Santinelli’s eyes narrowed. He was moving in for the kill. “You say you were talking to her about this particular problem?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Mr. Bardine, do you always discuss such highly sensitive subjects with such questionable characters?”
“No, sir, of course not!”
“You freely discussed top-level concerns with a Satanist?”
“Not a Satanist, sir—at least, not in a derogatory sense. She belongs to Broken Birch, yes, but they command much respect, even among our own ranks—”
“And just where did this discussion take place?”
“Well, I suppose . . .”
“Wasn’t it in your home, Mr. Bardine? More specifically, in your bedroom?”
Bardine was silent. He was stunned.
Santinelli explained briefly, “We do keep up on things, Mr. Bardine.” Then he started attacking again. “You were romantically involved with Alicia Von Bauer, weren’t you?”
Bardine was trying to formulate an answer.
Santinelli hit him again. “You’d already had many clandestine trysts with Von Bauer even before this; you’d already revealed several of our secrets to her, and now, at the peak of your infatuation, when she had your complete confidence, you told her about this problem, and the two of you made a pact together, isn’t that correct?”
Bardine decided to try honesty. “I . . . I thought it would be safe. I mean, she was involved in a bizarre group, she already had a criminal record . . . I thought that if something went wrong, we could always dissociate ourselves from her, claim no knowledge of her actions. She was . . . she was a disposable entity, purely utilitarian. I was sure it would work.”
Santinelli placed both hands squarely on the table, as if bracing himself right before exploding. “I suppose, Mr. Bardine, you never considered what it could do to the reputation of not only yourself but this organization for you to be intimately associated with a convicted criminal?”
“Sir . . .” Bardine tried to lighten things up. “Our people are seen in the company of this kind of people all the time . . .”
“Not this kind, Mr. Bardine! Not Satanists! We do not wish to associate with them because we do not wish to be associated with them by the public, do you understand? This relationship of yours with Von Bauer was most imprudent!” Santinelli stopped, not satisfied with the word. “Imprudent? Mr. Bardine, it was reprehensible!”
Bardine could only sit there, silent and shot to pieces.
But Santinelli wasn’t through. “Did it never occur to you that she could be a spy? Did it never once dawn on you that all the inside talk you were sharing with her—no doubt to impress her—would be immediately afterward shared with her cohorts in Broken Birch? Haven’t you learned anything about the politics of power? Have you any idea how vulnerable you have made us to those despicable leeches?”
Santinelli was hot and rolling; there was no stopping him. “They want power, Mr. Bardine, just as we all do! They are no exception in this game! We all want it, and we all have our own little machinations and tricks to get it. But be sure of this, Mr. Bardine: power, real power, belongs to the select few, and we are that select few—do you understand?” He didn’t give Bardine time to answer. “All the others, be they rich, be they royalty, be they gutter rats like these Satanists, will just have to get used to that fact and live by it. We will not allow any more petty power-grabbers to vie for leverage against us, and”—he leaned into this phrase—“we will not allow any more of our people to give it to them!”
Bardine’s voice was barely audible. “I understand, sir.”
Santinelli ignored the reply. “The ring taken from Alicia Von Bauer’s finger . . . it was yours, wasn’t it?”
Bardine tried to explain. “She . . . she stole it, sir! I did not give it to her! She had to have stolen it from the top of my dresser!”
“And this was, of course, after you had made your pact with her?”
“I . . . I suppose.”
“So she took your ring, with your personal inscription on it, and placed it on her own finger, just in case—” Santinelli took a moment to breathe and cut some holes through Bardine with his eyes. “—just in case something went wrong, and we tried to dissociate ourselves from her and claim no knowledge of her actions and treat her like a disposable entity. With your personalized ring, don’t you see, she would have some recourse against us, some proof that it was one of our own top-level attorneys who hired her and paid her that ten thousand dollars!”
Bardine looked down at the tabletop.
Santinelli had vented most of his anger. Now his voice softened. “Mr. Bardine, it is not my responsibility to think all these things through for you; it is your responsibility to do that, and to always keep the best interests of this organization foremost in your mind.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“It’s too late for that. The damage is done, and by another romantic entanglement! I hope you’ve learned—and it has been in the hardest way—how dangerous they can be.”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“You’re a good man, Bardine. I like your record of accomplishments. We’re going to keep this quiet, and I expect you to keep it quiet, for your sake and ours too.”
“Yes, sir. You have my word, sir.”
“We will grant you a leave of absence to . . . pursue some further studies—and please come up with something convincing. In the meantime, we’ll just have to see what we can do to straighten this mess out.”
By this time, such a sentence was good news. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your kind considerations . . .”
Santinelli began to gather his papers together. “In the future, Mr. Bardine, you will show by your example how such actions as we’ve discussed are never a good idea for any man in your sensitive position.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bardine. “I will, sir!”
Santinelli only smiled. “Oh, I’m positive of that.”
CHAPTER 8
RANSACKED. THE PLACE was a disaster, just like Mrs. Potter said.
Ben stood in the doorway of the Potters’ little rental house and figured he’d better have a good look from here before he went inside. The small living room was scantily furnished with an old couch, a rocking chair, a small thin-legged lampstand, and one gray and brown rag-rug.
The cushions from the couch were tossed on the floor, the rag-rug was rolled aside and piled in a corner. In the middle of the floor were papers, books, small boxes, and several items of clothing, apparently the contents of some drawers somewhere, brought in and spilled out.
Ben checked his watch. Yes, he had time to linger a little longer. This sidetrip back to the scene of the so-called suicide was not official, to say the least, and he did have some other stops to make. But he had some nagging questions that drew him here, and he was hoping an answer, no matter how small, might turn up. Mrs. Potter was glad enough to see him again, and gave him the key after preparing him for what he would find.
He stepped inside the house and went into the kitchen. Every drawer had been pulled open and the contents scattered on the old trestle table: some unmatched bowls and plates, old army eating utensils, some aging dish towels, some cookware, and a half-empty box of Saltine crackers. The canisters on the counter were all open—someone had dug through the flour, the tea, and the sugar, spilling much of it. He checked the refrigerator—they’d gone through that too.
He found the bedroom. It was the messiest of all the rooms, probably because it held the most of Sally Roe’s few possessions. Ben stood just inside the doorway a moment, noticing the intricate quilt now pulled from the small bed, the beautiful carved horse on the dresser, the pictures now hanging crookedly on the walls—prints of serene countrysides, grazing horses, hard-working farm folk. On the square table next to the bed was a small porcelain lamp, cracked, but decorated with hand-painted flowers and topped with an intricate crocheted lampshade. Apparently this was Sally Roe’s favorite room, her private l
ittle world. It had received most of her attention and creativity.
The small closet had been rummaged through, but most of the clothes still hung there. Ben noted the blouses, the skirts, the dresses, the scarves. They were all clean, pressed, cared for, conservative. The closet smelled of lavender.
The room was flooded with sunlight that came through the south-facing window. Just below the window was Sally’s old walnut desk, the drawers all pulled out, the contents scattered everywhere. Even so, Ben could easily picture how it used to be; a few books, a dictionary, and a thesaurus standing at attention on the left end, a small desk caddy holding a supply of pens and pencils on the right end, and in the middle . . . Well, whatever Sally used to have there, whatever she’d been working on, was now somewhere on the floor, or confiscated. But for a moment he could imagine her sitting in that heavy wooden desk chair with the casters on its feet, rolling this way and that, the sun warming her, the whole sun-washed, green, and growing countryside on continuous display through that window.
It wasn’t a long, meticulous thought, just a quick impression, a simple conclusion: Mulligan hadn’t captured all that Sally Roe was by such descriptions as “leftover hippie” and “loser.”
Ben heard footsteps on the front porch and then Mrs. Potter’s voice calling, “Officer Cole?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m in here.”
He made his way through the house to meet her, and found her in the living room, her arms crossed, shaking her head at the terrible mess.
“Just look at this! I’ve never been so disgusted!”
Ben was quite stunned himself. “These were people sent by our department?”
“That’s what they said. Sergeant Mulligan said they’d be coming by to look for clues and things and to just let them in, so I did; and when they left, the place looked like this! Do you think I should complain?”
“Well . . . who were they? Had you ever seen them before?”
“No. They weren’t from around here.”
“Did they say what they were after?”
“No, I didn’t think to ask.”
“Well . . .” Ben looked all around, not sure what to tell her. “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll ask Sergeant Mulligan about it. I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure they’ll also take responsibility for cleaning the place up once they’ve finished their investigation.”
She shook her head and started slowly for the door. “Well, I suppose they may as well box it all up and give it to a charity or something. I don’t know what else to do with all the clothes and things with Sally dead. Poor thing. And tell me, just what am I supposed to do with her . . .” She stopped short, standing out on the front porch, looking up and down the drive. “Well . . . that’s right! Her truck!”
Ben went out to join her. “Something wrong?”
She was still looking around. “Well, I was just going to ask you what I should do with her pickup truck now that she’s dead, but now I remember . . . it isn’t even here.”
Ben took note of that. “That’s . . . uh . . . that’s unusual?”
“Well, she always drove it to work, and she always came home in it every day, and if she was home the other night, it just seems sensible that her truck would have been here. She would have had it parked right over there. See that brown grass? That’s where she always kept it.”
“Maybe it was already impounded. I’ll check.”
“But it wasn’t here the evening I found her.”
Ben made a curious face. “That is a little odd, isn’t it?”
“Oh . . . who knows what’s what anymore . . .” Cecilia looked through the doorway, surveying the living room again. “But I guess she was terribly lonely. Seemed like the animals were her only friends. I figured she was divorced, or separated, something like that. Can’t see how else a beautiful redhead like that could be all alone and single.”
Ben didn’t think the question was that important when he asked it. “She was a redhead?”
“Sure. Had hair like the sunrise.”
No. That didn’t make sense; it didn’t feel comfortable. “Umm . . . what did she look like, Mrs. Potter?”
“Oh . . . she was pretty, but tired, you know? Had freckles, big brown eyes . . . but lots of lines, lots of care in her face.”
“How tall would you say she was?”
“Mmmm . . .” She held up her hand, palm down. “About there.”
“Five five, five six . . . what about her age?”
“Well, she said thirty-four on her rental application, but that was two years ago, so I guess she’s about thirty-six; that would be about right.”
Ben doublechecked. “And red hair?”
She looked at him just a little impatiently. “Didn’t you see her the other night?”
“Well, yes . . .”
But suddenly he wasn’t so sure.
THE RED PORSCHE was traveling at better than ninety miles an hour when it failed to negotiate the turn, sailed off the freeway shoulder, and nosed into an embankment. Several cars stopped the moment it happened, and there were many witnesses.
“Yeah,” said a retired vacationer, “he was doing fine there, passed my camper like I was standing still, and then, zingo! Right off the shoulder, just like that!”
“He was going too fast,” said the wife, “just way too fast!”
The patrolman wrote it all down. There was an adequate crew on hand: two patrol cars, two aid cars, and even a fire truck, flashing their lights, setting out flares, and creating quite a spectacle. All the passing drivers were doing the usual rubbernecking, and traffic on the highway had slowed to a crawl.
The patrolman shouted, “Hey, let’s get someone out there to handle that traffic! Get those cars moving!”
His partner came up the bank from the wreck. “Got an ID for you, Brent!”
“So, was I right?”
“Yep, it’s James Bardine, the hotshot kid lawyer, your favorite.”
“Dead, I take it.”
“Oh yeah. Half his body went through the windshield, and he’s wrapped up in the hood. They’re going to have to cut up the car to get him out of there.”
The patrolman scribbled it all down. “Well, now we won’t be able to play tag with him anymore. Too bad.”
The partner looked down into the gully where several men were cutting and winching the front of the car apart, trying to extricate the body. “Boy, the way he could corner in that thing! Never missed a move! He must have had a blowout or something.”
“Probably fell asleep at the wheel.”
“In the middle of the day?” The partner frowned. “Not him. He was a good driver. I’m kind of surprised.”
“Aw, the other guys will figure it out, so don’t worry about it. Let’s just do our job and get out of here.”
James Bardine was as crumpled and crushed as his car; his blood trickled to the ground even as the medics began to pull his body out of the twisted metal. It was tedious work, and they were taking it slow.
But during their grim task, no one smelled the odor of sulfur, or saw the yellow eyes peering from the rear of the car; they didn’t hear the fiendish snicker, or the sudden rushing of black, leathery wings as the spirits soared away.
LUCY BRANDON AND her daughter Amber got home about 5 in the afternoon, and both of them were tired, cranky, and disoriented. Lucy’s day had been traumatic enough with the filing of the lawsuit and everything that entailed, and she dreaded the thought of her face being on television that night. Amber’s day had been a shambles; she’d spent most of the day at Claire’s house instead of in school with her friends, and she still wasn’t entirely sure why.
Lucy found some stew in the freezer. She could heat that up in the microwave and then make some salad, and that should take care of dinner for now. She was too tired and preoccupied to put any big effort into a meal tonight.
Amber took off her coat and plopped down on the floor in the living room among her dolls and toys. She picked up one doll, a blonde baby in a long, pi
nk dress, and cuddled it, rocking it gently.
“Mommy?” she asked.
“Yes, honey,” Lucy answered from the kitchen.
“Can’t I go back to the school?”
Lucy didn’t like that question. It made it all the more difficult to keep her mind made up. “No, honey, not the Christian school. We’ll try to get you back into Miss Brewer’s class. Would you like that?”
Amber rocked the doll and looked down into its little, painted eyes. “I want to go to the Christian school.”
Lucy punched the buttons on the microwave and set it whirring. “We’ll . . . well, we’ll just talk about that later, Amber. It’s been a confusing day.”
Amber sank deeper and deeper into a melancholy mood. “I don’t want to go back to Miss Brewer’s class. I don’t want to do those things anymore.”
Lucy looked into the living room. “Amber, hang up your coat, please.”
The little girl ignored her.
“Amber!”
She sat there very still, her blue eyes staring forward and blank. The doll had fallen from her arms.
Lucy approached her to give the command more emphasis. “Amber, I said to hang up your coat!”
“Aahhh!” the little girl squealed in delight, her face breaking into an ecstatic smile. She was looking at a little toy car on the coffee table.
Lucy froze where she stood. Oh no. It was happening again.
Amber rose to her feet, leaped in the air, and pawed the air like a jubilant show horse. She whinnied like a wild stallion, her blue eyes dancing; she tossed her head, causing her blonde locks to whip about her shoulders. “Indeed! All is well, Amber! Indeed, have no fear, for your friends do go before you!”
Lucy didn’t know what to do. She was just getting so tired of this. “Amber, that’s enough! You don’t need to be Amethyst! I don’t want you to be Amethyst! Now hang up your coat!”
Amber trotted up to the coffee table and grabbed the little car. “Varroooom!” She raced it around the table, mimicking the sound of squealing tires.
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