by John Lutz
He returned to Edna Fine and rested a hand on her bony shoulder. Was she trembling, or was the unsteadiness in his hand? Nudger always felt helpless, awkward, in the presence of grief. And the intensity of this grief was almost like that of a mother who had lost a child.
“Can I do anything?” he asked. “Get you anything?”
Edna Fine shook her head no. She was sitting motionless now, still hugging Artemas the survivor between her scrawny breasts. Artemas lay coiled in her grip patiently, putting aside feline restlessness for a while, as if sensing that she needed him and granting her a reluctant favor.
“I’ll phone the Humane Society,” Nudger said.
Edna Fine nodded.
She sat with her eyes closed as Nudger called the Humane Society and arranged for them to drive out and pick up Matilda’s remains. When he explained the situation, the woman on the phone said they would have someone there immediately. Animal lovers understood the depth of this grief.
“The Humane Society cremates dead animals,” Edna Fine said quietly.
Nudger nodded. “It’s the best way.”
“Perhaps.”
A pet could be a vital factor in the life of a woman like Edna Fine. She was becoming emotionless now, going into mild shock so she could accommodate the vision of what had been waiting for her when she’d walked back into her apartment with her laundry. It would be a long time before the vivid color and savagery of that scene ceased to bedevil her. Sometimes nightmares turn out to be real and irrepressible no matter how much the mind denies them. Somebody had torn apart Matilda in a way that suggested he’d enjoyed it.
“Do you want me to wait here with you?” Nudger asked.
“No. Thanks for offering, though.” Still the flat, emotionless voice. She peered myopically at Nudger with her small, reddened eyes. “This is a warning, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“I think so. But we could never prove it.”
She delicately dabbed at her nose with a knuckle. “I suppose not. That’s the way society seems to work these days. People do things to other people who can’t prove it. It’s like a game the victims don’t realize they’re playing until it’s too late.”
“Do you want me to phone the police?”
Now she did look at what was left of her affectionate and trusting Matilda. Edna Fine’s long body quaked as if a cold wind had passed over it.
“No,” she said, and Nudger knew he’d lost her.
“Has Randy Gantner been here to talk to you?” he asked.
“Yesterday,” she said. “He told me you were talking to the witnesses, trying to get them to change their stories. He wanted to know what I’d told you, if I was still sure about what I’d seen.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was sure. But after he left I began thinking about that night, what I saw from the window.”
“Did he borrow your phone?”
Edna Fine looked sharply up at him, startled; Nudger the psychic. “Yes, he did. He said he had to make an important call that couldn’t wait. He suggested it was private, so I went into the other room while he talked.”
Nudger went to the phone and unscrewed the mouthpiece. He found the bug immediately and removed it, dropped it in his pocket.
“What’s that?” Edna Fine asked.
“An electronic device that transmits your telephone conversations. Someone had your phone tapped and knew you called me.”
“Randy Gantner?”
“Probably him and others,” Nudger said.
“But, why?���”
“Somebody-it seems like everybody-wants to be sure Curtis Colt dies Saturday.”
“Then Gantner did this to Matilda?”
“Maybe,” Nudger said. Or maybe it was the work of the big man who liked to break things, especially if they were alive.
“A warning���” Edna Fine repeated, as if finally accepting the reality, a constant terror she must incorporate into her day-to-day living. It was a debilitating apprehension shared by victims of brutality, and by the witnesses and indirect casualties of violence.
“You were going to tell me something about the liquorstore murder,” Nudger said, still hoping.
She sat motionless, as if she hadn’t heard.
“Edna?���”
“I can’t, Mr. Nudger.” She clutched Artemas to her. “Not now. I really can’t.” Artemas began to squirm.
Nudger knew Edna Fine would never talk now. Whatever opportunity had existed was gone.
He told her he understood. And he did understand. He knew about the crippling effect of fear that fed on love destroyed. And the monster that had killed and torn Matilda knew about it, too. Had used it to silence Edna Fine.
Nudger didn’t say anything else, but he stayed with her until the Humane Society attendant arrived. Then he left as quickly as possible. The presence of violent death, human or animal, sickened and frightened him.
Down on the sidewalk, he forced himself to chew and swallow two antacid tablets. He didn’t feel like eating them, but he might be glad later that he had.
He knew that Edna Fine was right. The grotesque thing left on the carpet upstairs was a warning. And one meant not just for her.
XXI
Nudger picked up Candy Ann at the Right Steer when she got off work that evening, then drove with her through rush-hour traffic to Siberling’s Elbert and Stein office in Clayton. He circled the block before finding a parking space on Central, then he fed the meter a quarter and listened to its metallic gurgle as it gulped down the coin like the greedy little civil servant it was.
Clayton was a fashionable near-suburb of St. Louis; Candy Ann, still in her yellow-and-brown waitress outfit, drew stares as Nudger walked with her into the spiffy pale stone building where Elbert and Stein had their offices.
It was still hot outside. The lobby was surprisingly cool, and Candy Ann glanced over at Nudger and managed a tentative smile, as if maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He hoped she was right. The news media would have hold of her when her deposition was made public. That had been explained to her, but still she was willing to do this for Curtis Colt. In fact, once her mind had been made up about giving Siberling a statement, she’d become eager to get it done, get it behind her. Like a trip to a dentist who’d never heard of Novocain.
When the elevator had disgorged a dozen executive types into the lobby, Nudger and Candy Ann stepped inside and sent it zooming back up to the twelfth floor.
The Elbert and Stein offices were plush, carpeted in royal blue with matching ceiling-to-floor draperies. The furniture in the reception room was dark mahogany. Doreen, the balky receptionist, sat at a desk embellished with a vase of long-stemmed roses and a nameplate. She was a heavyset blond woman in her mid-thirties, with a creamy and flawless complexion that was striking in its perfect, fleshy expanse. Probably there wasn’t a single imperfection on her entire generous body. She was attractive in a lush sort of way that went with the office.
When Nudger introduced himself, she smiled and said, “Ah, the feisty one.”
“Been called worse,” Nudger said.
“Bet you have.” She stood up. Despite her bulk, her tailored dark business suit fit her well, hung gracefully on her in the way of expensive material. “Mr. Siberling’s waiting for you,” she said. She shot another wide and beautiful smile at Nudger and led the way. Candy Ann had gotten tentative again. She hung back as they walked down a carpeted hall, and Nudger had to wait for her to catch up.
Doreen ushered them into a large conference room dominated by a long, polished table not quite large enough for Ping-Pong. The royal-blue and mahogany motif had been carried in here, too. Doreen worked a pully device that drew the heavy blue draperies closed, blocking out the slanted bright evening sun, then switched on a brass floor lamp. The net effect, despite the room’s size, was a cozy atmosphere; it was the sort of place where secrets were revealed
in confidence.
Siberling came in then, along with an elderly woman with gray hair and a bored expression. He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit with a vest and carrying a fat leather briefcase. He was all lawyer today. Well, not quite. When he saw Candy Ann, a very unlawyerlike gleam entered his eyes. This was how Caesar had looked at Cleopatra, how Henry VIII had gazed upon leg of lamb.
The woman, who was taller than Siberling, gave a professional nod when he introduced her as Mrs. Kraft. “And you’ve met Doreen,” Siberling said.
Doreen looked wide and pretty and said nothing as Nudger introduced Candy Ann. Siberling was obviously impressed. Nudger thought for an uneasy moment that the cocky little lawyer might actually kiss Candy Ann’s hand.
They all sat at the mahogany table, Mrs. Kraft before a gray steno machine that had been set up at one end. Doreen stepped out for a moment and came back with a young paralegal named Jason, who would, along with her, sign as witness to Candy Ann’s deposition. Jason was a skinny, acne-cursed kid just into his twenties who looked as if he’d rather be out somewhere with his buddies filling up on junk food.
“You sure all this is gonna help Curtis?” Candy Ann asked nervously.
“I’m sure it might,” Siberling said gently, smiling a predator’s saccharine grin meant to paralyze his prey. “Only might. I won’t make any promises to you I can’t keep, Candy Ann. And that’s a promise.”
Doreen appeared about to be ill, but she said nothing.
Candy Ann smiled back at Siberling and settled into her chair, confident that she had an ally here besides Nudger. The numbers were shifting in her favor. Doreen and Mrs. Kraft were women, therefore natural allies. Young Jason the paralegal was virtually a minor and didn’t seem to count. He sat quietly as if that was fine with him, if only he could get out of there soon and watch some MTV.
“Just tell us your story in your own words,” Siberling coaxed, “and Mrs. Kraft will record them. Then I’ll ask you a few questions. Don’t be afraid. Just be truthful. There’s never any reason to be afraid of the truth.”
Nudger was beginning to understand why Siberling was a good lawyer. If he was too obvious for Doreen, or for most people, his act was working on Candy Ann. And it was Candy Ann he was playing to; he wasn’t interested in ratings.
Candy Ann told her story slowly, in a soft voice. About how Curtis hadn’t come back to her trailer the night of the liquorstore holdup, and how she’d read in the morning paper that he’d been arrested and charged with murder. She wasn’t surprised when she learned Curtis was involved in a robbery. He never went into detail when he told her his business, where he went at night, where the money came from, but she knew. She also knew he wasn’t a killer. She knew that gut-deep.
Jason was sitting forward, suddenly interested. This was better than most of the dry, corporate legalese he was used to witnessing. This was maybe even better than whatever he had planned for that night.
The day after the murder, a man named Leonard, whom Candy Ann had seen a few times with Curtis, came to her and told her that Curtis was innocent, and that he wanted her to stay away from the authorities. As far as the law was concerned, she didn’t exist, and Curtis wouldn’t tell them about her. He wanted her to know he loved her, and he wanted to keep her clean, Leonard had said. How Leonard had gotten this message from Curtis he didn’t say. But he knew things about Curtis. And about Candy Ann. The message was for real.
Candy Ann had stayed away from the law, waiting for the trial, then suffering through it and reading about its outcome. After Curtis had been sentenced to death, she didn’t know what to do. She searched for Curtis’ partner Tom, looked for him so diligently and persistently that finally, probably to keep her from drawing attention to him, Tom came to her.
It was Tom who told her what really happened that night, that Curtis and he had been miles away from the liquor store when the old woman was killed. Curtis had never told her Tom’s real name (here Siberling did look dubious, but Candy Ann didn’t catch it) and she’d never asked Tom. It was something you didn’t ask a man like Tom. Tom was scared; he didn’t want to join Curtis on Death Row. So he told Candy Ann to continue to lie low, and that he’d check in with her every once in a while by phone to see how she was doing. Then he gave her some money, half of the loot he and Curtis had accumulated from their night of crime, and went back into hiding.
Candy Ann, knowing Curtis’ innocence, couldn’t let things lie. She decided to talk to some of the witnesses, who had to be wrong about what had happened at the liquor store, to try to get them to reconsider their testimony. But after talking to Randy Gantner, she knew she wouldn’t be very effective, so she decided to hire a professional. A private investigator. Nudger.
It was Mr. Nudger, she said, who had talked her into finally telling her story, the true story, in a last attempt to save Curtis’ life.
When Candy Ann was finished talking, Siberling leaned back in his chair. He looked thoughtful in the way of a man contemplating a just-dealt poker hand. Nudger could see he was pleased by her statement. It smacked of truth.
“That was fine, hon,” Siberling said, reaching across the table and patting her arm.
Doreen looked at Nudger, her expression blank. The young paralegal was gaping at Siberling reverently, as he had been occasionally since he’d entered the conference room. He looked like the kind of boy Candy Ann should be dating instead of sitting here taking a desperate chance on the truth about a hard-edged holdup artist.
Nudger thought Siberling would question Candy Ann extensively, but he didn’t. He merely asked some questions that cleared up any possible language problems in her statement, then questioned her in a way that emphasized pertinent details.
Siberling thanked Candy Ann, who sat back and looked pale and mentally drained. “You did fine,” he told her. “You just relax now. Can I get you anything to drink?”
She shook her head no, staring down wearily at her hands folded on the table.
Nudger’s turn. He told his story simply and to the point, including his visit with Curtis Colt on Death Row.
When he was finished his throat was dry, but he got no offer of something to drink.
Siberling nodded to Mrs. Kraft and Jason. Jason smiled nervously, looked long and hard at Candy Ann as if that was what he’d wanted to do since he walked in there, then left the conference room.
“Mrs. Kraft has an appointment to keep,” Siberling said, “but Doreen can transcribe the statements while we wait. Then the signatures can be notarized. Ordinarily we could take care of most of that tomorrow, but we don’t have time to spare. We have to think of Curtis.”
Candy Ann made big eyes at him and smiled. Thinking of Curtis was all she’d been doing lately. It was nice to find someone who shared her obsession.
When Doreen got up to leave with Mrs. Kraft, to begin her word processing and copying, she surprised Nudger. She smiled genuinely and brushed her fingertips lightly across Candy Ann’s shoulders in sympathy. Nudger and Siberling exchanged glances; Candy Ann should have testified, all right.
Siberling excused himself for a few minutes and left the room.
Candy Ann stared across the table at Nudger. The blue draperies and carpet made her eyes seem younger and a deeper blue, almost violet. For an instant she was twelve years old. She looked like a little girl at a kitchen table way too large for her, waiting for vegetables she didn’t like but would dutifully eat.
When she spoke, the words caught in her throat. “It keeps going around in my mind, Mr. Nudger, how if they do go ahead and��� do what they’re planning to Curtis, I’ll have nobody then.”
Nudger didn’t know what to say. He mumbled, “Don’t you have family?”
She shook her head. “An uncle in Tennessee, but I ain’t seen him in over twenty years. I heard he took too much to drink. That’s what killed my daddy, drink.”
“It’s like that in some families,” Nudger said.
A faintly puzzled expression pulled at h
er features. She frowned. “It all didn’t seem real until lately. I mean, it didn’t seem Curtis was really going to be gone.”
Nudger managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It felt stiff; if he listened closely, he might hear his face bend. “Maybe he won’t be executed. Maybe what we’re doing will help.”
She let out a long, slow breath. “Lord, I hope so.” Nudger didn’t think it was merely an expression; it sounded like a prayer from the heart.
Siberling returned with three cups of coffee on a tray with cream and sugar. “It’ll be a while,” he said, setting the tray on the table near Candy Ann. Steam rose from the cups, visible against the blue draperies.
The three last friends of Curtis Colt sat in the quiet conference room and sipped coffee and waited for Doreen to finish preparing the depositions.
After a little more than an hour had passed, Doreen stuck her head into the conference room and asked to see Candy Ann so she could read and sign the transcript of her statement.
When she’d gone, Siberling poured his fourth cup of coffee and grimaced at the stuff’s cumulative bitterness. He glanced at the door Candy Ann had just closed behind her. “Country,” he said, “but very nice. Sexy. Nothing like that where Colt’s going.”
“You really don’t have much hope for Colt, do you?” Nudger said.
Siberling had removed his coat. Now he unbuttoned his vest and loosened his tie. “I never told you I did hold out much hope. But the law’s unpredictable. It can be twisted like soft putty. So we use the machinery that might just twist it in the right direction, until there’s no more fuel to keep the gears turning. We see what happens.”
“And when the machinery stops?”
“Someone says, ‘Won’t you please have a seat, Mr. Colt.’ ” Siberling smiled humorlessly. “We’re among the last civilized nations in the Western world to execute people, but we do it with style: the last meal, the priest, the media’s graphic descriptions of the death throes.”
“When will we stop it?” Nudger asked.