The Angel Maker

by Ridley Pearson

  “They’ll be introduced, of course. After drinks, but before dinner. Allow a few minutes in the schedule for that.”

  “Do they have to?” she asked.

  “They’re your children. They’re a reflection on us both. You want this seat on the board, don’t you?” He stood there impassively.

  “Of course they have to!” she said. “What am I saying?”

  “Of course they do,” he agreed.

  “You look so tired,” she said, studying him. “The color of that tie is all wrong. You’ve been working too hard. You might want a new pair of shoes. At the very least you’d better have those shined. Are you getting enough sleep? All those trips out to the farm. I feel as if I haven’t seen you in weeks. What are you working on, anyway?”

  “Nothing much,” he mumbled. That body had to be dealt with. No question about it. But how to do it?

  “What’s that?”

  She never seemed to hear anything he said, always making him repeat himself. He felt it coming then—one of his tics. He didn’t want it to happen in front of her, because it was worse lately and even the small ones terrified her. But there it was: His head snapped toward his shoulder. He recovered quickly, but not without an ungainly effort. She had the frightened eyes of a stranger. Would she dare mention it? He gained an unusual sense of power from this tic because no one mentioned it.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” she asked.

  “I am a doctor!” He was thinking: I could burn it. I could bury it.

  “If you do that at the party—”

  “Of course I won’t.” Dismember it—bring it to the incinerator as contaminated waste.

  “As if you can control it. You really should see—”

  “I am a doctor. It’s nothing. A little nervosa is all—fatigue. Besides, it’s not so bad.” It should be done soon. Tonight, if possible.

  “You should stay home tonight. You should rest,” she recommended warmly, touching him. “We could … you know. It’s been a long time.”

  “Tonight?” he gasped. Other plans!

  Oh, God, here came another one. Worse than the last. Triggered by her suggestion, no doubt. Her fault. He charged himself with a manufactured anger: “Don’t look at me like that!” he shouted. The tic never came. He had overpowered it.

  He straightened himself out. She was crying. She looked pitiful with bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. “I’ll see someone,” he lied. Bury it! he thought. He believed it best to comfort her before going. He might not be back until morning. “The party will be just fine. We’re both just under some undue pressures, that’s all. Nothing we can’t handle.”

  “If you do that at the party … Can’t you take something for it?” she asked.

  She fueled his anger with such talk.

  “Drugs?” he asked. “Medication?” Oddly enough, he hadn’t considered such a thing. “It’s a fine suggestion, dear. Very well, I agree. You talk to the caterers; I’ll investigate the drugs. Don’t wait up,” he said.

  He left his house feeling very good indeed. In control. He had work to do.

  He had a grave to dig.

  37

  Sharon Shaffer sat in the middle of her kennel pen, clutching the recovered needle like a worry bead. She kept staring at the stain on the cement where the heart had been for the few seconds before Felix consumed it. She had been forced to stop conditioning herself to the effects of the shock collar when her neck had swelled up to the point where it nearly cut off her air. For a moment, about an hour earlier, when she had first realized what was happening, she had actually debated going on with it—suffocating herself by swelling her neck beyond the tolerance of the collar. Committing suicide. But she had put that consideration behind her by reminding herself of her life on the streets, by studying the old scars on both her wrists: She had been through the worst and had lived to see another day. She looked around her. This too shall pass, she thought, warming the needle, awaiting her chance to use it on The Keeper. She said a series of prayers, some for herself, some for those she loved. She looked at that stain again and said a prayer for the man who had belonged to that heart.

  Felix wandered the aisle and occasionally used the waterer in the kennel cage next to her. The dog was hungry and tense. How would she deal with him even if she managed to blind The Keeper and make her break? He wore a collar. One of the remote devices would control that collar, though she wasn’t sure where The Keeper kept it. She was considering all of this when the heater kicked on and warmed her. It roared loudly, blowing a strong wind into the building. As always, a few of the dogs, one in particular, barked at it. This only served to make Felix more restless. His pacing increased.

  She thought it strange that she hardly heard the barking any longer. It had become a part of her, like the drip of the nourishing I.V. and the pain in her side that worsened by the hour. She was sicker than even he knew.

  “Practice makes perfect,” echoed through her mind like a disturbed mantra. More than once she found herself with her hands pressing firmly on her chest—hiding her heart. She knew what he had planned for her. The only question remaining was whether or not she could stop him.

  The ground shook. The dogs who weren’t barking came to their feet and began to pace. They knew the sound of his car engine, even at an incredible distance.

  Shuddering from fear, she turned to face the door, and like the others in this building, waited for it to open.

  Tegg was running late, delayed by his wife and her plans for tomorrow night’s party. He wanted to get started with this well before dark, and that meant he would have to hurry. Deep in the trees there was a ninety-minute dusk leading up to sunset when the grayness of the air blended images, making it difficult to see. He intended to capitalize on that time period.

  He intended to dig a grave.

  There were other ways to dispose of a body. He might have dismembered Washington, sealed the various pieces in the red contaminated waste bags and left them for Maybeck or one of the other chuck wagons to incinerate. But that would have required transporting the five or six bags back to the clinic, off-loading them, storing them in the walk-in—all elements that afforded too much risk. He might have built a large bonfire and incinerated it himself. In fact, he had given a great deal of thought to this possibility, but had decided against it on the off chance that such a large fire might attract the attention of someone beyond Tegg’s control—overflying aircraft, another hiker—again, too much risk.

  In the end, he had decided to repeat himself. The banks of the Tolt had kept Anna Ferragot cozy these last four years, the soil there dug easily—though not without effort—and what was good for one was certainly good for another.

  He backed the Isuzu up to the cabin’s cellar door and spent fifteen minutes struggling with Michael Washington’s rigid cadaver, finally depositing him in the back, where he covered him with a blanket. He was losing light; given the time restraints, it wouldn’t be nearly as deep a grave as it had been four years ago—two feet; three at the most. Wearing a handkerchief across his mouth and nose, he set off, all windows down, as fast as he dared to drive.

  Three roads, six turns and two logging roads later, he was driving alongside the south bank of the North Fork of the Tolt River, trying to remember where it was that the road fell away toward the river steeply enough that he could launch the cadaver in order to get it near the bank. Right along here somewhere …

  Suddenly he noticed the enormous number of tracks in this road—a deep-woods logging road that only saw a minor amount of traffic, even in the peak of October’s hunting season. It struck him as strangely curious. Then just as quickly he realized he had reached the perfect spot. The tire tracks widened here, spreading all over the road, and it took another second or two for him to realize that there had been dozens of vehicles parked here, and by the look of those tracks, quite recently.

  Then he saw the bright orange tape stretched between several consecutive trees, with the boldly printed warning:<
br />
  KING COUNTY POLICE DEPT.—DO NOT CROSS

  Instinctively, he slammed on the brakes. The Trooper’s wheels locked and the back end skidded out of control. His heart pounded ferociously in his chest. The vehicle drifted toward the edge of the road, toward the trees and the steep incline. He could just imagine himself getting the car stuck right here, a dead man in the back. Once again, his reactions were well behind his thoughts. He released the brakes, over-corrected the wheel, applied some gas, and lost the tail end once again. It slid so far to the left that it smacked into, and bounced off of, one of the trees, actually breaking the police tape from this tree. He saw the tape flapping like a flag in the rearview mirror. His only saving grace was that there was no one here. They had packed up and left. He did manage one quick glimpse of the area below, just enough to confirm his fears—the entire area was excavated, including one massive hole, the location of which he recognized.

  All this brought back memories, rushing as quickly as the dangerous waters of the river below. This grave was The Secret that Maybeck had held over him these last four years. Tegg could recall the day with an alarming vividness.

  Anna, unaware of her mistake, had neglected to latch one of the dog pens. Unlike Pamela, who had all the right instincts, Anna could never get close to the dogs, could never “speak their language,” could not control them by tone of voice and attitude. She had been attacked from the back, while Tegg was out of earshot. And by the time he did hear, it was too late. Or was it? he remembered thinking at the time. The most important part of her had survived. Could he waste that?

  After the harvest, he had to dispose of what was left of her or face unanswerable questions. He had driven out here with her body, selecting a burial site that assured him what he thought was complete privacy and, being near the water, promised a quick and thorough decay. What he had mistakenly overlooked on that day was the construction of a high-voltage power line nearly a mile away. A young man named Donald Maybeck had been atop one of those tall towers, performing labor for NorWest Light and Power, looking out over this most secluded of spots.

  A streetwise Maybeck, sensing easy money, quickly drove to this site rather than to the police, and confronted Tegg, offering to remain silent for a price. That uneasy partnership had continued to this very day.

  And now, The Secret had been dug up by the police! Maybeck’s doing? Had he cut a deal with the police?

  For the next few minutes Tegg drove fast, putting as much distance between himself and that site as he could manage, as if hoping to drive away from his past. Later, he didn’t remember the driving or the turns he had made, just that gaping hole in the river-bank. He refused to backtrack; he didn’t know the area well enough and he got himself lost several times trying to find an alternative route. There were so many thoughts banging around his brain, so many internal voices arguing that he couldn’t hear himself think, couldn’t sort them out. Every thought an explosion. Every conceivable explanation terrifying.

  Somewhere along the way he had rolled all the windows up, leaving himself enveloped in the nauseating smell of the decaying body. He pulled off the road, hurried into the bushes, and vomited. From the odor or from nerves? He couldn’t remember vomiting in the last twenty years. What was happening to him? He didn’t know himself anymore.

  And what about that thing in the back? he asked himself.

  Maybe a bonfire was the answer after all.

  38

  Boldt, carrying Miles in the sling, found Shoswitz on the third floor of an old brick ice-house that had been converted into The Body Shop, a fitness center that provided everything from a lap pool to high-tech game rooms. It was located only a few blocks away from BloodLines, and Boldt couldn’t help but think about the donor agency and the parade of twenty-eight young victims who had passed through its doors. SPD had a contractual agreement with The Body Shop that allowed cops and civilian employees a discounted rate to use the facilities. Boldt passed a weight room crowded with the after-work set, grunting and sweating. Young, finely tuned women wearing Day-Glo Lycra like a second skin. He passed a step-aerobics class, voyeuristically pausing to watch. These people looked too good to be working out. He was the one who needed the aerobics, but he wouldn’t be caught dead in a T-shirt and gym shorts in the company of people in this kind of shape.

  He came here, armed with the most recent information and evidence, to seek Shoswitz’s help. The lieutenant, ever skeptical of the harvester investigation, and always politically sensitive to his own position in the department, would not be an easy sell. All that Boldt needed was for the man to place a single phone call. It had to be made by Shoswitz because only he had the necessary contact inside U.S. Immigration. But to ask him outright to make that call was certain to fail. Boldt had to trick him; he had to lead him into it. He had to make Shoswitz offer to make the call.

  On the third floor, alongside an office door marked PRIVATE, were three doors, each individually marked in computer graphics: GOLF, TENNIS, and BASEBALL. He didn’t have to guess behind which one he would find Phil Shoswitz. He knocked and entered, stopping abruptly. The room was small and dark. He was standing on the playing field at Yankee Stadium. The Yankee Stadium. A series of surround screens filled his vision, the rich green playing field seemingly stretching for acres, the spectator stands rising into the imaginary sky. The player, Shoswitz, stood inside a chain-link wire box that had been painted black so you couldn’t see it well in the relative darkness. A pitcher—surprisingly real—stood out on the mound.

  “Oh, it’s you,” the helmeted Shoswitz said, looking impossibly foolish. “What’s-a-matter, never seen this before? The Japs are geniuses. They call it virtual reality. That’s Tommy John out there. Or at least his stats. And that’s the real Yankee Stadium.” He tripped a button on the floor. The pitcher on the mound wound up and delivered the pitch. A hardball came flying through an unseen hole in the projection screen. Boldt jumped aside, not realizing the chain-link fence would have stopped the ball if Shoswitz hadn’t connected well. The sound of bat against ball made Miles jump, but, surprisingly, he didn’t cry. A born fan. The ball flew toward the screen’s projections, hit a net, and fell to the floor with a thud. Simultaneously, the image of a baseball in the same trajectory was picked up in the screen. It flew in an arc into shallow left field where it dropped and rolled. “Base hit,” Shoswitz announced proudly. The roar of approval from fifty thousand electronic fans filled unseen speakers. A scoreboard far in the distance registered the hit, as a baserunner reached first base and removed his batting gloves. “Japs are incredible, aren’t they? You ever seen the golf?”

  “Saw it in a movie once.”

  “Fuckin’ incredible. You can field, too. You know, play a position like shortstop. Genius. You don’t catch any hits, but when you throw the ball, the screen registers how accurate you were. This time of year, the weather like it is, this thing keeps you polished—know what I mean?”

  “Can we put it on pause or something?” Miles caught Boldt by the lip and tugged.

  “You kidding? You know what they hit me up for this—above and beyond my regular fees? A good chunk of change, kiddo. No way. I’ll keep hitting. You talk if that’s what you came for.”

  “Please?”

  “No fucking way. Talk.” He tripped the button on the floor and hit a foul ball. “You can change pitchers if you like. Stadiums too. But I love the old Yankee Stadium, don’t you?”

  “No thanks,” Boldt said, misunderstanding this as an invitation and not knowing the names of more than two or three pitchers, most of them hopelessly out of date. “The bones we dug up alongside the Tolt River have been positively identified as those of a woman named Anna Ferragot—”

  “Old news, Lou. What’s your point? I’m busy here.” He turned and eyed Miles like an unwelcome guest.

  “LaMoia just got a peek at Anna Ferragot’s state tax records.” That caused Shoswitz to turn his head—such records were not easy to come by. Boldt continued, “For t
he two years prior to her disappearance, Anna Ferragot was employed by the Tender Care Animal Clinic.”

  Shoswitz swung and missed. The ball crashed loudly into the protective cage. Shoswitz gave Boldt an angry look. Boldt didn’t like competing with a batting machine, but this couldn’t wait until morning. Sharon Shaffer had less than forty-eight hours. Her chances of survival diminished with every passing hour.

  Boldt reminded, “The suture? Dixie’s pathology report? Did you happen to read that?” Miles leaned forward, groping for the cage.

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Going? Veterinarians! Tender Care Animal Clinic. The suture used in the harvests points to a veterinarian; so does the use of Ketamine.”

  “This same suture is used in every hospital in this county. Animal and human. Do you read your own reports?”

  “But the size of the suture indicates a vet. And Ketamine is never used on adults.”

  “The effects of Ketamine were broadcast into the homes of thirty-five million Americans. Listen, it’s good police work, Lou. I’m not knocking that. I think we put a vet at the top of our list. But none of this proves anything. You want to talk to the people at this Tender Care Animal Clinic about Anna Ferragot, I got no problem with that. But talk is all, until and unless you have something more. We’re not going to get a search-and-seizure based on this.” He swung and missed again. “You’re fucking with my average here, damn it all. Are we through here? If not, get to the point!”

  He couldn’t get to the point. That was the point! He had to take it step-by-step, leading the lieutenant into his trap.

  Shoswitz tripped the pitching switch. A ball flew at him. He fouled into the stands.

  Boldt and his son waited him out. Some guy in the stands to the far left was wandering the aisles selling either hot dogs or popcorn. It made Boldt hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten a real meal. He hadn’t seen Liz—awake—since their encounter at The Big Joke, although a mostly form letter about her meeting with the IRS, a meeting he had missed, had been left for him on the kitchen table. Between back taxes and penalties, they owed the IRS seventy-three hundred dollars. For them, in their present financial condition, it might as well have been a million. He intended to talk to the credit union as soon as possible.