"Mr. Talbot, I had one of your business cards and thought I should let you know what happened."
"What the hell are you talking about?" He didn't want to think about who was vulnerable back in Denver.
“There was a fire at your office," the detective said.
''Where's Jack?"
"Paramedics took him to St. Joe's with burns."
Randall braced, his heart freezing in his chest. "How is he?"
"Critical."
The word echoed in his head, its meaning punching him like a giant billy club. The roar of blood through his veins deafened him.
"Mr. Talbot, your brother also suffered a gunshot wound."
Another punch, harder, more vicious, twisted his guts into knots. Randall closed his eyes, trying not to imagine how helpless Jack must have felt. "Did you catch the son of a bitch?" he hissed through clenched teeth as rage and fear took turns pounding him.
"We're investigating. So far we don't have a lot to go on." There was no urgency in the detective's voice. No drive behind the words. He was a cop doing his job. Nothing at stake except his reputation. His quota. His paycheck.
"Jesus Christ." A sickening realization plowed through him. "It's about the case."
"The case you're working on?"
"Addison Fox is involved." He wanted to explain but knew there wasn't time. He had to get to Denver. "It's complicated."
He looked down at his watch, felt the panic slither more deeply into him. "I'll stop by your office when I get there."
He slammed the receiver down hard, jerked open the door of the booth, and stepped into the wind. He felt as if his entire world had just careened out of control. For a full minute he stood in the cold, trembling inside and out, trying to pull himself together.
By the time he reached the car, the shaking had eased enough for him to yank open the door and wedge himself behind the wheel. Battling the impotent emotions, the helplessness and rage, he started the engine and put the car in gear.
"What is it? What happened?" Addison's voice reached in through the iciness surrounding him, offering him refuge from the cold.
"It's Jack," he choked. "Jesus Christ. They fucking got to Jack."
"Oh, my god." Her hand went to her mouth. "Please, tell me he's not—oh, God."
He couldn't look at her. Not when his control was slipping away. "I should have been there. I should have protected him."
"No—”
Randall slammed his fist into the dash. Plastic shattered. Pain zinged up his arm. "Why Jack, goddammit!"
“Stop it. Please."
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't swallow. Panic gripped his throat, like a hangman's noose. Terror sent tremors through his body. He felt trapped. Panicked.
He felt dead.
God, he needed a drink.
"Randall? Are you okay?"
He heard her voice as if through a fog. Addison. He sucked in a breath, felt the panic release its grip on his chest. "I'm okay."
He looked at her, found her staring at him as if he were a ghost. Maybe he was. "I'm okay, goddammit. Don't look at me like that."
She flinched but didn't look away. "How bad is he hurt?"
"He's critical."
“Oh, God, I'm sorry. Is he going to be all right?"
"I don't know." He punched the accelerator and sent the car screeching into the deserted street. "I should have seen this coming."
"It wasn't your fault."
Ignoring her, he drove like a madman through the silent streets of Siloam Springs.
"Your knuckles are bleeding. Jesus, you're shaking. Let me drive—"
&
nbsp; The truck came out of nowhere. He mashed his foot down on the brake. The car slid sideways, barely missing the truck, and screeched to a halt, jerking them hard against their safety belts.
Randall stared blindly through the windshield, taking short, shallow breaths. "They shot him. Then they fucking burned him."
The Perfect Victim Page 22