by Polly Iyer
Getting involved in family problems was not Diana’s thing. Every family had issues, most marriages had rough spots. But this was different. Marty Feldman could have been a murderer, and the way he treated his family reflected on whether he could have been one of the vigilantes. Sheila fought to keep her control, but Diana saw the strain. “What happened next?”
“I got a phone call. The voice was altered, like in the movies. It told me to keep my mouth shut, or else Alan would die. Now Marty’s dead, and my only concern is to get my Alan back from the monster who took him.” At that, Sheila burst into tears.
Marilyn rushed to her sister’s side and gently embraced her. “We’ll get him back, sweetie. We will.” Her sad eyes settled on Diana. “Won’t you?”
The weight of the task descended on Diana as if she were twelve years old all over again, adult reasoning notwithstanding. She glanced at Cash, who had remained standing against the counter, appearing as if he wished he were anywhere else.
“I’ll do what I can.” She meant every word, but intentions and reality didn’t always coincide.
“He’s only seven,” Marilyn said, her lip quivering. “Who would want to hurt a seven-year old? I’m sure he’s scared.”
If he’s alive. She needed to calm the woman down. There could be no psychic interference, no barrier to reaching her son’s vibes.
“Thank you for giving me the opportunity to help. That said, I can’t promise I’ll be successful. I can only promise to do the best I can.”
“I understand,” Sheila said. “I know your reputation.”
“Lieutenant Lucier wants you to know that he appreciates your silence about your husband’s death. This gives us needed time to find your son.”
Sheila Feldman pointed to a few articles of clothing, a ball cap, and a baseball glove on the kitchen counter. “One of these might help you find my Alan.”
Diana looked them over. “Which was your son’s favorite? Something he’d want near him.”
“His favorite was,” Sheila caught herself, “is, his baseball glove. He carries it with him whenever he’s not in school. That’s how I know he didn’t come inside the house the day he went missing. The glove is here.
Diana picked up the baseball glove.
“Should I go?” Marilyn asked.
“No one needs to go. Detective Cash will take down what I say. We may not get the answer you want to hear right away. Sometimes what I see is a puzzle we have to put together.”
“I understand,” Sheila said.
Diana took the worn leather glove and studied it. Come on, tell me something. Help me find the little boy. She prayed to learn Alan was still alive. She closed her eyes and opened herself up to what the boy’s treasured baseball glove had to communicate.
She sat for a long time, receiving no vibrations at all. Nothing. Her heart pounded, and she felt the pulse in her neck straining against her skin. Then, from far away, the faint sound of sniffles and the word “Mommy” fluttered into her consciousness. She felt something warm and metal, small and tubular between the soft leather mitt and her palm, but when she looked down, the metal object wasn’t in her hand, it was in a little boy’s closed fist, hanging from a chain. A Star of David adorned the front.
Again, the plaintive cry of “Mommy.”
Where are you, Alan? Look around. Show me the room. Give me something. Anything.
A landscape came in view through a small window. A nothing view of trees and grass. No houses. Nothing to tell her where the boy was. Something that looked like an erector set tower loomed into her view. Seagulls and other birds circled over a hill in the distance. Around and around. Diving. Was this near water? A pond with fish? The ocean?
Though Sheila’s house was cool, sweat leached from every pore, drenching Diana. Alan was hot. Burning, boiling hot. He gasped for breath. So did she.
Then everything went black.
Diana woke with Sheila pressing a cold compress to her face and Marilyn rubbing her hands to get the circulation going. She wanted to say her circulation was fine, but her mouth was so dry she couldn’t speak. Cash put a glass of water to her lips, and she drank her fill.
“I told them this happens sometimes and not to worry.” In spite of his words, Cash looked concerned.
Smart man, Diana thought. He knew what to say to put the women at ease. But nothing puts a mother at ease when her son was missing and could be dead.
“Detective Cash is right. I can’t explain how this works, but I’m not in danger when it happens. Please believe that.”
How could she tell Sheila that her son was in a closed room, sweating and having difficulty breathing, and that if he wasn’t found soon, he’d probably die?
“My God,” Sheila said. “You saw something bad. Did you ―?” Tears flowed from her eyes.
“Alan is alive, Sheila. Do you hear me?”
“Tell us what you saw,” Marilyn said. “We have to know.”
She ignored the question. “Does Alan wear a mezuzah, Sheila?”
Sheila perked up. She grabbed Diana’s arm. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“It’s on a chain, and he’s holding the mezuzah in the palm of his hand and rubbing the Star of David.”
The two women cried and laughed at the same time. “He’s alive,” Marilyn said. “He’s alive. Thank God. But where is he?”
“Is there a hill around here in the middle of a large expanse of grass and trees? A place where there might be birds? A pond or a river?”
The women looked confused. “I’m from Atlanta,” Marilyn said. “I don’t know the area.” She turned to Sheila. “Does that sound familiar?”
“No.” Sheila inhaled a sniffle.
“If we’re to make any sense of what I saw, we have to go,” Diana said.
“You’re leaving?” Sheila rung her hands so hard, Diana thought she’d pull off her fingers. “But we don’t know where he is.” She turned to Cash. “Do you recognize what she saw?”
“Not offhand, but the rest of our team knows the area better than I do.”
“Here’s where you need patience,” Diana said. “We’ll meet with Lieutenant Lucier and his team. They know the landscape.” She got up. “Time is wasting. We’ll be in touch.”
Cash took Diana’s hand, but she pulled away and went to both women. “Trust me. We’ll find him.” She wanted to slap herself for making such a stupid comment, but she couldn’t leave them without hope. “Just know he’s alive.”
Marilyn put her arm around Diana’s shoulder. “Hurry to your meeting with the lieutenant. Keep us informed.”
Grateful that they could leave without hysteria, Diana and Willy Cash hurried out the door. In the car, Cash asked, “Is he really alive?”
“Yes, but just barely. We need to find that hill where the birds are. My guess is he’s either locked in a car or in a truck.” She told him about what looked like an erector set. “He’s looking out a window at that mound.”
“Now you’re calling it a mound.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“It might, Diana. It just might.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
A Long, Long Nap
Lucier felt like shit. He’d forced the doctor to check him out of the hospital too early, but he’d be doing there what he was doing at Diana’s, resting, only she served better food. His thoughts were confirmed when the doorbell rang and he had to strain to get off the sofa to see who was there. When he peeked through the window and Beecher’s face smiled back at him, he opened the door.
“They sent you to babysit me?” Lucier asked. At Beecher’s discomfort, Lucier knew he’d hit the nail on the head.
“No, I came for the beef stew. Adele is going shopping with her sister tonight.”
“Uh-huh.” Smirking, he hobbled back to the sofa. “Did you stay long enough to see what Diana came up with?”
“No. I figured she’d call if she found anything. Besides, I’m hungry.”
“Help yours
elf, but don’t bullshit me. Who put you here, Diana or the captain?”
“Diana, though the captain knows. He said fine as long as I’m on call.”
“Diana was worried I was in danger, right?” He could hear Beecher in the kitchen, removing the cover from the pot and spooning out the stew. “And she sent you over to make sure no one finished the job.”
“You can’t blame her,” Beecher said, his mouth full of Diana’s one-pot meal. “You’re not in the best physical condition. And don’t say you were safe because the door was locked. You didn’t turn the deadbolt. I could have picked that lock in thirty seconds.”
“Shades of your youth?”
“Shades of a lock-picking class.” Beecher shoveled another spoonful in his mouth. “You need to take this seriously, Ernie. Someone’s ordered a hit on you twice. They mean business, if you haven’t figured that out.”
“What I haven’t figured out is who the hell is behind this. What about alibis for the night Chenault and Alba were killed?”
“All the remaining card players checked out, and they weren’t covering each other.”
“Hodge, Michel, and Rickett?”
“Yup.”
“Lightner?”
Beecher did a double take. “You think Lightner’s involved? He’s a commander.”
Lucier exhaled slowly. “Most of my prospective suspects are in his district, and he was awfully interested in our investigation.”
“Tell me someone who isn’t. That little weasel reporter, Jake Griffin, already wrote on the revenge killings and the two cop murders even before we made them public.”
“I’d love to get my hands on that sleazebag and slap him with an obstruction charge,” Lucier said.
“Personally, I’d rather just slap him around, but that would only get me an assault charge.”
“There have to be others involved. Someone’s feeding Griffin information. The only other link is Kitty’s Kabaret. Cops are in there all the time. Kitty knows everything that’s going on in town, and Emile is buddy-buddy with a few too.” Lucier thought of Emile and Chenault. “Did you check them out?”
“Emile and Kitty were at the club until two. Cothran said the victims died between eight and two. Besides, I can’t see either Kitty or Emile as the shooter, can you?”
“No, but I’m not counting anyone out. We had contact with them about the case, and someone’s trying to kill me. If I’m getting too close, too close to whom?”
Beecher shrugged. Mumbled something with his mouth full.
This case was making Lucier crazy. In his heart, he believed cops were involved, but forcing the issue without proof would bring him up against the solid blue wall. On top of that, all he wanted to do right now was sleep. Maybe a nap would refresh his thinking.
“Since you’ve been assigned to babysit me, make yourself at home. I’m going to the bedroom to get a little shuteye. I haven’t had much sleep in the last few days.”
“You need any help?”
“Yeah, you can get me that bottle of painkillers on the kitchen counter and a glass of water.”
Beecher complied. Lucier took one pill, thanked Beecher, and shuffled to the guest bedroom.
“I brought the case file,” Beecher said. “I’ve gone over the damn thing a dozen times. Maybe one more pass will jog something in my mind.”
“Hope so. I’m out of it for now. When Diana gets back with Cash or if she calls, wake me. I’m turning off my phone. See you in a couple of hours.”
Diana had insisted he sleep alone so she wouldn’t disturb him. He didn’t argue. She was too much of a temptation, and he didn’t need the exercise right now. What he needed was to heal and stop the killings. He didn’t want Diana to be the next victim.
The sheets smelled fresh and clean, and he crawled into them and shut his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Four
No Answer
Diana called Lucier’s phone three times on the way back to her house, with no answer. Cash tried Beecher. He didn’t answer either.
“Come on, answer, Ernie.” She stomped her foot on the floorboard, willing the car to accelerate. “I don’t like this, Willy.”
“Neither do I. Beecher always answers.” He turned on his flashers and floored the gas pedal. While driving, he punched in Halloran on speed dial and put the conversation on speakerphone. “Have you heard from Beecher or the boss?”
“Not since he told me he was going to Diana’s and I should head back to the district. Why?”
“I can’t raise either of them. Beecher went to Diana’s house to stay with the lieutenant. I have a good idea where Feldman’s kid is. Not exactly, but one of a few places.”
“Did you call the captain?” Halloran asked.
“No. Touch base with him, will ya? Tell him about the lieutenant. We’re on the way to Diana’s house.”
“Gotcha.”
Diana always thought Willy Cash, the youngest of Lucier’s team, somewhat naïve. She saw a different side of him now, and his take-charge attitude gave her comfort, though not enough to erase her fear of what they’d find at her house. Her heart thumped a wild beat. “Hurry, Willy.” She wanted to kick herself for saying that, because he was driving way past the speed limit. She blessed him for not getting angry with her.
He veered onto her street on three wheels and screeched to a stop behind Beecher’s car. The door to the house was wide open.
Cash drew his gun. “Lock yourself in the car.”
“No. I’m going with you.”
He blew out a breath and checked the load in his gun. “Okay, but stay close.”
They ran toward the door. Please, Ernie. Be all right. Please.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A Losing Battle
Lucier heard muffled voices in his dreams. But were they dreams? Slowly, he opened his eyes. The room circled. He was so dizzy he closed them again. Even then, everything swirled in the dark. His chest throbbed. His whole body hurt. He forced his eyes open again, blinked a few times, and waited for the spinning to stop. It slowed but didn’t stop. One fact was clear: he wasn’t at Diana’s house.
Wherever he was, he didn’t remember getting there. The last thing he recalled was sliding between the freshly laundered sheets in Diana’s guestroom. Could the pill he’d taken have knocked him out so solidly that he wouldn’t wake when someone moved him?
He looked around. The dimmed room measured about ten by ten, covered in cheap veneer paneling. Unimaginative discount store pictures hung on the walls. Everything else was standard room furnishings: single bed, lamp, side table, and one chair.
Not only was he in pain, when he tried to lift himself off the bed, his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. What the hell?
The voices still hummed in the background, echolike. He listened hard but could determine neither the words nor the speakers. Two, possibly three men, but definitely two. He ran his hand over a sore spot on his arm. Rolling up his sleeve, he tried to focus on where he hurt, but he was still too woozy to see clearly. He rested his eyes until they stopped burning, and when he looked again, he saw a needle puncture marked the skin. They’d injected him with a drug. What kind of drug? Didn’t matter right now. He was alive. If they’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.
Panic set in. Diana’s face emerged in his barely conscious mind. Had she and Cash come home before whoever took him arrived? Was she here too? Had they hurt her? The thought of her in danger boosted his strength, and he pushed himself up. Pain wrenched his side, and the room went around in circles. A million questions tumbled through his brain, fleeting thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp.
And what about Beecher? Had they drugged him too, or worse? Slowly, the last few days crystalized. The attempt on his life. Feldman and his abducted son. Had Diana found him?
He called out, but his voice croaked hollow from his parched throat. A pitcher of water and a glass he hadn’t noticed sat on the side table. He lifted the pitcher. The damn thing weighed more than
a sack of bricks, but he managed to tip some into the glass and drink. Water never tasted so good.
Within minutes, the room started spinning again. He called out, “Hey, whoever’s out there, show yourself.” Did they hear him? “Cowards.” The word trailed off.
He was so tired, he fell back until his head hit the pillow again.
So tired.
* * * * *
Hot lights beamed down on Diana as she pranced across the stage in high heels, wearing a clingy white top and slinky black skirt. Laughing, she teased the audience, drawing them into her mystical world. Lucier couldn’t decipher her words, but the crowd cheered her on, clapping and waving their hands in the air, begging her to choose them for her next reading. She laughed, her black curls bouncing.
Then a deafening crack broke the frivolity.
People froze in their seats.
Everything stopped.
A red stain appeared on Diana’s blouse, spreading over her torso in slow motion. She looked down, her expression questioning. Her hand turned crimson when she touched her chest, and blood dripped onto the stage, puddling around Diana’s shoes.
“Why?” she asked, falling to her knees. “Why?”
Blood poured from her chest. She toppled over, face first, and lay in an ever-expanding pool of red, legs splayed awkwardly behind her.
“Why?” Lucier bolted upright. “Why?” he screamed. “Why, why, why?” Panting to catch his breath, he fell back hard onto the bed. Bad dream, he told himself. Not real.
The door burst open. Lucier tried to focus, but the room was a murky blur. A dark hooded figure rushed toward him.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
Get up. Fight. Lucier struggled to get to his feet. He couldn’t make anything work. Fight.
The room went crazy in circles.
“Why?” he managed to ask again.
The silent man grabbed Lucier’s arm. He pulled away. No match. Too strong. He reached for the man’s hood, but his arm flailed in space, unable to make contact.