An Absent God

by Vincent Wilde

  The devil won. I knew he would.

  I summed up the situation. The street was dead. There was no time like the present—although I hoped the woman hadn’t gone for a spin around the block.

  I crossed the street, opened the gate, and walked up the steps. The lawn was in that strange stage between fall and winter, where life had not totally surrendered to death. Some plants had survived the cold weather. A few green sprigs sprouted between the fallen oak leaves and clumps of dead grass. There was no sign of toys or dog droppings. I knew I was standing in front of the Bozelle residence. Stanley was in New York and she was on her way to god knows where, but if I had to guess I’d have said to join him.

  What if the neighbors happened to be looking? What would I tell them if they asked? I didn’t exactly look official. Phone company? Lineman? Nope. A private investigator with no ID? Probably wouldn’t fly.

  I knocked and, of course, no one answered. No barking either. A small white mailbox was affixed to the wall on the right of the door, but there was no name on it. I lifted its lid. No mail inside.

  I walked around the side of the house, still in the fenced-in yard. A small wooden deck protruded from the back. The deck was accessible from the inside through a set of French doors. I didn’t have tools on me, not even a credit card, but I did have a plastic strip in my wallet that I used for such occasions when they came up. Most of the time it lay unused in my back pocket. Frankly, it had been years since I had broken into a house.

  I hopped on the deck and looked through the doors. A set of grimy curtains were drawn across them, but there was a narrow gap in the middle, enough for me to see the immediate layout of the house. The kitchen was to the left. Straight ahead, to the center of the house, was the main door, and off to its right was the strange room that jutted out into the yard.

  The property was pretty well concealed by brush and mature trees. The Bozelles valued their privacy.

  I took out the strip and inserted it into the lock. Luckily, there was no deadbolt on the door. That wouldn’t have stopped me, but it did make my job easier. The plastic, stiff but not brittle, fought a battle against the latch three times before the lock yielded.

  I pulled the handle and stepped inside. No alarm. I looked around quickly. As far as I could tell there were no surveillance cameras.

  The kitchen smelled like bacon and fried eggs. Grease congealed in a pan on a still warm stove. Either the woman was in a hurry or she was a horrible housekeeper.

  But there was another distinctive smell that I detected in the air, one that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. The pleasant, metallic smell of gun oil permeated the house. Had the woman been cleaning weapons before she left? What was in that brown leather suitcase? Now I was convinced she was on her way to New York. If my flight was on time, I’d arrive in the city several hours before she got there. I made a mental note to call Tony from the airport.

  Everything in the house was cheap, bordering on tawdry—not that I was in any position to talk, considering the state of my apartment. I hadn’t really moved up yet to Goodwill chic. Most of the stuff I owned, I had found on the street. Stanley’s house had a “lived in” look, devoid of charm. A worn Formica table and two chairs sat in a kitchen corner. The three rooms in the front were bathed in a murky gray light despite the crisp November sun. One of those rooms was a bedroom brimming with disarray. The bureau drawers were open, clothes had been tossed on the floor, and the bed was a tangle of sheets and blankets.

  The living room sat in the center of the house. A portable television on a cheap metal stand was pushed in front of the window. A couple of empty beer cans sat on a wobbly coffee table, otherwise populated by hunting and fishing magazines. I looked at the address tape on one of them. Stanley Bozelle—at this address. Another periodical caught my eye. It offered luxury yachts for sale. Clearly, Stanley had big dreams.

  For some reason, I dreaded going into the weirdly shaped room that looked as if it had been added as an afterthought. It reminded me of a castle turret without the stairwell. Just looking at it from ten feet away gave me the willies. Equally dark, it sat there like a monstrous maw waiting to swallow me. In fact, I knew that was a good sign, possibly emanating from those gifts of prophecy the Bay Village fortune-teller in Boston had revealed in her reading. Whatever I needed to know was in that room.

  I stepped inside. A secondhand desk sat against the north wall, far enough away from the window to be unobtrusive, but close enough to get light if the shades were opened. I switched on the plastic desk lamp sitting on top of it. A circular beam shone down upon the battered wood. A stack of business cards sat in a metal holder. I picked them up and thumbed through them. Nothing struck me except a particular card—from Ralston’s, the shooting range. More proof at least one of them had been there. The name of the Range Master was scrawled on the back.

  I rummaged through the desk, pulling out papers and replacing them in correct order as best I could. Near the bottom of the pile I found a crude pencil drawing that looked like a fourth grader’s bizarre art assignment. On the top half of the picture, a stick figure in camouflage stood in front of a tree line of roughly sketched pines. On the bottom, two stick children kneeled behind a bigger figure holding a gun. It was the perfect recreation of the scene in Rodney Jessup’s backyard the night Carol and the kids had returned after their cruise. The larger figure was Abby protecting the smaller stick figures, Ruthie and John, from the camouflage-clad stick figure who threw the bag into the yard. Abby had sensed that the perpetrator was a woman. Perhaps the woman had drawn this for Bozelle. I folded the paper and put it in my jacket pocket. More criminal offenses—but I didn’t care.

  Something at the back of the room caught my eye, hidden in the gray light. The room was big, higher and wider than the others in the house. The rear wall consisted of two large paneled doors that stretched from floor to ceiling. The two handles, one on each door, were secured with an inexpensive chain and lock that bound the panels together. If there was any play at all in the doors I knew I could get them open. I grasped the handles and pulled. The doors pulled open with enough room to get my fingers inside with two inches to spare. I already had “breaking and entering” and “tampering with evidence” on my rap sheet, why not add “destruction of property” to the list?

  I forced my hands into the space above the lock and pulled. After several attempts to open the door, I finally planted one foot against the bottom of the panel and pulled with all my might. The handle popped off with a crack.

  The cabinet held an arsenal of weapons. I counted at least twenty high-powered hunting and assault rifles, the makes and models so diverse it was impossible to hold them all in my head. There were also interesting additions to the cache: swords, deadly walking sticks, handcuffs, ninja stars, silencers, camouflage, concealment clothing, and masks.

  I pulled a chair over to get to the top of the cabinet. Two shelves, high up, added to my amazement. The Bozelles, if anything, were ready for the apocalypse. Raw gunpowder, shells, a bullet maker, supplies, and gloves were lovingly placed on them. Unlike the house, everything in the cabinet was in perfect, pristine, orderly condition. It reminded me of people who could spend three thousand dollars on fireworks for the Fourth of July, but couldn’t afford to paint their house.

  A small stash of cash—about a thousand dollars—caught my attention also. I left it alone. I didn’t need to add grand larceny to my charges.

  I’d seen all I needed to see. These people were armed and dangerous. I was now convinced that Stanley Bozelle was the man who had murdered Rodney Jessup. The remaining question was: What was his motive?

  I searched the desk one more time and found a couple of things I’d overlooked. One was a photograph cut from a magazine, or a religious tract, that was stuck in the corner of the drawer. It was a picture of an aborted bloody fetus. I’d seen blood and guts before, but the image turned my stomach. It left me feeling unsettled, but also thinking about why Stanley Bozelle would be o
ut to get Rodney Jessup. Jessup was no fan of abortion, so I doubted his murder was politically motivated. More likely it was personal. I pocketed that picture as well.

  The other unusual item was a small silver box with switches that was concealed behind a standard desk telephone. A connector cord stretched between the phone, a tape message machine, and the box. I wasn’t sure what the box was for, but it looked like a sophisticated setup—one you wouldn’t find in every Davee Gardens home.

  I returned everything to its original place, including putting the damaged handle back on the cabinet doors, and turned off the lamp. The Bozelles were smart enough that it would take them about two seconds to discover that someone had broken into the house. I was glad I would be far away by the time that happened.

  I closed the French doors, walked through the yard, and went out the gate to the sidewalk. A man walking a chocolate lab lifted his hand in greeting as he passed by. The dog gave me a couple of sniffs as he lumbered on. His brain was probably fixated on the scent of bacon and fried eggs, not the gun oil.

  I walked to the car and sat for a time before starting back to the airport. I had plenty of time to grab lunch before my flight. I wondered if Tony would still be mad about this trip when he found out what I had discovered—or how I discovered it.

  At any rate, he needed to know what we were dealing with.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  THE COLD WAR BETWEEN TONY AND ME HAD thawed a bit by the time I walked in the door. He was sitting on the couch, but his face was grim, his lips narrowed with tension.

  “How was your flight?” he asked.

  I took his question as a peace offering.

  “Fine.” I tossed my bag on the bed and returned to the couch.

  “Can we talk now—without anger and recrimination?” I asked.

  I got a half smile from him. “You and your fifty-cent words. I didn’t plan on having a dictionary for a boyfriend.”

  A boyfriend? Tony had never been generous with his terms of endearment, but I liked the feeling of being his boyfriend. The words felt safe and warm. I sat close to him, reached over, and stroked his hair. The silky strands felt good between my fingers. Sometimes I got the feeling with Tony that everything in the world was going to be all right. That song from Sweeney Todd about being safe from harm popped into my head.

  “So what did you find out, Mr. Investigator?” Tony asked. “And how many laws did you break?”

  I had told him when I called from the airport that I couldn’t talk in public, but I had important information to share.

  “About three, by my count.” I pulled the crude sketch and the photo from my jacket pocket and handed them to him.

  Tony whistled when he saw the drawing. “Holy crap. That’s Abby and the kids in Jessup’s backyard.”

  “You’ve got a second career as an art critic.” I snuggled against him.

  He looked at the photo and scrunched up his mouth. “What’s this about? Pretty disgusting.”

  “I have no idea, but I’m sure it ties in somehow. We’ll find out as soon as he plays his hand.” I weaved the fingers of my right hand through his left. “The jackpot of the whole visit was the armory I found in the house. Enough weaponry to start a small war with a Central American country. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s the one who killed Jessup. And she’s probably just as dangerous as he is.”

  I described my visit to the house and all the naughty things I had done. Tony shook his head in amazement. “You go where cops fear to tread,” he said.

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m not a cop. To hell with those bureaucratic channels. If no one gets hurt and I save a few lives, all the better.” I regretted my last words immediately because my friend Stephen Cross trotted into my head. I hadn’t saved him, try as I might. The day I found him in the snow in New Hampshire would be forever etched into my mind. I thought of him every day. A word, a reflection, a piece of clothing could trigger a memory. I tried to forget, but forgetting was one of the most difficult tasks I’d ever had to take on. I could see him in my head as if he were standing in front of me. That clarity provided little comfort. The heartache of losing him was lessening, but the pain still bubbled to the surface now and then.

  “Speaking of,” I said, hoping to shake the memory. “How are the kids?”

  Tony relaxed a bit against me. “They’re well and happy. I have to admit that sending them to Ophelia was the best thing to do. I can’t imagine them here. When he’s not working, he entertains them constantly. Which reminds me . . . ”

  “What?”

  “I have to get over to the apartment. He’s working tonight and tomorrow, Thanksgiving night.”

  Tony stood up and stretched. “He’s planning something— something big. It’s driving me nuts.”

  “We’re sticking with our plan for tomorrow?”

  “Yep,” Tony said. “I don’t think we have a choice. She’ll be in the city by then.”

  “Probably arriving in about three hours,” I added.

  Tony showered and headed off to Ophelia’s. I took a shower too and thought about dropping in at Han’s. Maybe they needed an extra dishwasher for the night. I talked myself out of that. I stretched out on the couch and thought about all the nasty ways Stanley Bozelle could make life difficult for Ruthie and John. My thoughts weren’t pleasant.

  I had a hunch and I acted on it. I called Janice Carpenter. As on my previous attempt, she was in no mood to talk. However, I told her that the kids and I would be attending the parade and would be standing in Times Square very near the TKTS booth.

  “Look for us on TV,” I said with a hint of sarcasm.

  I barely got the words out of my mouth before she hung up. It was enough time to get the message across and that was what I intended.

  I called Ophelia and caught her before she left for Club Leo. I told her that if she was planning to take Ruthie and John to see the parade to make sure she was nowhere near Times Square. In fact, I suggested she camp out by Macy’s front door under the glare of national television coverage and in the company of a swarm of New York’s finest.

  “Whatever you do,” I said, “make the kids blend into the crowd.”

  I could foresee Ophelia’s Thanksgiving Day joke: John in a dress and Ruthie in a tuxedo. She would rationalize her behavior as a festive kick-off to the holiday season. Or she might put them in turkey costumes. Whatever they were, I asked her to discuss her plans with Tony.

  Thanksgiving Day dawned with broken clouds and moderate temperatures. Winds were light also; always a big factor in handling the large balloons that floated down Broadway to Herald Square annually on this day. As it turned out, this year was the seventieth anniversary of the parade and a large, boisterous crowd was expected. That made it all the better for Tony and me.

  First, I dug two large duffle bags out of my closet and stuffed them with pillows. Then, we dressed them in old clothes, from top to bottom, from hats down to the shoes. We attached soft tubing that Tony had purchased—legs and arms—with twine and safety pins. Up close, no one would mistake the bags for kids, but from a hundred yards away and across a crowded street, the artifice might hold up. As Ophelia had taught me, life, with a change of clothes, hairstyle, and makeup, could alter the individual. In that respect, all life was an illusion.

  The weather was brisk, so the clothing we chose was appropriate. We would carry our little bundles of joy under our arms until we got to Times Square. We might get a few strange looks, but this was New York—what the hell? Who would care? If we even got a second glance, people would think we were just a couple of wacko New Yorkers getting into the holiday spirit. We both considered taking our guns, but reassessed. We weren’t looking for a gunfight on a crowded street filled mostly with kids and parents.

  As we carried our “children” to our appointed space about an hour before the parade began, we discussed what we thought might happen.

  “He’s not out to kill them,” I said. “He’s after
kidnapping money. We need to flush him out. He knows where I live. If I were in his head, I’d wonder if we might take the kids to the parade. It would be hard to deny Ruthie and John that pleasure.”

  “I still don’t understand why he killed Rodney,” Tony said. “Why not go after the kids in the first place?”

  I had no answer.

  We passed Eighth Avenue, heading west on Forty-Fifth Street. A stream of people poured down the sidewalks toward Times Square.

  I hefted my child over my shoulder. The shoes flopped against my back. Tony’s question roared into my head. “Because he hated Rodney? Maybe Rodney got in the way. He’d have no hesitation about killing us if he believed we might screw up his plan. Maybe Bozelle was supposed to get the blood money Rodney intended to shell out for Stephen Cross’s death.”

  “I don’t like this,” Tony said. “We’re opening ourselves up for a sniper attack.”

  I shook my head. “No. He wants to know for certain we have the kids, and at the first good opportunity he’ll swoop.”

  We pushed our way down the block until we got to Broadway. We turned left and then headed uptown toward the TKTS booth, a Times Square institution noted for discount theater tickets. People were already lined two to three deep against the metal police barriers near the site, but we found one small area where Tony and I could squeeze to the front. We had an unobstructed view across Broadway. We placed our fake kids next to our sides and put our hands on top of their heads.

  I suddenly felt antsy. “The waiting begins . . . .”

  “Yep. Keep our eyes open. Scan the rooftops as well. I doubt he’s up there, but you never know.”

  The hour dragged by in the company of restless parents and children. I heard it all—screaming, laughing, crying, coughing, sneezing, cajoling for roasted peanuts or a stuffed toy to commemorate the parade. The parents were either obsequious or oblivious. After sixty minutes of inane conversation about which balloon or band might be coming down the street, a pet hamster seemed like a much more attractive option than a child. Tony and I kept alert, but we didn’t see anything that aroused our suspicions.