He put the binoculars down, settled back, and slept.
He had time. At only five-thirty, there was plenty of time.
TWENTY-FIVE
In memory, everything seems to happen to music.
—Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie
He watched for two more days. Establishing a pattern. Mark and Joey came and went, unaware of the man’s presence, as he was even more careful than before.
Then, on the third night, it was time.
A five o’clock, he positioned himself behind the gate to the dog run, crouching, small teeth shining. Clifford lay to the far end of the run, the golden retriever’s throat slit. In the streetlight’s yellow glow, the dog appeared an immovable pile of fluff, as if it were sleeping. He realized his coat smelled of blood and dog kibble.
Damned dog took one good bite at him. Rocking his hand back and forth at the wrist, it hurt, but he could move it. Teeth marks oozed dark and ugly in the little light he could find. Turning his hand over, he could see three puncture marks on the top, just next to his index finger, two matching wounds in his palm.
Pain means nothing.
They will be here soon.
Looking around, above the fence, he waited for the neighbor’s downstairs lights to come on. Glancing up, he waited for some sign of life on the second floor, for eyes peering through blinds or curtains. Nothing. The neighbor’s house remained black. There was no movement. Thankfully, they weren’t home.
Like the other nights, a slow, steady rain began to fall. He crouched under the eaves but put his hand out into the stream, letting the cool water cleanse his wound. The fire started to subside…he had no time for it anyway.
Through a tiny vertical slot in the wooden slats, he watched double white lights speed by, reflecting on wet pavement. Crouched down on his haunches, his calves tightened, cramped. He pulled his raincoat closer.
Squatted and small, he couldn’t help but remember.
“Sandra!” he screams her name. “It’s dark in here.”
He is not sure how long he’s been in the basement, shackled to a hard wooden chair. He knows his limbs have fallen into a kind of languishing. His belly aches for food. Eyes burn with tears that have come and gone.
What day is it?
He has no answer, nor does he know the time.
Steal cuffs rubbing into raw skin at his wrists, ankles. A thick rope circles his waistline, then crosses in the back and doubles back over each leg. She has tied it together below the wooden seat and taped any of the rope’s stray ends down with electrical tape.
Though he has tried, he cannot reach the tape’s edges.
The rope has begun to fray from his pee, the sticky stuff on it giving way to the soreness, the stickiness he feels in his pants. Sitting in pitch blackness, he feels a spider crawl over his big toe. He screams but there is no one to hear him. He thinks to crush it with his foot but decides against it.
At least someone is with him down here.
At least something cares for him.
“Sandra, I know you are up there,” he chokes, then swallows his tears. “Sandra, get down here now.” His voice is stronger now, defiant. He rocks on the chair back and forth, straining against the shackles.
A loud hollow crash, a thud.
Success. He has wobbled the chair enough for it to fall over. He is lying on his side now, nearly in a fetal position, his sore bottom finding some relief.
He wonders if he has crushed the spider. Prays he has not.
Above him and to the left, the basement door opens with a hard clap against hardwood floors. Squinting, he can hardly see through the light.
“Sandra,” he whispers, seeing her huge frame fill up the light. He can’t see her face, but he knows she is angry. She is always angry.
The silhouette moves closer till there is only the hint of light in the room cast through her thick ankles.
She is standing over him, a two-inch-wide stick slapping rhythmically against her palm. The sound of it slapping, thump, thump, thump. It is music. It takes him out of this place.
Whump. Hot, tingling fire across his thigh brings him back. Pain in his stomach. He feels he will vomit.
Regrettably, the music stops. She stands over him. He is far more frightened than when he was alone.
His eyes adjust to the light. He can see the spider made it, is still alive. The creature saunters along, oblivious, just a half inch from the boy’s eyes. He smiles.
“Wretched child,” she scorns him, the thump, thump never stopping in her hands. He cannot see the stick but knows it is there. His body shows the scars from wars with it.
Pulling against the cold steel shackles, he listens to the chains go tight, hears the chair scrape against the cement floor.
No escape.
Stepping forward, heavy black orthopedic shoes come down right in front of his eyes, filling his frame of vision. Her left foot crushes the spider.
His eyes widen but he says nothing.
His urine and excrement have combined to form a foul odor. He notices it only now, for reasons he cannot explain. Terrified, he is sure she smells it too.
“You think I am here to clean up after your garbage?” Her voice booms over him, accompanied by the thump.
He closes his eyes, tries to think of the music, but it will not come.
She kicks him in the groin. Instantly, his body buckles over on itself, though still restrained. Vomit comes in small retched lurches. Black dots in front of his eyes, a strong, shrill whining.
“Answer me,” she commands, her voice bouncing off the hollow, empty room.
He says nothing, still coughing, gasping for air.
“Answer me.” He has no choice this time. It is a command.
“Sandra, I…” His voice is low, sheepish.
Thump, thump gets faster.
He knows what it means, braces for another blow.
Trembling, he answers her. “I didn’t mean to do it. It was a mistake.”
“I’ve checked your bed. Wet. Third time this week.” He hears her swallow. “You think it’s funny me cleaning up your piss?”
A clap of wood. His right forearm takes the brunt of it. Thankfully, the blow only brushes his ribs.
He is sobbing.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident.” He forces the words, his voice meek. Then the orthopedic shoes are gone, replaced by her ugly, horrid face, down on the floor with him. Leaning into him, she is barely a half inch away. Sour breath laden with scotch blows into his eyes, stinging them. Spit flies like a shower as she screams, “You’re a good-for-nothing dirty little bastard. I do my best with you, and this is what I get?” She holds up his soiled sheets to his face, then takes them away.
Coughing, gagging. Stinking cotton. The pee leaching into his eyes, stinging them. “How does it feel?” Her tone is suddenly gentle now. He prays the worst of it is over.
“I…I…” He chokes words but they will not come. More than anything else, he is angry for that. He wants to kick her, curse her, bash her head into this hard cold cement, but even words betray him.
His body trembles.
She draws back and claps him again, this time on the bottom. The blow is so hard it draws blood. Can smell it. Metallic, lingering in the air. Can feel it trickling down his bare leg.
Blood seems to appease her, if only for a second.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with you a good lickin’ won’t fix.” She turns away, the thump, thump, thump still echoing in his ears as she goes.
He wants the music to come. Where is it?
Like everything else, it has abandoned him.
Then the cold rage is back as suddenly as it left.
The thumping has stopped. He is thankful.
Grabbing his throat with the full force of one massive hand, she wrenches him up off the floor and plunks down his body, the chair upright.
“Please don’t,” he pleads, chin quivering.
“You know what comes next, don’t you, b
oy?” It is horrible in here. Her voice is a monster’s voice. Low and growling.
“No, please,” he cries softly, between a new wave of tears.
“Now sit still, boy.”
He feels her heavy hands on his crotch.
He waits for the music.
TWENTY-SIX
A woman’s hopes are woven of sunbeams;
A shadow annihilates them.
—George Eliot, Felix Holt, the Radical
In all the world, Cat couldn’t remember feeling this content. In front of a soft smoldering fire, she sat staring at Dr. Gregory Taft. Firelight and soft neoclassical lighting cast a glow on Greg’s face. Others refer to him as Gregory, but to Cat, he is Greg. From the looks of it, the years had been good to him.
Chez Paul was a Chicago landmark of fairly recent vintage. Though the building itself was over a hundred years old, the restaurant opened two decades ago. It had quickly made a name for itself with Chicago’s moneyed elite.
Solid mahogany doors led to a small salon with coat check. Thick carpets and drapes masked this inside sanctum in sheer opulence. Up a winding wooden staircase to the second floor, Greg had requested their best table, tucked into a secluded corner with its own fireplace. Cat savored the fire’s warmth, the company, and the sheer relaxation of this moment.
Mahogany-trimmed emerald walls, huge cut-crystal chandeliers…the place reeked of power but had an unhurried pace. Service was discreet, yet excellent. Starched waiters in white gloves appeared and disappeared without so much as a noise. Chez Paul was Dr. Gregory Taft’s favorite dinner spot. As soon as they walked into the restaurant, Michelle, the head hostess, greeted them, assuring Dr. Taft that everything was in order.
Now Cat simply sat, immersed in this, his world.
A chardonnay was poured. She savored the flavor of sun, oak, a hint of apricot on her tongue. Cat put down her glass and looked directly at Greg, taking him in. A few more wrinkles, same hair, green eyes, he seemed to blend in with his surroundings. “So, Greg, how long has it been for us?”
He put down a shrimp-laden fork, thought about it. “It’s been at least seven years. You were here in, let’s see, 2007, I believe.”
Cat gave him a questioning look.
“Are you sure? I was almost positive it was 2008?”
He took her hand, rubbed it, and looked at her deeply. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Remember taking you to the Museum of Science and Industry. You were like a kid in a candy store. Worse than a five-year-old,” he teased.
Cat’s face glowed. “I love those hands-on exhibits. Reminds me of when I was a kid.”
A waiter appeared but was dismissed with a short wave of Greg’s hand.
“Now tell me, what brings you to our city?”
Cat popped in a broiled, marinated shrimp, chewed. “I’m here following up a lead on an investigation.”
“Ah yes.” He poured her more wine casually and sat back in his chair. “The Burning Man investigation.”
“You know about it then?”
“All I know is you’re investigating a case in California. But that doesn’t explain what brings you to Chicago.” His lips curled in what she could not quite describe as a smile. Simultaneously, she felt his leg brush hers under the table. Instinctively, she knew he wanted her to say it was to see him.
Gregory had always had a big ego, perhaps rightfully so.
This was a man who wielded power in an effortless way, headed one of the most powerful associations in the country, was respected among his peers. A man who no longer needed to practice medicine, yet medicine needed him. He had lobbied against Obama’s ballyhooed healthcare reforms and won, in some respects. The rollout had been a disaster. The American medical system, with all its padded billing, secret euthanasia, second-class mental healthcare, was safe. At least for now. Dr. Gregory Taft had seen to that. The medical community was eternally grateful.
Still, Cat admired him. He was a hands-on fellow, much like her. Unafraid to jump into the thick of things.
They’d met years ago when they had worked together on a horrible plane crash in the Florida Everglades. She had been summoned from Key West to assist in identifying bodies pulled from the swamp. He was there treating survivors, trying to do what he could to preserve life. Jointly, they had a role in comforting the families. So little was left of the plane, perhaps their first affair had been spawned from comforting each other too. The death toll had been over 80 percent.
Cat forced herself to smile.
Regardless, he could read the pain on her face. “What is it, Cat?”
“I’m just remembering when we met. Sometimes I wonder if the only reason we are together is because of pain.”
He leaned forward, took her hand, concern in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it, Greg? I mean all this. We have the admiration of our colleagues, careers, but when it comes down to it, when you’re lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, do you ever want for more?”
He pulled his hand away. “Yes, of course, but I am a selfish man. Or perhaps I haven’t found the right woman.” He smiled warmly. “What do you feel at night, Cat?”
“Lonely mostly, like I’m missing out on something, though I don’t quite know what it is.” Cat’s eyes roamed the dining room.
“Joey, right?”
She nodded. “I just wonder if I’ll ever be able to replace the times I’m missing with him. Memories I’ve missed, they can’t be replaced.”
“No, but you can make new ones, ones that are uniquely your own. He doesn’t expect anything more.” He took a sip of wine. “He’s a child. He doesn’t differentiate the days and weeks that you’re gone. He only remembers the trip to Disneyland from yesterday. That’s how kids are.”
“I know.” She looked down at her half empty plate. “I just feel I’m missing out.”
“Look, Catherine. Your work is important too. You safeguard society against the worst it has to offer. You make the world safer for kids like Joey, for all of us. There’s something to be said for that too.”
“I know. I guess I just have to find a balance. And lately it feels all one-sided.”
“Because of this case? Because of this trip?”
Cat casually looked at the heavily draped window, at the Chicago night. “Yes, I’m here checking a lead that seems to pan out to a similar MO.”
Gregory leaned in. “Tell me…”
“Not much to tell really. Young boy, same type of pattern. Killed his grandmother and a cousin. They let him go years ago.”
“And how does it fit for you?”
From the looks of it, Gregory Taft wasn’t interested in the standard line Cat fed everyone else. He was genuinely interested in what she really thought. He wanted the truth.
Cat’s eyes met his and stayed locked for five seconds until she went back to her food.
“Well, the thing is, I spoke with this man, and I use the term loosely, who knew the boy. Anyway, Carl Stearbourne—”
“Whoa, you spoke to Carl Stearbourne, face-to-face?” She could hear the surprise in his voice.
“Yes.” Cat did not know what else to say. “He and this boy, Eric, were close. Real close. Like they could read each other’s thoughts. Eric developed such an affinity for Carl that he wouldn’t speak to anyone else.”
Gregory was captivated. “Was Stearbourne as bad as they say?”
Gregory and Cat finished their shrimp almost simultaneously. A waiter appeared and whisked the plates away. Within seconds they were replaced with lemon sorbet, in small silver bowls.
Cat took three bites and the silver servers were removed once more, replaced this time with pâté de foie gras. She broke off a tiny bit of a toast point, spread it with the smooth mixture, and continued talking, nibbling in between words. “He’s a classic passive/aggressive. I thought a sociopath, but they say no, he knows exactly what he is doing at all times. Very direct, slightly
confrontational. In a passive sort of way. Carl Stearbourne’s most powerful weapon is his mind. They can restrain his body, keep him locked away. But even in death, I don’t think that mind would die. Somehow he would find a way to keep it alive. That and the power he wields with it.”
Gregory sipped a French Burgundy. “Why do you think that?”
“Greg, he defines himself in no other way, although I understand he can be physically strong as well. Snapped some poor nurse’s neck a few years back with his bare hands…” Her words drifted into the air.
“Yes. I remember reading about it in the papers.”
“To look at him, you would never know. He is of average build, slightly pudgy in the middle. It’s the way he holds himself. Those eyes. He’s the ultimate liar.”
“And that diagnosis is based on…”
“He deludes himself into thinking he is not a killer. He believes himself like other men.” Cat stopped. “No. You know what?” She chewed in between words. “On second thought, I’ll take that back. He believes himself better than other men.”
“How so?” Gregory said, sipping his wine.
“He’s killed eight people, three for no other reason than he felt like it. On the other hand, most of the men there have killed over love, revenge, money. You see, Carl Stearbourne does not see himself as a high-priced liability to society. He has the talent to market himself. That is how he keeps the journals doing stories, year after year. He packages himself as the most bizarre lunatic the world has ever seen, because he appears sane. Completely sane.”
“That’s what you think of it?”
“Put it this way, even the guy’s own doctor, a man who’s been studying Carl for years, treats him like he’s an enigma.”
“What the hell do they care? He’s in for life, isn’t he?” Gregory’s eyes roamed the dining room, then met Cat’s.
“Don’t you see? There is a prestige factor to housing Carl Stearbourne. And the journal articles aren’t bad publicity either.”
“So what you’re saying is this lunatic’s been able to engineer a marketing machine to sell himself from inside his cell?”
The Burning Man Page 19