The Angel Maker lbadm-2

by Ridley Pearson

  He looked into her dark, squinting eyes and thought about telling her of his plan to escape. But that would include the harvesting of the heart, and she didn't approve of that-she might even betray him if she knew about the heart. No, better to calm her and be rid of her. Tomorrow morning would come soon enough. "Sit down," he told her. "Good. Can I get you something to drink? A pop? I want you to relax, calm down. You're with me now, you're all right."

  "She's pretty. More than pretty. Dark hair. Taller than me. Beautiful eyes."

  "A woman?" he asked stupidly. The idea that a woman had questioned her seemed so much less threatening to him than had it been a man. Why, he wasn't sure.

  He knew how she hated pretty women. She felt betrayed by her weight problem, failing to see it as a disease, but instead as a weakness of character, an attitude that had been drummed into her by her inept parents. "I have to interrupt here," he said, doing so. "Forgive me, please, but the details are quite unimportant to me. They didn't arrest you, did they? And there's a reason for that: They haven't got anything of any value on us. Suspicions is all. We've talked about this before, but what's important to remember with the police is that if you don't talk to them, there's nothing they can learn from you. It's hard, I know," he said, reaching over and touching her knee. "Terribly difficult. But true."

  "She mentioned the harvests. She said three of the donors had died from hemorrhaging."

  He couldn't catch his breath. Failure? Footsteps in the foyer, drawing closer. They wanted him at the table, no doubt. it suddenly felt as if the room were smaller, the walls closing in. Yes. He could feel the walls moving closer. Control!

  A knock like a knife in his chest. Not now! He glanced toward the door, tried to lift himself from his chair, but couldn't move. Such helplessness was foreign to him: It was always the patient that was paralyzed, never him. Pamela rose effortlessly to answer the door, and this inspired Tegg's limbs to obey. He reached out and stopped her as he came to his feet, reminding himself that the sure sign of superiority is the ability to overcome. Performance-appearance-was everything.

  When he opened the door he felt relief to find one of the waitresses staring back at him. He had somehow expected his wife and had no desire to face her at this particular moment. He could picture her at the end of the dining table, facing his empty place, crazed with rage and yet politely fielding conversation and graciously offering the bread basket to her guests. "The soup is served, Dr. Tegg. Mrs. Tegg asked me to tell you."

  "Please have them start without me, would you? just a little business matter to clear up. I won't be but a minute." It was an easy absence to explain. As the only vet in the clinic, he was constantly on-call. He responded at all hours to emergencies of every sort. It was perfectly normal for him to be summoned in the evening hours to handle an emergency. Tonight, rather than drag him downtown, when he was in the midst of an important dinner party, his assistant had had the good sense to seek his advice in person so as to occupy as little of his time as possible.

  He shut the door and asked Pamela, "Hemorrhaging? That's impossible! Must be some sort of trick, saying such a thing. Trying to rattle you."

  "I don't think so. She sounded serious.

  She said the investigation is being run by Homicide."

  The word reminded him of Maybeck, of sending that package to the man. He regretted that now. He had regretted that only a moment after he had turned it over to the delivery boy. But it was done. "Maybeck's fault," he said, the idea taking hold, and coming as a great relief. "If he mistreated the donors in any way … Once the patient is out of our control, out of our care, we can't be expected to monitor his or her every move, can we?

  Of course not! The wrong activity too soon and something is bound to come loose. They were told how to take care of themselves. We can't babysit every last patient, now can we?" Pamela said flatly, "She showed me a picture of a woman. Sharon, the same woman we did the kidney on last Saturday. I remember her name. I remember that night very-well, very clearly, as you can imagine I would. And I remember seeing a sponge, and her chest being damp, and now I have to wonder, with Betadyne? Was that why her kidney wasn't prepped? Was that why you did what you did to me, what we did, to distract me? She said that Sharon had disappeared, and that's not right for a kidney. It's a heart, isn't it, Elden? A13-negative, she said, and all I could think of was a heart."

  His own heart responded like a chorus of timpani. "You don't need to answer because I know. How many times have you tried to convince me to do a heart? And just yesterday, you took that dog's heart. What's happening? Have you done it already? Have you?"

  "This doesn't involve you," he warned. "Doesn't involve me?" she questioned. "Where is that coming from? Get a clue!"

  His anger surfaced but he contained it. She was just a child.

  "We have talked about this. I don't accept your arguments. You know that. I have heard them a dozen times. What you can't face is that I might be right! Admit it!"

  "I won't tell them anything. You know I won't. I owe you that. But I'm scared. For you. For me. I'm not sure what to do. They know about the trips to Vancouver. They know about all of it. We have to do something! They're not just going to go away."

  "You're missing the central point."

  "Which is?"

  "Which is that if they had anything, you wouldn't be sitting here talking to me."

  Panic struck him. What if she had already cut a deal with them?

  What if she were wearing a microphone, the police standing ready outside his door?

  He stood and edged around his desk, taking a quick but useless look outside. It was rainy and dark. He couldn't see anything but a driveway full of cars. He approached her from behind then and stroked her hair. She liked it. She leaned her head back and looked up at him. He bent over feigning a kiss and ran his hand over her chest and abdomen, secretly searching for an unwarranted bump that might alert him to a wire or a microphone. He leaned her forward and massaged her neck and back, searching here as well. Nothing. Perhaps she was loyal to him after all.

  He continued, "If they had anything at all, they would be doing more than asking questions. They're nosing around, is all. They earn their living nosing around. Our tax dollars, mind you!" He was losing focus. "Granted, they're obviously on the right track. I'll give you that. I'll concede that much. But where are the charges? Why haven't they questioned me? You see? They're tiptoeing around, is all. We mustn't give in to that. And besides, we've talked about this before, haven't we? Of course we have. We have even anticipated such a moment. Hmm? The lab at the farm can be dismantled in a matter of a few hours. We're prepared for that. No problem. Where's the evidence to come from?" It was true: If he dismantled the farm's surgical facility, if Pam remained loyal, what was left for the police? He said, "I don't think this is nearly as bad as it looks, my dear. Hmm? Not nearly as bad as it looks. The important thing is to stay calm. With that in mind, stay where you are. I'll be right back."

  No matter what his plans, he needed Pamela sedated for the rest of the night. Out of the way. Incapable of fouling the waters.

  He hurried out into the garage and rummaged through the veterinarian supplies he kept in the refrigerated insert in back of the Isuzu. The only sedatives he had on hand were for intravenous use, but he located an oral supply of Valium in dosages strong enough for a mastiff. He grabbed two capsules and hurried back to the study, carefully avoiding the dining room and his guests. "There's nothing to worry about, I promise," he said upon returning. He extended the pills to her. "Take these, they'll help you relax."

  "No thanks."

  "Take them.

  Go on." He handed her his champagne glass. "They'll put your mind at rest. There is a course through every storm. Go home. Put your feet up."

  She studied the pills. "That's a lot of Valium."

  "Trust me."

  "I'd rather … "Pamela, take the medicine!" She tossed the pills into her mouth and chased them down with the champagne. "Drive dir
ectly home. Have you eaten anything?" She nodded. "Good. Drive straight home for safety's sake, though you're unlikely to feel them for forty-five minutes or so. Take a hot bath. Relax. We'll talk in the morning. Okay?" He lifted her chin with his finger and looked her in the eye. "It was smart of you to come here. I'm not mad at you at all. But it's important to keep perspective. Hmm? You must not speak with the police again. Not for any reason. They will only attempt to unsettle you. You mustn't allow that. Do you hear me, Pamela?"

  She nodded again. "Good. Any problems?" She shook her head.

  She looked a little angry. A little sad. She hadn't wanted to take the pills-that was it. Or was it? He couldn't tell. "Off you go," he said, offering her his hand.

  She said nothing. He had wounded her. Oh well, the Valium would improve things shortly.

  He saw her to the front door. She hurried through the rain toward her car.

  Tegg heard the idle chatter of his guests from behind him. Could he endure a meal with these people given his present state of anxiety? Did he have any choice?

  Sitting behind the wheel of her Honda Prelude, taking notes by the limited light of a Shore Drive streetlamp in the Broadmoor Estates, Daphne heard a man's voice call out. She looked up in time to see Pamela Chase hurry through the rain and climb into her car.

  Daphne felt impatient, isolated, angry, and even a little afraid.

  Shoswitzs cut in manpower was going to cost Sharon her life.

  That was the way it now seemed. The political pressures and responsibilities resulting from the Safeway killings had proved too much for him to bear. The one loser in all of this was Sharon. The frustration of being confined to a front seat, taking notes, drove Daphne into a rage. It was time to do something.

  Pamela's car started. The lights went on, illuminating the thick landscape vegetation that separated the large, water-view homes from their neighbors. Tegg's house was rich with arched leadedglass windows, a full turret and a section of battlement along the roof to complete the look of a castle. It had a red slate roof, two chimneys and a weather vane. This wasn't the Volvo and Cherokee set, but the Beamers and Jags. Second homes on Decatur Northwest, twenty-year anniversaries, Ralph Lauren to wear for the Saturday chores, private clubs and political contributions. These were the people that as a cop you were careful with, the kind who knew how to make trouble.

  Daphne faced a difficult decision: Pursue Pamela Chase or stay with Tegg? When Pamela had arrived here only minutes after she had, Daphne had felt an initial sense of accomplishment and success in her interrogation of the woman. This was the exact pressure she had hoped to effect: to send Pamela running to Tegg. Her notes carefully marked the time of the girl's arrival, duration of stay, and time of departure. The courts weren't going to catch Daphne on any technicalities. She intended to cover herself well. But now what?

  Her impatience urged her to follow, to do something. She ignored it, staying with her earlier belief that not Pamela Chase but either Tegg or Maybeck would be responsible for holding Sharon hostage. Her hunch was that Tegg would insulate himself by using Maybeck; Boldt had that assignment, and she, had every confidence in him. Pamela had alerted Tegg; now perhaps Tegg would alert Maybeck, who in turn would lead Boldt to Sharon. Maybe they would get lucky. Maybe it was just too much of a long shot to hope for.

  She checked her watch: in four hours, at midnight, it would be February 10, the day listed in the database for Sharon's harvest. Sometime in the morning seemed a more likely time for Tegg to do the harvest, given that a party was now under way in his house. She would fight to keep herself awake.

  She wished like hell she had either her police radio or cellular phone-being out of communication was the hardest thing of all.

  The taillights of Pamela Chase's car receded and then disappeared from view.

  Daphne longingly watched them go, wondering whether along with them went Sharon Shaffer's only chance of survival.

  Please pass the butter." Tegg handed the butter dish to the woman with the showy breasts, still unable to recall her name. He had no idea what the table's present topic was and didn't care. Planning his escape occupied him fully. Peggy was happily yukking it up with Byron Endicott. She would do anything for this opera board seat. Strange how petty it all seemed to Tegg now. Why on earth had he ever given that kind of money away? What had possessed him to try to be the philanthropic veterinarian of King County? What an absurdity! All so that his wife would play in the right bridge circles? What did any of it matter? There was life and death at stake here. There was that package he had sent to Maybeck. The police!

  Homicide? Had they traced the pit bull back to Tegg that quickly? He refused to believe it! He had taken such care to wipe down the cage, wear gloves, print everything on the HP printer, write nothing by hand, neither the collar, its batteries, or the wand had any kind of serial number. There was no paperwork with the delivery company; he had used one of those fly-by-night outfits in the International District, dropping it off with them to avoid a pickup. He has thought it through so carefully. "Salt please."

  The salt was about six inches from this fool's hand! What did he want, someone to shake it for him? Losing his temper, Tegg did just that. He seized the shaker and sent salt flying all over this man's food. He caught himself, but too late. He apologized, poured the man some Pine Ridge Merlot and, empty bottle in hand, excused himself from the table. He didn't dare look at Peggy.

  On his way into the kitchen, he sorted back through his brief but intense encounter with Pamela, searching for any possible mistakes he might have made.

  He sat down at a stool in the kitchen. One of the kitchen help said something to him, but he waved him away. Then he thought better of it and asked for some more wine. "And the table's out too," he told no one in particular.

  The Valiums were a hell of a good idea, he congratulated himself.

  That dosage would knock her sideways. He decided that it might be a good idea to check up on her-to make sure she got home okay, to calm her down if the pills hadn't already done so. She wouldn't be feeling them for another few minutes; maybe she needed someone to talk to.

  He took his wine with him into the garage, electing to use the cellular in the Isuzu because of his belief in the difficulty the police had listening in on such lines. He eased the seat back, dialed the number, and pushed SND. God, it felt good to be away from those hypocrites in there. He took a big swig of wine and felt his first sense of real relief in hours.

  Her answering machine answered.This troubled him. His heart quickened. He thought himself stupid for forcing the Valium on her while she still had to drive home. He should have just given them to her for her to take once there. But, he recalled, he had wanted to ensure she had taken them. He didn't want her mucking about tonight, messing things up.

  Had the cops gotten hold of her? He sat up and spilled some wine into his lap. In that condition she might tell them everything! What had he been thinking by giving her Valium? Another thirty minutes, she'd be a tongue-wagging wreck. He should have stuck with his plan to sedate her! He had wanted her out, not brain-impaired!

  A voice from within told him to calm down. Control! She was probably just on the can and couldn't make it to the phone.

  He dialed her number again. It rang four times and the machine answered. "Shit," he said into the receiver.

  Maybe, his voice of reason argued, she was high already and had simply turned the phone off. Yes, that made some sense. Lying back with headphones on, or watching a movie on the tube. Valium behavior.

  He sipped what was left of the wine, not feeling good about any of this. Slowly, his mind reconstructed a vivid memory of their final few minutes together. He could see her, could hear the conversation like a videotape playing inside his head. Had she ever spoken, ever opened her mouth after he had fed her those pills? Had she in fact swallowed them?"

  What if she had not taken the Valium but tricked him into believing she had Where would she go What would she do?

 
; The police? The farm!

  A tic hit him so hard he heard his neck crack. The wineglass jumped from his hand, struck the gear shift and shattered.

  The farm! He tripped the garage door automatic opener. It groaned open slowly. He couldn't believe how slowly. This thing had never run this slowly! What would he need? Had he forgotten anything?

  The party! The garage door opened far enough to reveal four cars parked in the drive, more out on the road. Trapped?

  The door to the kitchen opened. Peggy, in her red Japanese tea dress and her scarlet red face.

  What could he say? At this point, what could he do?

  Take control. There was a pretty good gap between the first parked car and the garage. Maybe just enough.

  Tegg backed slowly across the wet lawn, the tires cutting deep ruts in the grass, his guests observing him through the window. The four-wheel-drive banged out onto the street, and he was off.

  To Pamela's? No, he decided. Priorities. He would keep calling. The farm was far more important.

  Indeed, the farm was everything.

  Lto The Isuzu backed across the lawn, its tires spraying mud in all directions. Daphne could barely make out a bearded man's face behind the wheel. Elden Tegg.

  She slumped in her seat, dropping low, placed her fingers on the key and waited. His headlights washed the interior of her car, hurting her eyes. She remained absolutely still. She thought her heart might explode.

  He passed. She counted to three and started the car, lifting just high enough to watch his departure in her door mirror. The second he passed out of sight, she dropped the Honda into gear and pulled one of the quickest three-point turns she had ever made.

  Only a few seconds later, she was following. Instinctively, she reached for her police radio and came up empty. Once again, the impact of her isolation from the department bore down on her. She needed to get to a pay phone. She needed a way to alert Boldt or the department that it was going down.