False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  “Don’t try to talk.” Devereaux checked the pulse in Shaw’s neck. It was fast and weak. “We’ll get you to the hospital. Get you patched up.”

  “If I had all four, I’d have the power by now.” Shaw’s eyes opened wider. “I just needed an artist. I had a scientist, already. And a musician. And a jock. That pain-in-my-ass meathead…”

  “I’ll find my partner.” Devereaux started to stand. “See if we can get a helicopter out here.”

  “Wait!” Shaw grabbed Devereaux’s sleeve with his right hand. “Listen! It was the final step. Don’t you see? The others—all of them—they weren’t enough. Not one by one. I could have gone on forever, but I’d never have got it right. I needed four, together. The right mix. The right setup. That was the only way to end it.”

  “I need to get you some help.” Devereaux brushed Shaw’s hand away. “You’re not in great shape.”

  “No.” Shaw grabbed Devereaux’s sleeve again and hung on tight. “Don’t leave me here. Everyone always leaves me…”

  “You need a doctor. And I’ll get you one, if you just let me go.”

  “Then what?” Shaw’s voice was fading. “If they do fix me up, what’ll they do next? They won’t understand. They’ll send me to jail.”

  They’ll give you the needle, Devereaux thought. “Maybe. That’s not up to me.”

  “I can’t go to jail. You know what happens to people like me in jail. Everything I’ve done. Everyone…It would all be for nothing. Please…” Shaw grabbed weakly for Devereaux’s gun. “Can’t we just end this here?”

  “Not like that, no.” Devereaux pushed Shaw’s arm down onto his chest. “But maybe we could let nature…I don’t know. Tell me something first. All those people. Why did you hurt them like you did? Kill them? Chop them up? Take their body parts?”

  “I didn’t do it to hurt them.” A tear appeared in the corner of Shaw’s eye. “I never wanted that. I just wanted someone to stay with me. But no one ever would. I went all around the country, searching, but it didn’t help.”

  “And butchering a bunch of people did?”

  “You don’t understand.” Shaw tried to grab Devereaux’s arm. “I had to do that to get the power so that next time, they’d stay. But I was doing it wrong. One at a time’s no good. I found out, I needed a special chamber to harness the power. With four at once.”

  “By chamber you mean the way you set up that cabin?”

  “Right. I found out I needed to build a chamber, but how? Where? Then I came back to Birmingham. Someone left me that cabin. An old lover of mine. I thought, what’s the point of this? Who needs a log cabin in the twenty-first century? Then I knew. It was my way to stop the killing. It was—”

  “Cooper?” Garretty appeared above them, peering over the rim. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” Devereaux stood up.

  “What about Shaw?” Garretty took a step closer to the edge. “He looks pretty banged up. Is he a goner?”

  “We don’t know.” Devereaux made eye contact with his partner. “We haven’t found him yet. We need to keep searching. Say, for another half hour. Then I’ll call it in. We can have Fire and Rescue come and deal with his body.”

  FIELD REPORT

  When he perfected the gadget using nothing more than a handful of everyday household items, the genius demonstrated an astonishing degree of innovation and technological mastery. When he successfully deployed the gadget, time after time, right under the noses of the police and the FBI, he displayed extraordinary resilience and determination. And now? It’s time for his improvisational skills to have their moment in the sun.

  Just like other luminaries before him, the genius’s conduct has come in for some unwarranted criticism. Like Oppenheimer, for example, his motives have not always been understood. Like Oppie, early in his career, he’s been obliged to continue his work in new surroundings. And in those surroundings, the genius is not standing still. He’s recruiting drones to assist with the next phase of his plan to rebuke the society that has so disgracefully disrespected him.

  The authorities have inadvertently provided a nice large pool for the genius to fish in. Most of the other inmates seem capable. Many are rock stupid, of course. But all of them are desperate for a leader…

  Chapter Ninety-five

  Thursday. Afternoon.

  Devereaux told Garretty that he wanted to use the drive back into the city from the forest near Shaw’s cabin as a chance to crank up the stereo and finally road test the Porsche’s recently repaired rear speaker. But that was just an excuse. The truth was, Devereaux didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  The sight of Shaw’s body lying twisted and smashed on the rocks at the bottom of the gorge had brought echoes rushing back of the photos of his father’s victims. The parallel between the images would have been unsettling enough at the best of times. But on that day it only served to remind Devereaux that somewhere out there, Joseph Oliver had left a stash of incriminating material. The kind of material that could wreck his life as surely as the fall had wrecked Shaw’s body.

  With the needle hovering around 90 the Porsche flashed past the off-ramp from I-65 to Wine Ridge. But they weren’t going so fast that Devereaux didn’t notice the billboard at the side of the other road. It showed a bolt of lightning breaking through a mass of black clouds and smiting a smug-looking forty-something in a sharp suit who was standing outside a bar with a glass of wine in his hand. Below the image was a single line of text. Be sure your sins will find you out.

  Really? Devereaux thought. Will they? We’ll see about that. Then he wound the volume down for just long enough to strike a deal with Garretty: two dinners at the Red Pearl in return for ducking out of the Shaw paperwork.

  Garretty climbed out of the Porsche at the entrance to police headquarters on First Avenue, then Devereaux worked his way around to Stephens, which he took north to I-20/59. He followed the highway past the outskirts of the airport, looped around the southern tip of Forest Hill Cemetery, and merged to stay on I-20. He slowed to go around the long sweeping bend, two and a half miles later, and glanced to his right in the hope of picking out the street where he’d had his near-miss with Daniel McKinzie. Then he picked up the pace again and kept going as far as Irondale. It was a totally inefficient route, he knew, but driving fast helped to clear his mind and he was feeling much more focused as he cut back to the southwest on I-459. Here he really let loose, overtaking everything in his path for ten straight miles until he reached I-280, which he used to approach Mountain Brook from the south.

  Bill Adama opened his front door on the fourth ring of the bell. He was wearing green silk pajamas, which gave his over-tanned face an unhealthy orange pallor. He was unshaved. His hair was unwashed. And he was barefoot. When he saw Devereaux he nodded, then stepped back and gestured for him to come inside without saying a word.

  The hallway floor was covered with foot-square gray tiles, highly polished, with a contrasting Greek key border. The walls were finished in eggshell white, with eight identically-sized framed prints of European sports cars from the 1950s and ’60s lined up on each side. There was no furniture to clutter the space, and no internal doorways—only an open archway leading to the living room at the back of the house—but two giant chandeliers hung on chains from the double-height ceiling. They were a curious mixture of traditional polished crystal in the center, surrounded by dull iron rods that were formed into protective outer spheres.

  Adama closed the front door and launched himself at Devereaux, swinging an aluminum softball bat he kept near the entryway with all his strength. Devereaux jumped back, the tip of the bat whistling past his chin and smashing the picture of a Bugatti. Adama moved forward, swinging the bat again. Devereaux stepped out of his reach. He paused for a split second while the bat completed its arc, denting the wall between a Maserati and a Lamborghini, then he lunged forward. He grabbed the barrel of the bat with his left hand. Pulled it out of Adama’s grip. Flipped it around so he was holding it by
the handle. Then jabbed it straight into Adama’s solar plexus, leaving him on the floor in a sobbing, gasping heap.

  Devereaux dragged Adama to the living room, bundled him onto one of a pair of cream leather couches that were lined up in front of a wide picture window with a view of the manicured back yard, and gave him a minute to recover himself.

  “Do you want to tell me what that moment of madness was all about?” Devereaux lowered himself onto the opposite couch, still holding the metal bat.

  “You killed him, you bastard.” Adama spat out the words.

  “You need to be a little more specific.”

  “Joseph Oliver. I told you where he was, and you killed him. Or had him killed. Just like you threatened to.”

  “That’s not what happened, Bill. Joseph Oliver was at home in Miami, where you said he’d be. You get credit for not lying about that, by the way. I sent a guy to watch him. My guy saw Oliver take a phone call. And after that he blew his brains out.”

  Adama slumped forward and hid his face in his hands.

  “I came to ask if you were the one who gave him the heads-up I was looking for him. I guess you’ve answered my question.”

  Adama let out a long, slow groan.

  “What was the deal? You were supposed to deflect attention away from him, so he could lie low and enjoy life in the sun?”

  Adama nodded. “We had it all mapped out. He moved away and changed his name. I stayed here as his last line of defense.”

  “Hence the aborted contract on him. You were walking a fine line there, my friend.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Adama raised his head and stuck out his chin. “Those other losers would never have gone through with it. They’re total wusses. I made them see that. Backed them off completely. And then I put it out there all about how I’d gone ahead on my own. Which added fuel to the smokescreen. Who’s going to waste their time going after a dead man?”

  “And if someone persisted anyway, you were supposed to tip Oliver off?”

  “Right.” Adama straightened up a little. “I was his early warning system. If someone got too close he was supposed to leave town. He was supposed to have a case packed at all times, good to go, twenty-four/seven. Why didn’t he just do it, like we planned? I can’t believe he lied to me.”

  “Lied to you, how?”

  Adama sighed, pulled out his phone, fiddled with it for a second, then slid it across the floor to Devereaux.

  It took a minute to read the whole message, then Devereaux closed the phone and tossed it back. “It’s not really a lie. He doesn’t say he never planned to leave. Just that he got too old. I guess he didn’t have it in him to start over, somewhere new. You can understand that, right?”

  “No.” Adama was suddenly angry again. “I can’t understand that. And I sure as hell can’t accept it. We were supposed to be together in the end. The two of us. That’s what he promised. That’s why I did all this. And now? He strings me along my whole adult life, then says, Sorry, our future’s too much trouble to stick around for? After all the times he swore to me he’d do it? God, I hate him now. I wish I’d never met him.”

  “OK.” Devereaux leaned forward. “So Bill, explain one thing to me. Why did you do all this? Why did you shield the guy, after everything that happened? I don’t get it.”

  “It’s simple.” Adama looked Devereaux in the eye. “I loved him.”

  “Loved him?” Devereaux held up his hands. “After he preyed on you? Victimized you? When you were so young? Still at school, even? And all those other kids, too?”

  “Age doesn’t come into it.” Adama’s voice had gained a harder edge. “And I wasn’t a victim. The others might have seen it that way, but not me. They just didn’t understand him like I did. And yes, he did some wrong things with some other people. But who hasn’t? How about you, Devereaux? Are you going to sit there and tell me you’re pure as snow? Because I remember you at school. I know the kind of stuff you were into.”

  “No.” Devereaux shook his head. “You’re right. Let’s not go down that road. Let’s get back on less weird ground. So. You and Oliver. This arrangement you had. Were there payments involved? Or was it all—what?—altruistic on your part?”

  “Don’t mock me. You don’t understand, either. And yes. There were payments. But that’s not why I did it. He had some money he’d inherited, and there was no one else for him to leave it to.”

  “Oliver was a lot older than you. Did you talk about what would happen if he died first?”

  “He wrote a new will, years ago.” Adama’s throat tightened. “Everything comes to me. He offered to make it that way. I didn’t ask.”

  “Everything? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I saw it in black and white.”

  “Good.” Devereaux switched the bat to his other hand. “That simplifies things. Because here’s the problem. He had an item that belongs to me. I want it back. That’s why I wanted to get in touch with him. And now that he’s not in a position to return it himself, you can do it for him when you take possession of his stuff.”

  “What is it?” Adama leaned forward. “How will I recognize it? Is it valuable, because—”

  “Don’t get excited. It has no monetary value. It’s purely sentimental. Something that reminds me of my younger days, is all. And you won’t have to recognize anything, because this is what we’re going to do. My attorney will contact you, later today. You’ll hire him. He’ll handle the whole process of the inheritance. My thing, he’ll put on one side. Everything else, he’ll pass on to you. Untouched. And he won’t even charge you his usual fee.”

  “No way.” Adama got to his feet. “That’s bullshit. My attorney will handle it. Give me a description of this thing you claim is yours. I’ll have it appraised, and if you can prove—”

  “Bill, sit down.” Devereaux pointed the bat toward Adama’s midriff. “Maybe your grief’s affecting your memory. Maybe you’ve forgotten what happened the last time you failed to cooperate. And the stakes have just been raised. You’ve admitted to aiding a known child molester. Jail would be a particularly bad place for you to be right now.”

  “Fine.” Adama slumped back down. “I’ll go with your attorney. You can have your thing back, whatever it is.”

  “Good. And obviously our arrangement is confidential. No one gets to hear about it. Not even your wife.”

  “I don’t have a wife.”

  Devereaux raised his eyebrows.

  “OK. Technically I do. But we’re not married married. I did it as a favor so she could get a green card, years ago, before gay people were allowed to get married here. I haven’t been in the same room as the woman for a decade now. Longer, maybe.”

  —

  Devereaux sat in his car on the block-paved driveway and sighed. He could see sleepless nights ahead of him, trying to make sense of all Adama’s craziness. He shook the thoughts from his head and focused instead on evaluating the steps he’d taken toward recovering whatever incriminating material Joseph Oliver had left behind.

  Progress was satisfactory, he concluded. Though he wouldn’t be truly happy until all the pictures and financial records and any other details that had resurfaced were safely in his hands. He pictured opening the heavy cast-iron stove in his cabin, feeding every last shred inside, and lighting it on fire. Then he started the Porsche’s engine, selected Reverse, and was about to release the brake when his phone rang. It was the number from the final sheet of paper in the second envelope that had been delivered to Alexandra’s house. Joseph Oliver’s number, which he’d called the previous night before he’d learned the man was dead.

  “Who is this?” Devereaux kept his voice calm and level. “And how did you get hold of Joseph Oliver’s phone?”

  “Who’s Joseph Oliver?” The man at the other end of the line sounded irritated. “And don’t waste my time with stupid questions, Detective. Get a pen. Write this down. It’s when and where we’re going to meet. It’s got to be this afternoon. That’s non-negoti
able. Meet me where and when I say, or any chance of reaching a deal will be dead in the water. And that’s something you’ll regret for the rest of your life. I guarantee.”

  Chapter Ninety-six

  Thursday. Afternoon.

  Alexandra put the suitcase back in the closet. She’d made her decision. She couldn’t turn her back on Devereaux. Not again.

  Some of the times they’d shared recently had been really good. The meals they’d cooked together. The wine they’d drunk. The late evenings they’d filled, after Nicole had gone to sleep. The trips they’d taken to Railroad Park, and the Birmingham Museum of Art. It was like they were coming together as a real family. When it was just the three of them, things were great. It was only factors from outside the home that were causing them problems.

  There were two main areas that worried Alexandra. Devereaux’s past. And his job. His past was out of her control. She couldn’t change it, so she’d just have to learn to live with it. And his job? The way he let it encroach on family life? That did need to change. But she had to remember, Devereaux was new to all this. He’d been thrown in at the deep end as a parent, with conflicting priorities and calls on his time. She’d had seven years to learn. To adapt. He hadn’t. He’d been absent. That wasn’t his fault. But it had left a huge gap. And he clearly needed help to bridge it. Her help.

  All she had to do was set some solid ground rules. Establish a common understanding about the important things in their lives. Which she was sure she could do. If she could only find a way to make him listen to her…

  Chapter Ninety-seven

  Thursday. Afternoon.

  The skinny, twitchy-looking guy came out of his grandfather’s ramshackle house in the outskirts of Pleasant Grove, anxious not to be late for his rendezvous with the detective. Not much had gone right with the plan since day one, and there was no time left to recover from any more screwups. He checked his watch. Hurried across the ridged concrete driveway. Reached his dust-encrusted white Suburban. Climbed in behind the wheel. Slid the key into the ignition. And felt the cold kiss of steel against the back of his neck.