Pulse fq-7

by John Lutz

  “And look what you’re doing, Feds. You’re tracking the most dangerous killer in the city. You’re trying to be in the same place at the same time he is.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “I’m not asking you to quit. And I’m not about to quit on our marriage.”

  “But you might change your mind about that.”

  “I go crazy thinking you might be hurt or dead somewhere, Feds.”

  “So you went out and got a job to fill your time.”

  “To fill my mind. Is that so crazy?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I talked to Ms. Culver at the library and she told me there was an opening.”

  “Getting your old job back.”

  “Not exactly, but close. The library has a big DVD section now.”

  “I guess they would,” Fedderman said. In truth he was kind of surprised. The Albert A. Aal Memorial Library didn’t seem large enough for such an addition. Maybe they had fewer books.

  “I start day after tomorrow,” Penny said. She came to him and snaked her arms around him. “Can you put up with me, Feds?”

  He hugged her back, kissed her lips, and gazed down at her. “Question is, can we put up with each other?”

  “I know the answer to that,” Penny said, and kissed him back.

  Fedderman hoped she was right, but he wondered.

  “Are you any closer?” she asked.

  “To what?”

  “Finding the killer.”

  He didn’t know the answer to that, either.

  32

  Leighton, Wisconsin, 1986

  R ory was fourteen years old and didn’t have a driver’s license. That didn’t mean he was a bad driver. Or so he told himself. Hadn’t he had almost a dozen lessons from Jack Smith, an older brother of one of his friends? Even Rory’s mother had let him drive, with her along, in the Leighton Mall parking lot. When the mall was closed.

  His mother was at the citizens’ meeting about the proposed new dam tonight, like half the adult population of Leighton, and she’d gone with a neighbor and left the family car in the garage. So it seemed a perfect time for Rory to test his wings-or wheels. After all, he’d never gotten much chance to drive at night. He wasn’t surprised to find it just as easy as daylight driving. Probably he was a natural driver.

  He was a bright kid, and while not big for his age was well built, so he could pass for older than fourteen if anybody saw him driving the big green Chevy Impala. The car was three years old, and his mother had bought it used two months ago, trading in the old Volvo that had almost two hundred thousand miles on it. She liked the Chevy. Its styling was bold, and a pleasant change from the staid and solid Volvo.

  Rory imagined how he’d look from outside the car. Pretty damned dashing. He pushed a button and the driver’s side window glided down out of sight into the door. He rested his arm on the open window, causing the bicep to spread. He had to steer with one hand, but that was okay; the big Chevy almost steered itself. And he was familiar with the road. It was Oaks Road, which ran parallel to the train tracks for a while and then veered off into lightly wooded farm country.

  He made the turn, away from the tracks. Less traffic now. No one was likely to see him. He ran the speedometer up to forty, fifty. The speed limit was fifty miles per hour, which meant sixty was okay. Seventy if you weren’t caught.

  Most of the Leighton police department was at the meeting about the dam the state wanted to build. And the state police hardly ever patrolled here, well off the main highway.

  Okay, seventy.

  Rory edged his foot down on the accelerator and the Chevy responded as if it would like to run up to a hundred miles per hour.

  No thank you, Rory thought. He was a risk taker, not a fool. A man has to know his limitations.

  A car passed him going the other way.

  Another.

  Even though there was a full moon, all he saw of the other two vehicles were their headlights. There was nothing ahead of him now traveling either direction. Nothing in the rearview mirror. He relaxed and sat back in the comfortable seat.

  The road straightened out like a black ribbon. It had been recently asphalted, and the tires hit the seams with soft slapping sounds. Neat. Rory liked that sound. Warm air came in the open window and swirled around the inside of the car. Trees lined the road here and there, and the car flashed past steel crash guards on each side where there was a culvert. Rory had chosen the right road. This was a cinch.

  It was because he was so relaxed that he didn’t see the medium-sized shaggy black dog that trotted from the high weeds out onto the road. Rory noticed the dog only when it was in the car’s path. It stopped and stared at him, its eyes glowing in the reflected headlight illumination.

  God, no! Rory thought, sitting bolt upright behind the steering wheel. Move, won’t you? Move!

  But the dog didn’t move. There was a solid thump and what sounded like a yelp.

  Shit!

  Rory braked the car and parked on the grassy shoulder. He found that he was shaking.

  Gotta stop that!

  He drew some deep breaths and did manage to regain control of his jangled nerves. The smart Rory kicked in.

  A quick examination revealed no apparent damage to the car, thank God. His mother would kill him if she found out about this.

  He walked back toward the point of impact.

  The moonlight was bright enough to show that there was nothing on the road. Maybe he’d actually missed the dog, and that’s why the car wasn’t damaged. Maybe the whole thing hadn’t happened. Had he seen something that only looked like a dog? A possum or coon, maybe.

  But there was a streak of what looked like blood on the pavement. Rory knew then that he’d hit something, and probably not a possum or coon.

  He followed the trail of blood into the weeds, and found in the shadows beneath some trees a black dog lying on its side, panting and whimpering.

  Trembling again, his heart in his mouth, Rory knelt beside the dog and examined the wound. He could see white bone, maybe a rib, and the dog’s front right leg was terribly twisted. It had a red leather collar but no tags.

  Damn! Time for smart Rory again. Calm Rory. Analyze and act.

  Rory straightened up and stood in the moonlight with his fists propped on his hips. What now? He felt sorry for the dog, but it obviously didn’t have long to live. And it was suffering. He could put it in the car and drive it into town to a vet. But he was sure a vet would simply put the dog down. Stop its suffering, at least.

  But there would be blood in the car. Rory’s mother would know he’d driven it despite her strict instructions to leave it parked in the garage.

  The dog whimpered and gazed over at Rory. Its tail wagged.

  Rory set his emotions aside, and his quick and logical mind came up with what he should do. It would be best for everyone, including the obviously suffering and dying dog.

  Act!

  He didn’t hesitate. He walked a few feet away to where he’d seen a large rock and pried it up from the ground. It weighed at least five pounds-large and heavy enough. It also had an edge.

  Rory kneeled down beside the dog, raised the rock, and brought it down three times on the dog’s head. The dog let out only a faint whimper. Its legs trembled and thrashed as if it were running in death, and then it lay still.

  The plan was in action and there was a directness and purpose to all of Rory’s decisions and actions. Buzzards would find the dog and their circling might draw someone’s attention. He left the dog where it was, and went back to the car and got the tire iron. Using the hard end of the tool, he scraped and dug a shallow grave near the dog. He dragged the dog over to the grave, removed the red collar, and shoved the animal into the hole. It took him only a few minutes to hurriedly scoop dirt over the dog, then brush some of last year’s dead leaves over it. It was unlikely that anyone would find it even if the buzzards did somehow get to it and circle. And if the remains ever were found, the concl
usion would be that the animal had been struck and killed by a car, which was in fact the truth.

  Rory wiped the bloody rock on the grass and then threw it as far as he could. It bounced once and made no sound. Then he rolled up the red leather collar and threw it in the opposite direction.

  He looked around, satisfied, and then trotted back to the Chevy. He was high on adrenaline now. And something else. He was fooling them. All of them. He’d be the only one who knew about this. It was an unexpected, exhilarating rush.

  The Chevy’s cooling engine was ticking in the warm night. He clambered back in and drove.

  He was careful to stay well within the speed limit, and was glad traffic was light and his mother’s car, with him behind the steering wheel, wasn’t likely to be noticed.

  Every second of the drive home, his mind was working.

  When the car was safely in the garage, Rory sat and waited for the overhead door to lower, then got out and switched on the fluorescent light mounted on a crossbeam. He cleaned the tire iron with a rag and replaced it in its bracket with the jack. Then he reexamined the right front of the car where the results of any impact might be found. There was what might have been a dent, but it was barely noticeable. It might even have been a reflection. Also there was some kind of dark stain near the dent, maybe blood. Rory wiped it off with the same rag he’d used to clean the tire iron and then threw the rag away.

  He looked again at the dent and where the stain had been. Good as new, he thought. Good as three years old, anyway, which was all that mattered. Even if his mother or someone else noticed the slight dent, they’d think it had been there and they simply hadn’t seen it before. They’d attribute the damage to the car’s previous owner.

  Rory undressed in the garage and went into the house through the connecting door. He saw no sign of blood on his clothes, but he put his T-shirt and jeans in the wash, just to be sure. Sometimes he helped out his mother by washing his own clothes. This was the perfect night for it.

  By the time the clothes were in the washer, thumping reassuringly as they were agitated, Rory, wearing only his socks and Jockey shorts, was seated at his bedroom desk doing his homework. John Cougar Mellencamp was singing “Lonely Ol’ Night’ on FM radio, but advanced mathematics occupied Rory’s mind and he barely heard the music. It was a level of math taught only to “top track” students.

  The incident with the dog was already pushed to a distant part of his consciousness. It might as well never have happened, so it hadn’t happened. Not as far as Rory was concerned. He’d run through his possible choices and done what was best for everyone and everything involved. There was no doubt as to the righteousness of his actions.

  Don’t look back. Additional speculation or sentimentality was pointless. He’d done the smart thing, which was the right thing, and that was that. Tonight’s episode in his life was closed, would be known to no one else, and would soon be forgotten even by him.

  Very soon, when he drove that stretch of Oak Road it would hold no special significance for him.

  33

  New York, the present

  Q uinn’s immediate thought when Pearl went to the door and let in Jody Jason was that she looked nothing like Pearl.

  Then he realized that was her attitude. Whoever this girl-woman-was, she stood like a wayward waif, her springy red hair sticking out over her ears as if there might be a mild current of electricity running through her. She was wearing jeans and a pale green blouse. Once you looked more closely at her, at the angle of her nose, the shape of her head, her ears, the look in her eyes-yes, Pearl was there. She was busty like Pearl, though the rest of her was much thinner than her mother. When she moved toward him, she moved like Pearl.

  Quinn stood his ground. What the hell am I supposed to do?

  Jody continued toward him, visibly gaining courage as she came. When she reached him she didn’t hesitate, but gave him a brief, hard hug that almost made him whoosh out a breath of air. He couldn’t help but think it: Her breasts feel like Pearl’s.

  “There hasn’t been time to have heard much about you,” Jody said through Pearl’s smile, “but everything I’ve heard has been good.”

  Quinn grinned stupidly. Felt like it, anyway. “All true,” he said. When in doubt, be witty. Sure.

  “Of course,” Jody said, stepping back. “Mom wouldn’t lie.”

  Oh-ho! “No,” he said, “she wouldn’t.”

  Pearl was giving him a look he was glad Jody couldn’t see.

  “Come all the way in,” he said, “and sit down. Something to drink?”

  “A beer, if you have it,” Jody said.

  “Easy,” Quinn said, and went into the kitchen.

  He could hear the two of them talking while he got three Heineken cans from the refrigerator and opened them.

  “Glass?” he called in.

  “For sissies,” Jody called back. Or maybe it was Pearl. Quinn smiled. Suddenly, unaccountably, he liked this unexpected development. Like that. Flip. That was how it worked. Jody was a fact, and he’d have to learn to deal with her. Maybe it would be more than tolerable. Maybe it would be fun.

  He returned to the living room with the three beer cans held in one huge hand. Jody and Pearl quickly relieved him of two of the frosty cans. Quinn raised his beer, grinning, and they clicked the cans together in a metallic toast. He felt some of his beer run down between his fingers, but he didn’t care.

  “Welcome to the almost family,” he said.

  Pearl was grinning her widest grin, nodding at Quinn as if he’d passed some kind of test. Good boy! said her eyes.

  The landline phone rang, and he went to the table by the sofa, lifted the receiver, and identified himself.

  “Captain Quinn?” said the voice. “I’ve been calling and calling Pearl’s cell phone, but there’s always a click and a message saying half of something, and then there’s a terrible buzzing noise. Technology will kill us all.”

  Quinn held the receiver out toward Pearl but was looking at Jody when he spoke: “It’s your grandmother.”

  Jody’s eyes widened and then took on a look of comprehension. Quinn couldn’t help but notice that she’d grasped this sudden overload of information fast.

  Pearl thought, Jumpin’ Jesus!

  Pearl went to Quinn slowly. She took the receiver from his hand as if it were a live thing that might bite her any second.

  Quinn heard Pearl’s mother’s rasping voice even four feet from the phone.

  “It’s your mother, dear, checking to see if you’re alive or dead, and if you are alive-and God willing you are-what is going on in your life?”

  “Well,” Pearl said, feeling her nerves vibrate like cello strings, “there is some news.”

  Penny and her supervisor, the austere Ms. Culver, were alone in the library except for a few people browsing the stacks, and a man operating one of the microfiche machines in the research department. The Albert A. Aal library had never computerized its newspaper and periodical files.

  Penny was pushing a cart stacked with returned books to be replaced in their correct order on the shelves. The library was familiar to her. Working here was almost like having returned home.

  When she was finished replacing the books, she wheeled the cart back to its place behind the front desk, where it could gradually be reloaded as books were returned.

  Ms. Culver was wearing a severe gray dress with black low heels, had her mud-colored hair in a bun, and was as impeccable as ever. If librarians were manufactured somewhere, Ms. Culver must be the prototype.

  Yet there was something in her severity that didn’t ring true. Penny thought she saw a slight tremor in Ms. Culver’s right hand when she dropped a copy of Pride and Prejudice onto the cart Penny had just wheeled up. Or maybe it struck her odd that Ms. Culver didn’t place the book down in the cart more gently, and square it neatly in a wooden corner. Ms. Culver worshipped symmetry.

  “Is anything wrong?” Penny asked.

  “Wrong as in what?�
��

  “As in not right,” Penny said.

  Ms. Culver placed both her hands flat on the return desk. She seemed to be debating internally whether to confide in Penny.

  “DVDs,” she said.

  Penny stared at her.

  “Last week, for the first time, we had more DVDs out on loan than books.”

  “Kids love them,” Penny said. “Video games with car chases and shootouts and violence. The comic books of today.”

  “It wasn’t only kids that borrowed them. Same with audiobooks. More and more people are listening to books while they sit in traffic, or do something else that demands half their attention, or fall asleep in their recliners.”

  “You might be right.”

  “I am right. I know by the declining percentage of actual books we loan. And by the decreasing number of library patrons who come and go here because they go someplace else. And that someplace else is the Internet. They use Wi-Fi, whatever that is. Where they can download e-books for their electronic readers or computers. There’s no paper involved in any of this, Penny. It’s as if we’ve reverted to oral history and fiction, storytelling passed down through generations while sitting around campfires. We read something on a screen, and then it goes from substance to memory, just the way those ancient stories did. They’re nothing but electronic impulses. When they’re deleted from the machines, they no longer exist. There are fewer and fewer actual, tangible books.”

  “Yes, what you say is true. So we’re worried about unemployment.”

  But both women knew Penny wasn’t worried about it. She had a husband, another wage earner, and there were other kinds of jobs she could get. Ms. Culver was a librarian, had always been a librarian, and always would be. The way an obsolete buggy whip would always be a buggy whip.

  Ms. Culver was watching Penny through rimless glasses as if reading her thoughts. “I’m worried about the future,” she said. “I have nieces, nephews.”

  Penny hadn’t known that.

  “We’re just dipping our toes in a new era,” Penny said. “Like the era following the invention of the printing press, only everything’s moving faster. Your nieces and nephews will adapt.”