VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  “Catch Talbot is on his way. He’s already killed two people—he’ll kill more if he has to.”

  “Catch Talbot? You’ve been drinking.”

  “There isn’t time to explain. He—”

  The phone slammed down.

  Cardozo redialed. Brandsetter didn’t pick up. He tried Connecticut directory assistance, but they refused to give him the number of the cabin phone. “We can only honor state or federal authorization.”

  Cardozo saw that he had no choice. A woman in a gold evening dress jumped out of the way as he dashed toward the street.

  FORTY-SIX

  2:40 A.M.

  DEEP WITHIN THE WELL of sleep, a synapse fired, triggering a chemical shudder along a nerve. Anne shot to the surface, bolt upright in a strange bed. Her senses groped for bearings in the unfamiliar silence.

  Evergreen faintly scented the air. A breeze hissed silkily through pine branches. Somewhere nearby, a night creature rustled dead leaves. A twig snapped.

  Closer, she heard Toby, asleep on his cot, breathing deeply and regularly. And closest of all, the thudding drum of her own heart, warning her: do … not … relax …

  Something had signaled the sentinel in her. She reached back with her memory, trying to trap the echo of that warning. It had already become immeasurably faint.

  Her eyes adjusted. She could make out the faint outline of windows with ringed curtains hanging from not-quite-level rods. The door with its pane of glass and its own tilting curtain.

  She went to a window door and peered out. The sky had a dark, swirling look, like coffee that needed a stir. An owl hooted. A twig snapped, startling as the break of a bone.

  Something flashed. She squinted. Sarabands of fireflies flickered in the trees.

  She heard a sound that could have been a deer’s footstep on dry brush. She opened the door a crack. Silence and pine-scented coolness flowed in. And then a branch twanged like a bowstring. Her heart jumped into her throat.

  No more than fifteen feet away, under the branch of a yew tree beside the path, a sharp-edged light glinted.

  Taking a carving knife from the sink drawer, she pushed open the door and the screen, slowly so they wouldn’t squeak. She stepped into the woods and tiptoed down the slope.

  A breeze stirred. A rush of tiny movements slapped the air. Something metallic clanked above her head. She peered up into the tangled branches and made out the silhouette of a bird feeder. A gleaming metal witch’s hat of a roof capped the swaying cylinder.

  A bird, she thought. Only a night bird feeding.

  Smiling with relief at her own nervousness, she turned back toward the cabin.

  A low, almost smoky male voice pronounced her name. “Anne.”

  She froze.

  “Where’s Toby?” A man stepped out of the shadow of the yew. His eyes were dark and his hair was shaved to the skull.

  Instinctively, she blocked the path. “Who are you? What do you want with Toby?”

  “Hasn’t a man got a right to see his own son?”

  “Catch?” She squinted. “Is that really you?”

  “In person.”

  She recognized the voice. Gradually she recognized the planes and angles of her brother-in-law’s face. But something had changed. More than the shaved head and the weight he’d put on. A vibration rippled off him, cold and alien and untrustworthy.

  “Where’s my son?”

  “He’s not here, Catch!” She raised her voice, calling now, warning Toby.

  A forearm swung out and smashed her across the chest. The blow toppled her back into crackling rhododendron. His foot came down on her left hand.

  With a slashing right-handed movement, she drove the knife at his leg.

  He kicked the blade away, contemptuously. “Don’t lie, or you’ll get what Kyra got.”

  He jerked her up to her feet and pushed her forward. He yanked the screen door open. “Hey, Toby—Dad’s here.” Floorboards groaned under his weight. His eyes made a sweep of the cabin—the empty bed, the desk, the empty cot, the two chairs. “Come on, Tobester—hide-and-seek’s over—allie-allie-in-free!”

  Silence.

  Catch peered into the shadow behind the refrigerator. Squinting, he had a face like a squeezed football. His hand flew out, big as a rat-trap, and caught the knob of the bathroom door. The door dissolved in a blizzard of splinters.

  “What have you done with him?” He shattered a glass shelf in the shower stall. “What have you done with my son?”

  He turned, eyes narrowed to slits. He was holding a blue canister in his left hand, a handkerchief in his right. The two hands came together and a chemical stench ripped the air.

  Anne wrenched to the side, but the damp rag caught her like a slap on the side of her face. A burning seared her eyes and sinuses. Her stomach contracted and she crumpled to one knee. Her good hand clawed at the edge of the desk for support.

  “Leave her alone!” Toby shot out from the curtain beneath the stove. He was holding a narrow, three-foot shelf in both hands, baseball-bat style. Jars and cans avalanched to the floor. The cat flew across the room. “Don’t touch her!”

  “Easy there, kiddo.” Catch backed off, but his hands were busy working the bottle into the cloth.

  Toby swung. The shelf connected with the blue bottle, hurling it against the wall. A chemical wave pitched back and rocked the cabin.

  Catch balled the handkerchief in his right fist. “Come on, Tobester—we’re outta here.”

  “I’m not going with you! Not ever again!” Toby darted to the other side of the desk. “You’re not my father anymore! You’ve turned into someone else!”

  Catch vaulted the desk. Anne grabbed for his shoes. He slammed down and rolled to the floor, taking the desk lamp with him in an explosion of sparks. He lay unmoving.

  Now there was only the light from the sixty-watt bulb in the bathroom.

  Toby stepped back, chest heaving.

  Catch pulled himself to his knees and slowly to standing. His eyes seemed dazed, unfocused. He let out a moan and raised the handkerchief high in his open hand and dove full-length at the boy, mashing the cloth into his face.

  Toby sank his teeth into his father’s hand.

  Catch cried out and rocked backward, his neck corded with rage.

  Toby swung. Catch grabbed the bat. His arm hooked the boy. Floorboards whined as weight seesawed across them. A chair went over and down.

  Catch shoved the cloth into the boy’s mouth. He booted the screen door open, dragging Toby with him.

  Suddenly, as though he had come up against a glass wall, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  A second man stood half-shadowed in the doorway. “Give me that kid.”

  Shielding Toby, Catch took a lurching step backward. The cat let out an ear-scorching get-off-my-tail screech.

  “I want that kid.” The light caught the man’s shaven head. With a start, Anne recognized Mickey Williams. He was holding a narrow steel-bladed knife.

  “No way.” Catch pushed Toby behind him.

  Mickey thrust the blade into Catch’s throat. The force of the blow spun Catch around. He staggered two steps, sank to his knees, and pitched face-first to the straw mat.

  Mickey lunged for Toby and clamped a hand over the boy’s face.

  “Leave him alone!” Anne cried.

  “Sorry, lady. He knows all about me.”

  A stencil of light shot through the shattered screen door.

  “What’s all this ruckus?” It was Leon’s voice, bad-tempered. “Tim and I could hear it clear down at the house.”

  The flashlight picked out two shapes—the boy twisting to free himself, the man holding him with bloodied hands.

  “Mickey,” Leon commanded, “let my grandson go.”

  But Mickey didn’t let Toby go. “Damn it, Leon—why did you have to stick your nose in?”

  The beam picked out the body on the floor. “What have we got here?” Leon took a step toward Catch.

  “Hold
it, Leon,” Mickey commanded. “Right there. Nobody move.”

  “This man needs help.”

  “His own fault for being here. Everyone here has got to die. You too, Leon. This kid knows. I have to kill him and I can’t leave witnesses.”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “You’re wrong, Leon. The kid phoned me. He was asking about those calls. He knows!”

  “Now, Mickey. Just listen to me.” Leon’s voice eased into crisis-management mode. “You’re in the clear. I’m speaking as your attorney. No one knows.”

  Anne was baffled. “If Mickey’s your client—why did the abstract call him ‘she’?”

  “Who called me what?” Mickey shouted.

  “Don’t get your manhood in an uproar,” Leon said. “It’s a game the p.c. crowd plays with pronouns.”

  At that instant Anne understood: “You knew he was a murderer and you represented him anyway!”

  “It wasn’t murder!” Mickey screamed. “It was self-defense! I never harmed anyone! Those kids needed love—they wanted it! But Johnny saw me with a twelve-year-old girl and he said it was on his conscience. He wanted to confess so he could get to heaven. Fine, Johnny Briar gets to heaven, and Mickey Williams is supposed to go back to jail and get castrated? No way, José.”

  “And Amalia?” Anne said. “Was that self-defense too?”

  “That old bag died in her sleep. I didn’t touch her.”

  “I knew it.” Anne whirled to face her father. “You put together a deal and got him off.”

  “The government put the deal together,” Leon said, “not me. They wanted Corey. They never wanted Mickey. Not then and not now.”

  “And meanwhile, Mickey was sitting here picking up messages from his answering machine.” Anne saw it all now. “And then he saw those little girls in those photos on the wall and he just couldn’t resist.”

  “You hear her, Leon? She knows!” Mickey’s voice rose to a high, childish whine. Anne could see that you might mistake it over the phone for a woman’s. “The kid and her both know!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Leon said. “No one can hurt you. I’ve taken the blame.”

  “Why, Leon?” Anne said. “Because Mickey threatened to expose the deal with MacLeod and Bernheim?”

  “Don’t you hear her, Leon? She knows everything!”

  “She won’t tell. Give him your word, Anne. You too, Toby.”

  “I can’t take anyone’s word, Leon—not even yours—we’re talking about my balls!”

  Anne’s thoughts were racing. “Listen to me, Mickey. Those photographs on the wall are twenty years old.” God, she prayed, let him believe me! “They’re not girls anymore. You weren’t committing an offense against minors.”

  “I was phoning grown women?” Mickey digested the information. His eyes went hopefully to Leon. “Is that the truth? Am I in the clear?”

  Anne flew at Mickey and slammed her knee up into his groin. He doubled over.

  She pulled Toby free and ran. Tried to run. Mickey’s hand caught her foot. His blade tore into her side. She slammed down onto one burning knee.

  She saw her father’s face, an ashen O of shock.

  Toby dove at Mickey, clawing and screaming. Mickey’s arm sideswiped the boy, lifting him like a newspaper, floating him back onto the bed.

  Anne crawled toward the desk, scrabbling for cover. She had no strength to push Mickey away. He was on top of her now.

  “Let her go!” Toby was hammering on Mickey’s back. “Let her go!”

  “Okay, Mr. Brandsetter.” A state trooper stood in the open doorway. “You and your ankle radio are about two hundred yards off-base.” He stepped into the cabin. “Say, what the hell’s going on here?” His hand went to his semiautomatic. “Get up and drop that knife, fella.”

  Mickey raised the knife and charged.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  3:20 A.M.

  CARDOZO SLAMMED HIS HONDA to a stop in front of Leon Brandsetter’s Connecticut home. The lights in the house were blazing. A state police car and a blue Pontiac with a federal license were parked in the driveway, and a Porsche was crazily angled on the lawn. Its New York State vanity license spelled BULLION, and its radial tires had chewed up two yards of Leon Brandsetter’s carefully nurtured sod.

  He heard voices. Screams. He ran around the side of the house. A voice called from the woods, shouting the name Mickey. Movement rippled the rhododendron leaves, and a knife-waving figure exploded through.

  “Mickey,” Cardozo said. “Mickey Williams.”

  Mickey jerked to a standstill. He gave Cardozo a puzzled, fumbling look.

  “Why don’t you drop the knife.”

  Mickey squinted. “Is that Vince?”

  “Long time, hey? Drop the knife.”

  The knife arm stayed above Mickey’s head, swaying like a branch in a slow wind. “If I drop the knife, you’ll kill me.”

  “No one’s going to kill you, Mickey.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Mickey. I’m not going to start now. Drop the knife.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Mickey cried out. “Every chance I ever had I screwed up.”

  “We all screw up, Mickey. It’s okay. Drop the knife.”

  One by one, the fingers of Mickey’s right hand opened. The knife dropped like a spark through the night air. His left hand caught it and he made a fast, low dive.

  The crown of his shaved head smashed into Cardozo’s shoulder. They pitched over and hit the ground and tumbled and rolled. Mickey managed to thrust himself on top. He swung the knife up and slashed down.

  Cardozo wrenched to the side. The blade missed his eye by a millimeter, then gouged a chunk out of his temple and dug into the lawn.

  Cardozo freed his arm and scrambled a hand for his shoulder holster. He jerked the gun loose and thumbed the safety off. As the blade crunched into his upper arm, he twisted to the side and jammed the gun barrel against Mickey’s ribs.

  “Drop the knife.”

  The blade came arcing down. Cardozo pulled the trigger.

  The force of the bullet kicked Mickey backward, eyes wide, mouth shaping a liquid red scream.

  Two state troopers came crashing through the branches, guns drawn. Mickey lurched to his feet, took a staggering step toward them, and toppled forward onto the grass.

  In the emergency room of the Bridgeport hospital, a male intern sewed ten stitches into Anne Bingham’s side, and six into Cardozo’s shoulder and three into his temple. He asked if they planned to be going far. “I wouldn’t drive. You’ve both lost a little blood and you’ll feel woozy.”

  Anne nodded, and Cardozo had the impression of a shocked and decent and deeply befuddled woman trying to make sense of events that were coming too fast and crazy to make any sense at all.

  “We won’t drive,” Cardozo promised. He held the door to the waiting room.

  “Drink liquids!” the intern shouted.

  Anne bought two cups of Pepsi from a machine. She handed one to Cardozo. They sat there for a moment and then the moment was a minute.

  “I keep trying to understand what happened,” she said, “and why.”

  “Two of the oldest reasons in the world.” Cardozo cracked his knuckles. “For Mickey, it was sex. For your sister and Catch, it was money.”

  “I never knew they were having money problems.”

  “They were, and they both saw Toby and the trust fund as the solution.”

  “But how could either of them have gotten hold of the money if they sneaked Toby out of the country?”

  “Nowadays, New York allows divorced parents with custody to take their children out of state—even if the ex-spouse has visitation rights. Toby was free at age twelve to choose to live with either parent, so whoever had the boy got the money, no matter where they went. When Kyra got her jury summons, she decided the trial made a good cover to get Toby out of the country. She phoned Catch on the thirteenth, as soon as she was selected, and told him the custody
hearing had to be postponed. Then she finagled you into taking her place on the jury.”

  “But Mark phoned on the seventeenth and told Catch the same thing.”

  “And by then, Catch was already in New York. Kyra’s call had made him suspicious, and Mark’s call made him more so. He’d come up with a plan of his own. He knew Mickey, and he knew the male Coreyite grooming code. Thanks to nine months of weight lifting and steroids, he was starting to bulk up. After Kyra’s postponement, he shaved his head and bought brown contact lenses. In a generic way he looked like a Coreyite trying to look like Catch. In fact, verbally described, he looked like Mickey trying to look like Catch. Of course in person, with or without his wig, Catch was still recognizably Catch. Toby was probably surprised at the hair and the eyes and the weight, and he probably asked questions, but he still recognized his father. Which is why he went with him.”

  “Devious.”

  “Very. When Catch came to New York on the fourteenth, he had his secretary forward Seattle calls to his cell phone; he made phone charges at Seattle shops, so it seemed he was still in Seattle. The idea was to snatch Toby and make it seem the Coreyites had done it to hang the jury.”

  “That’s why he phoned the threat to Kyra.”

  Cardozo nodded. “But he knew it was you on the phone. He’d already killed Kyra. The call was camouflage. It had nothing to do with the Coreyites except to throw suspicion on them.”

  Anne’s eyes held a musing wonder. “My father said Catch recommended Mickey to him as a client.”

  Cardozo nodded. “A little over two years ago, when Mickey was living in Seattle, Catch represented him in a welfare suit, pro bono.”

  “But when did Mickey get involved with my father?”

  “When Mickey’s old cult buddy John Briar was dying. The Coreyites flew Mickey back East to keep vigil by the bedside. I don’t know why Mickey killed Briar, but I don’t buy that Corey Lyle hypnotized him.”

  “Tonight Mickey said he was afraid John Briar’s dying words would implicate him in child molestation. That’s why he killed him.”

  “Children.” Cardozo sighed. “Mickey’s addiction and nemesis. He’d already been found guilty of child abuse in Texas and he’d broken parole. When the Briar case hit the evening news, Texas sued New York for extradition. Catch put Mickey in touch with your father. By then the BATF was trying to hang the Briar killings on Corey Lyle. Leon put together a secret deal that gave Mickey a free hand.”