“Jesus. Do you think she meant it literally? I mean, of course corporations are rotten; that’s a given. But I really doubt …”
—“I know. I know. But she said ‘murder.’ She said she was involved somehow. I assumed she meant she had witnessed something, because she said she feared reprisals.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” said Conway. “Corporations do brutal stuff all the time—but murder on their own property? That doesn’t fit the profile. I think she’s just looking for attention. You don’t think she’d be capable …?”
—“Of violence? Alison? I don’t think so.”
“Really? You said she went there to destroy greenhouses. That’s not exactly non-violent.”
Littlejohn recalled Alison’s attempts to bludgeon him and had to admit Conway could be right. But Conway’s legal mind had already moved on to another possibility: “OK, let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. She witnessed a murder. And she comes to you. Why you? Why not the police? Did you ask yourself that?”
“As a matter of fact, I asked her that, point blank.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she’s a revolutionary and she’d be damned if she would go to the police.”
Conway and Porthous exchanged a knowing look, which they didn’t bother to hide from Littlejohn.
“OK. Our little Rosa Luxemburg’s got no stomach for the authorities. But why you? What does she expect you to do?”
“Use my contacts. Leak a story to the press. Talk to … people like you. Organize something. I don’t know. We didn’t get that deeply into specifics.”
“But you did get that deeply into her pants, didn’t you, Nate?” This was from Porthous, who clearly thought it was hilarious. Conway did too.
“What’s wrong, Nate?” Porthous continued. “You feel guilty? Don’t. I’m sure it was consensual.”
“My guess is she planned it,” Conway said.
“What do you mean?”
“Look, Nate. Most of the kids in your course put soapsuds in the library fountain or parade around campus in drag. Harmless stuff. You warn them not to get carried away on the assignment sheet and most of them listen to you. Alison’s a bit different, I think you’re right about that. She’s way more creative.”
Littlejohn cradled his head in his hands as Conway continued speaking. “Think of the coup, if she not only screws the professor, literally, but also figuratively, by getting you to plant a bogus story in the paper.”
“You really think …?”
“It’s the simplest explanation,” said Porthous. “Everything fits.”
“But I’ve already got a call in to a reporter.”
“Just don’t say anything about Alison or that biotech.”
Littlejohn nodded thoughtfully. “I think you’re right. People love to hear war stories about good old Doggin’ ’n’ Dissin’ 401. It never fails to get the Mommies and Daddies riled up when they find out what they were getting for their money—4,500 bucks per class works out to $300 an hour—just to teach their kids to be litterbugs, shoplifters and generally perverse. The last time they ran this story, the paper received hate mail for weeks. Circulation soared. That was five or six years ago. The reporter will eat it up.”
“Perfect,” said Conway. “Sound kosher to you, Nathalie?” Both Littlejohn and Conway looked at their colleague expectantly. Nathalie Porthous definitely knew how to play her role. “All I have to say is, she better get an A-plus. She’s making you guys jump around like trained monkeys and anyone who can do that deserves top marks.”
“That went well,” commented Littlejohn as he and Conway walked back to campus together.
“Yeah, Nathalie’s smart and she has a great sense of humor.”
“I owe you guys. Without you …”
—“Never mind, Nate. That’s what friends are for. And, besides, I’m planning on sending you a bill.”
Back in his office Littlejohn checked his watch. He still had a couple of hours before his meeting with P.C. Cromwell. He found he was still thinking about Alison. Hard to believe she had taken him in like that. She really seemed sincere. The way she spoke, the way she hit him and the tears. Planting a story in the Pest was a good idea, but it might not be enough. What if she did something crazy, like actually going to the biotech to concoct some phony evidence or something? If the security there didn’t realize it was a prank, she could get hurt. Littlejohn woke up his laptop and quickly found the information he needed. The phone rang only once before he heard a woman answer, “Nyew Gawden Biosciences. Can I help you?”
Chapter 22
DEVIANCE: A LEARNING EXPERIENCE
by P.C. Cromwell
PHILADELPHIA—It’s after midnight. Cary Walters carefully approaches the Vagelos Laboratory on the campus here at Penn. He and two companions are dressed entirely in black. Walters uses a passkey he has appropriated from one of his professors. Once inside, he leads the group to the area where laboratory animals wait in cages for their turn to play their part in the steady march of scientific progress.
Walters and his cadre stealthily open the cages and transfer a dozen or so healthy white rats to the confines of a gunnysack …
Out of patience with the setup, Bruno scanned ahead to the meat of the article. Apparently the college kids waited until the next day and then dumped the live rats from the window of their dorm room onto the heads of passersby. They did this to fulfill a requirement for their course in Deviant Behavior.
Peaches was trying to spin it as a protest against animal testing, but the kids were quite emphatic.
“This is no protest,” Walters affirms. “It’s simply deviant. We need to learn to feel what social outcasts feel. It’s about learning to empathize.”
According to Peaches, other students fulfilled the course requirement by cross-dressing, abusing strangers with vulgar language and gestures, going to morning classes drunk, and refusing to pay their library fines. “Professor Nate Littlejohn is viewed as a sort of minor deity on campus,” the article enthused,
and while the campus police and administration generally find their workload increases every time Dr. Littlejohn’s final paper is due, they bear it with good humor as a longstanding campus tradition.
“They’re all meshugge,” Bruno explained to Maggie. “They should learn to empathize with a good swift kick in the tuchus.”
Maggie gave a low moan.
Bruno threw the article on top of a messy stack, which served as his work-in-progress file. He picked up the NewGarden Biosciences annual report, and thumbed through it until something caught his eye. A French company was the principal shareholder; that explained why Dr. Jurevicius, and also Dr. Fischer, might be a bit testy in his presence. “Alla sudden, everybody’s a dahkta.” Bruno snorted. “Doctor Littlejohn. Doctor Fischer. Doctor Jurevicius …”
He rummaged through the pile, and picked up his brand-new copy of Kabbalah for the Complete Shmegegge and the hair sample taken from the faceless girl. “It’s funny that Peaches’ article appears at the same time we’re investigating this Deviant Behavior course. And Maggie, you know, you and I do not believe in coincidences.”
Bruno sat in a comfortable chair and tried to reconstruct the chain of thought leading to the breakthrough he’d had that afternoon in the museum. He’d been staring down the Pharaoh, Ramses II. Then Peter Lorre interrupted him and told him how to make a mummy. All the careful washing and marinating and wrapping. To keep out the dust of centuries.
Bruno looked again at the plastic baggie with the hair sample. There was definitely some kind of sand or grit in there. Yellow-brown in color. Sort of loamy. He opened the baggie and again squeezed the hair between his thumb and forefinger. He concentrated. But nothing came into view.
It was time to try out the Kabbalah. He opened the book and turned to the chapter entitled “Visualization.” Following the instructions, he thought of the Hebrew word for truth, emet, and visualized it spelled out in Hebrew characters. Aleph, Mem, Tav. He h
eld the word in glowing letters steady in his field of vision, etching the characters in stone. Next, he wiped away the extraneous mental pictures surrounding the letters, substituting instead glowing white fire. The visualization held and Bruno’s entire being was absorbed in it.
He came out of his trance sometime later and took Maggie for a walk. It was a quiet spring night in the Pines. Humid. Overcast. No stars to be seen. “Why did they bury her?” he asked. “Why bury her if they were going to leave her to be found in the meeting house?” He thought some more, then said with conviction, “Whoever planted the body was probably not the person who killed her.”
Chapter 23
The station was in an uproar, first thing the next morning, when Bruno arrived for his appointment with Chief Black. The next step, he felt, was to find a way to interview Mimi, whether her father liked it or not.
But the office was crowded with people he didn’t recognize, milling around and talking excitedly. He’d never seen it like this before. Finally he caught the eye of Officer Randy Lewis, the force’s high-speed apprehension specialist. Bruno pulled him aside and Randy filled him in: “A kid from the Friends school didn’t turn up at home last night. We think it’s a kidnapping.”
“Is there a ransom note?” asked Bruno.
“Not that we know of.”
Bruno made a face. “I need to speak to the Chief right away.”
Bruno muscled his way to the Chief’s office and peered through the glass. Inside were the child’s parents, the mother crying hysterically: Gussie, little Gussie is her only kid. The father sat there, apparently a model of stoicism. More likely he was in shock. The Chief talked practically non-stop. He picked up the phone and, a minute later, Officer Michelle Coxe appeared. She tried to comfort Mrs. Parker. Bruno turned his head—this was a private moment, he shouldn’t be watching.
Then he noticed he was standing next to none other than Peaches Cromwell. She was scribbling on her pad, practically salivating.
The Chief spotted Bruno and opened the door. Peaches quickly stepped in front and tried to barge in. The Chief restrained her with a stiff arm to the chest. Peaches opened her mouth in outrage, trying to imply she was being groped. The Chief threw her a look as if to say she was about to get far worse if she didn’t back off.
Peaches backed off. The Chief beckoned to Bruno to come in.
As he stepped across the threshold, the energy level jagged up, as if there was a control knob and somebody turned up the lights and volume and the smells and the heat way past maximum.
The Chief didn’t waste any time. “We can’t hold you in reserve. I want to throw everything we’ve got at this one right away. I told the Parkers about you and they’re willing to cooperate.”
He handed Bruno Gussie Parker’s class picture. A goofy-looking kid. His head seemed to be wider than it was tall. Spiky blond hair on top. Braces. Freckles. Gussie played guitar so he had calluses on the fingers of his left hand. One of them split open earlier in the week. Left pinkie. The poor mom explained it all to Bruno between sobs.
“What are you waiting for?” the Chief snarled. “Go do your psychic-Kabbalah-whatever thing.”
“Is there anything else I can use?” Bruno stammered. No one wanted to get out of there more than he did. “Article of clothing, anything …”
“There’s his briefcase. We found his briefcase. But it’s evidence.”
“That’s exactly why I need it. I would need to touch it,” Bruno said in practically a whisper.
“Go talk to Gary. See what you can work out. Now go.”
On the way out, Bruno caught a look from the father, his first sign of life. Suddenly Mr. Parker was on his feet, shaking his fist in Bruno’s face. He was screaming, “You find my boy. You bring him back for me.”
Bruno backed away slowly, then turned quickly to get to work. He ran headlong into Peaches. She scowled.
All these looks, thought Bruno. Why was everyone angry? This was a time for compassion. Adrenaline was a funny thing. He had seen it countless times with Maggie. Somebody would see her and assume she was an attack dog. The adrenaline would flow from fear. She’d smell it and think they’d want to fight. Up would go her hackles, back would curl her lip. Fear and anger. Anger and fear.
That explained Mr. Parker. And probably the Chief as well. Mostly he’s angry with the criminal; kidnapping, murder—both vicious crimes. And when it’s a child involved, who wouldn’t be angry? But there’s also a certain amount of fear. Pressure about his job performance. From the parents. From the Mayor. What would the situation be like in the town now, with two children missing or dead? He and his staff would be working round the clock. And there’d be pressure from Peaches. What was her shtick? She wanted to be in the office. Wanted to hear what the parents were saying. Why? So she could reveal their emotional distress for everyone who reads the paper? What would drive anyone to behave that way? They teach ’em in journalism school to say things like, “The public has a right to know.” Or talk about the First Amendment and the role of the Fourth Estate in a constitutional democracy. Big abstractions. How do you get from there to Peaches Cromwell? She was like a dog trained to attack the moment she sensed emotion: Fear or anger. Anger or fear. Maggie was lucky last time Peaches didn’t bite her. Next time she’d probably bring a hamburger laced with poison or the old chloroformed hanky.
Enough about Peaches. She was a piece of work. Time to get busy and find that kid.
Chapter 24
By any standard, little Gussie Parker was Bruno’s most successful outing as a psychic detective. It was a textbook case of remote viewing—or astral projection, as the more spiritually inclined like to call it—and psychometrics.
First, he concentrated on the picture. That was a bit scary, because he saw nothing. Normally, when remote viewing works properly, you get to see and sometimes hear whatever the subject is seeing or hearing. It’s like a remote-operated video camera, without wires or electricity—or confusing instructions translated literally from Japanese. The fact that it wasn’t working indicated Gussie was probably unconscious, as in asleep, Bruno hoped.
That left the briefcase. Gary dusted the whole thing for prints. Of course the handle was full of them, so that was off limits. But there was the area along the bottom, which had an accordion fold that was all scuffed up and Gary said he could touch it there. Bruno wasn’t hopeful. But it turned out that Gussie must’ve sometimes held the case pushed right up under his armpit with a hand tucked under the bottom of the case for support. Maybe his arm was getting tired from carrying it the other way?
Then the whole scene played out as clear as day.
Gussie was walking home from school with another kid. Talking about the teacher. Homework. The girls in the class. Underpants. Their arms would get tired and they’d heave their briefcases. That explained the marks.
The other kid’s name was Don. He started teasing Gussie about his work at the racetrack. Shoveling horse poop a big theme.
“Yeah.” Gussie got all puffed up. “I know which horses are going to win all the big races.”
“That’s ’cause your dad’s a bookie, not ’cause you know anything about horses.”
“Oh yeah? My dad is an accountant. He works for the track. He doesn’t do anything illegal. Everything’s on the level.”
“You’re lying!”
They tossed their briefcases at each other. Both missed.
Don came to his turning, and Gussie continued on alone. He was hungry. Thinking about Tastykake. Chocolate Krimpets. Then a car drove up.
There was nothing subtle about what happened next. No dialogue. No trickery.
A man hopped out. He was wearing an overcoat with a watch cap pulled down low on his brow. He grabbed Gussie, who tried to hit him with his briefcase. But he was too close. There was no leverage. The briefcase fell harmlessly to the sidewalk. The man forced Gussie into the backseat, where he hit him over the head with something and knocked him unconscious.
Then
things got sketchy. Gussie’s emotions were fading as he went out for the count. He tried to call for help and saw his mother’s face. He thought he was saved. But she turned her back and stole away. Now there were two men, both wearing Halloween masks—big rubber T. rex heads with enormous yellow teeth. Gussie was terrified. They tied him up and threw him somewhere. It was hard to make out. Bruno was tiring. He broke contact with the briefcase and went looking for the Chief.
Chapter 25
Peaches’ article was reasonably accurate, for once.
She described in intimate, heart-wrenching detail the scene at Logan Pond. Under the direction of the police, the county parks maintenance division was draining the water. It had taken some arm-twisting, but eventually Chief Black had convinced them there was compelling evidence that the remains of Gus Parker would be found there.
Bruno’s psychic viewing of the crime scene had shown him that Gussie had been dumped, unconscious, in a body of water. Whether it was Logan Pond or the Atlantic Ocean, he didn’t know. For cops and other hardboiled types who know about these things, it’s a standing joke that 90 percent of the time a psychic will report that the body’s near water. Then, if they find it buried in a crawl space, the psychic will say, “The basement always flooded when it rained,” or “It was near the hot-water heater.” Ninety percent of everything is near water, so Gary and Nancy and the rest of the force gave Bruno a well-deserved razzing when he burst in, out of breath, from examining the briefcase.
But after further concentrating on the scene, Bruno was able to identify an additional detail: “Something about fossils,” he panted, struggling to bring the images into focus. “Big bones. Dinosaurs, I think. Yes, I think it’s dinosaurs.”
He came out of his trance and realized how ridiculous that must have sounded. But Chief Black and the others appeared to be mobilizing for action—men, dogs, the works. Gardenfield happens to be the site where the first complete fossil skeleton dinosaur had been discovered, more than a century earlier. It was in a marl pit, at the bottom of a ravine, densely wooded, and covered with underbrush. Chief Black organized a search party and invited Bruno to tag along.
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