by GC Smith
The second guard studied Donal, taking in the well tailored suit and expensive shoes. Finally, jerking his attention back to Capers, he stooped and snapped cuffs on the downed man’s wrists and called over the two-way radio a request for medical assistance for the mutilated child and the shock frozen mother.
Itaxca elbowed through the crowd that stood watching. Pulling the fat cigar from his mouth, he gestured at the handcuffed man. “Capers?”
Donal, lips compressed, nodded affirmation.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Moultrie Bay, SC
September 21
As far as Donal was concerned the Capers case was closed. Hook would send Alphonsos Smallsmith to Houston to represent Moultrie County at the extradition hearing. Carter would represent North Carolina. There would be representatives from Mexico who wouldn't get to first base with the Texas prosecutors. There would be the Feds who were putting their oar in to have Capers tried under arcane provisions of the Lindbergh law and they might just get what they wanted.
The cop in Donal hoped that his State would get first claim and that Capers would be tried in South Carolina. He figured Capers's lawyers would be less likely to get away with a McNaughton plea in the tough, law and order State. In the end, though, which jurisdiction tried Capers didn't much matter. Capers was in custody and there was evidence to insure that the madman would spend the rest of his life safely locked away.
Donal had tied up the loose ends with Androlini, as well as with Trent and Claudia Chatrian when he returned from Houston. His rift with A.J. Hook had been patched over and he was ready to get on with other cases and with his personal life. Victoria would return to Moultrie Bay in the morning, this time to stay. Donal had to decide soon if he would ask her to marry him.
…never had Donal known anyone like her; she listened and he talked. God, how he talked when they were together. Took her with him for the retrospective ride through twenty plus years. Torrents of words. His hopes and his joys. Frustrations and failures. And the successes.
She didn't question, didn't interject opinion. She listened. Not wide-eyed like a kid, just interested. Nodding occasionally, smiling, fingers tracing his hairline while he spoke.
Understanding him. Taking him in. His history, his life. And breaking him away when things got too heavy. Touching his lips, coming close to him. Touching his mind and body. His soul. Loving him and insisting, sometimes silently, sometimes vociferously, that he love her.
And he did. He loved her. He loved her body. Her mind. Her wit. He loved her ability to love him. He loved every moment that they spent together. But did he love her enough?
The phone broke into Donal's thoughts. “Johnny, it's Hector Itaxca.”
“Yeah. What's up guy?”
“Capers escaped.”
Itaxca told Donal that Capers had overpowered two young Harris County cops as they were transferring him from a airport holding cell to county control. He reported that Capers managed to wrestle a gun away from one of them. Capers marched them back to the holding cell where they had been keeping him and simply locked them up. He changed into one of the cops' uniforms, got his personal belongings, and let himself out of the lockup. Itaxca added that the failure of the Harris county police to effect Capers's transfer to a secure facility was inexcusable and opined as to their competence with, “assholes.”
The police in Texas had failed so far to trace Capers's further movements. Donal was not surprised to learn that a check on departing planes had turned up nothing.
BOOK III
ENDGAME
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Columbia, SC
September 21
Jack Faulkner, weary from the two weeks of playing bodyguard and shepherding the German industrialists and South Carolina politicians throughout the state, stood just off the tarmac at Columbia Metropolitan Airport. He watched as the industrialists and their wives were whisked away to their hotel in the SLED supplied limousine. “Goddamn pissy attitude Krauts. Thank God dealing with those shits is over,” he said.
Faulkner hefted his valise and walked toward the waiting car, a battered Ford Ltd with the SLED designation stenciled on the front doors. He slipped into the passenger seat. “Man, put this fucker in gear and get me out of here,” he muttered.
Behind the wheel, Jeremy McMichaels grinned. “What's your bitch? Not everybody gets an all expense vacation on the taxpayers.”
“Fuck you, McMichaels.”
“Hoo-hoo. So it's still fuck you McMichaels, is it now.”
“Yeah, you little fairy. Fuck you and fuck your phony
brogue.”
“Expletives! I could recite your script by heart. But, then, there's nothing like being able to count on consistency, Faulkner. I appreciate that in a man.”
“Fuck your mother and your sister, too.”
“Your slipping, Jack. You forgot to include your boss in the litany of fuckees. Come on now, lets hear it.”
“You fuck Ellerby, McMichaels. He's your type.”
“Ellerby is anxious for your report.” McMichaels slipped the grey SLED Ford into gear and pulled away from the airport terminal building.
“He can wait. Take me home; I'm beat.”
“Ellerby will be pissed.”
“Shut up and drive.” Faulkner leaned back and closed his eyes. He visualized the night with the lubricious blond he had picked up from the Wiley reception. Bimbo's just a kid, but she knows a trick or two. He felt a stirring. I'll call her tonight, he thought.
Faulkner left the SLED car, relieved to be rid of McMichaels wise guy attitude. He went into the convenience store on the lobby level of his apartment building. He handed a buck to the counterman, took a copy of the State from the stack, and tucked it under his arm.
Upstairs, he stripped to tee and skivvies, scratched his nuts, and flopped on the bed. Grab a little shut-eye and get rid of the jet lag, he thought. Then call the bimbo. Get my pipes cleaned.
Three hours later Faulkner carried a Piggly-Wiggly brand bologna on wonder bread sandwich and a can of Budweiser into the living room. He picked up the paper that he had earlier tossed onto the coffee table. He glanced at the picture of Claudia Chatrian on the front page, skimmed the headline, --MASS MURDERER ESCAPES TEXAS JAIL --and turned his attention to more serious articles on the State's budget woes and the Barnwell County nuclear waste dump controversy. Later, the front page story still unread, Faulkner wrapped garbage into Claudia Chatrian's picture and tossed it in the can.
The phone rang. Faulkner sat there, not answering, hoping that whoever it was would conclude that he wasn't home and hang up. He counted twenty rings, shrugged and answered. “Yeah. “
“Be in my office in thirty minutes.”
“Can't it wait until morning, Brad?”
“No.”
“What's so fuckin’ important? I'm beat.”
“Thirty minutes.”
Faulkner walked into his boss' office, took a look at the frowning Ellerby, and asked, “O.K., what is it?”
“Capers.”
“What about him?” Faulkner kept his face impassive, suddenly thinking of the wedding picture the Commissioner's wife had shown him, experience telling him beaucoup trouble was on the way.
Ellerby threw a copy of the State across his desk, “Read the lead story.”
While Faulkner read, Ellerby sat, surreptitiously scratching at the remaining trace of scab on his appendix incision.
Faulkner let the paper slide to the floor. “Goddamn.”
“You said Capers wouldn't fuck up. You were wrong. And you didn't follow up on my suggestion to eliminate any record of Capers's employment with SLED. Well now, dammit, Capers went on a murder spree in the North Carolina Blue Ridge. And a P.I., Johnny Donal, has been climbing our backsides about him. “Jerry McMichaels was acting Section Chief while I was in the hospital; Donal forced him to contact the CIA about Capers.”
“McMichaels is a ass. Why did he cooperate?”
“Dama
ge control. He had no alternative.” Impatiently, Ellerby told Faulkner how Donal who was working on the Claudia Chatrian kidnap case had pressured SLED into cooperating in the search for Capers. “He called from North Carolina looking for you. He leaned hard. Bastard knows too much about Capers and his history with SLED. Somebody in this Directorate's talked about SLED having employed Capers.” Ellerby tossed a photograph of Johnny Donal toward Faulkner. “So you'll recognize the bastard.” He steepled his fingers in front of his face and looked hard at Faulkner.
Faulkner waited, poker-faced.
“There is to be no connection between Capers and the SLED. He never worked with this Directorate. Make sure his records are gone before Donal finds him.” Ellerby continued, “I don't have to remind you that I was in favor of eliminating all matters of record concerning Capers when he was taken off the payroll.”
Faulkner returned Ellerby's stare, thinking Ellerby's phraseology smacked of the Harvard jerk he was. “No, you don't,” he replied.
“Then, I can presume that I won't need to assign someone else to clean up after you. You'll take care of the Capers.”
Faulkner nodded.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Hilton Head Island
Beaufort County, SC
September 22
Capers had recovered his luggage and, in the men's room, changed from the police uniform to his own clothing. The bone handled straight razor was once again in his pocket. He rented a car under an assumed identity that had been established back when he was with the Agency and that had plenty of solid background behind it to withstand scrutiny.
Capers headed east, driving through the night and on into the next day. He made a quick stop at the New Orleans post office to retrieve packages that he had forwarded from Mexico City. Each package contained identity papers and banded stacks of cash of various denominations. He drove straight through from the Crescent city to Hilton Head Island where, in late August, he had transferred the bulk of his and Joan's assets. His specific destination on the resort island was the marina where he had bought a partnership share of under an assumed name, Thomas B. Carey.
CHAPTER FORTY
Moultrie Bay, SC
October 10
Donal could almost see into the sociopath’s mind. That Capers had murdered a woman who could have been Claudia Chatrian's twin certified the man’s obsession. The seed of madness, Donal was convinced, was sown of neglect, most likely, neglect by his mother who had divorced, remarried, and borne the infant daughter, Claudia Chatrian. The seed had germinated and its bitter fruit had matured to focus on the half sister. Donal was sure that Claudia Chatrian would continue to be the focus of Capers's insanity. Until he was put away Capers would stalk her.
Donal had met with Trent after Capers escape. He told the lawyer everything he knew about Capers's history including the fact that he believed that Claudia was the psycho’s half- sister. Donal hammered home his belief that obsession was the madman's driving force. He made clear his belief that Capers's fixation could culminate only with Claudia's murder or the madman's capture. At Trent's request he agreed to continue his search for Capers.
Three weeks passed and Donal had followed blind leads to six states, consulting with Police Departments, probing ever deeper into Capers's past looking for clues to his whereabouts. He'd come up with nothing. Capers had vanished like a plane or ship swallowed in the Bermuda Triangle. Donal knew that the disappearance was temporary. Capers would surface and he would strike.
Claudia had returned to Hilton Head to complete the film and was frequently in the news. Donal didn't like the publicity that surrounded her but there was nothing that he could do, life proceeds. Claudia was a celebrity and couldn't be kept under wraps. Donal decided that pushing SLED might bear fruit. He called Jeremy McMichaels.
McMichaels said, “I think I'll be able to cook a reason to get into the Capers files soon. Believe me, my friend, I'm trying.” He continued, “Both Faulkner and Brad Ellerby knew Capers was a nut case and they covered it up. I'm certain of that much.”
Donal listened closely as McMichaels told him that he knew that there were INTERPOL and CIA reports along with negative psychological profiles and other damming information in Capers's file. The information, if McMichaels could get his hands on it, could force Ellerby and Faulkner to deal with Donal. And their cooperation could possibly get him to Capers's current location.
McMichaels ended the conversation with, “Ellerby is going to a reception at the Governor's mansion tonight. Just so happens I can get you an invitation. Why don't you show up and rattle his cage?”
Moultrie Bay, SC
October 11
Donal drained the coffee mug and put it down on Hook's conference table. “I leaned on Ellerby at a Governor's reception last night. Bastard almost bit a chunk out of his champagne glass when I cornered him. Evasive S.O.B.. Claims nobody at SLED never heard of Capers. That's bullshit. I'm going to have to force his hand.”
“Can only push SLED boys so far, Johnny.”
“I've got a wedge. Ellerby found out that Capers mutilated and murdered a woman in Mexico when he was a Fed spook. Realizing that he had a psychotic on the payroll Ellerby had Faulkner fire Capers. Ellerby and Faulkner are classic careerists who've taken CYA to the ultimate. They're now trying to bury any connection between Capers and SLED. I intend to shove that up their asses.”
Hook's eyebrows shot up. “Where did you get all this?” Donal gave a negative head shake.
“You have proof?”
“Not yet. Soon.”
“From whom?”
“One of SLED's own,” Donal said, getting up to leave.
***
Donal suddenly slammed his foot down on the brake pedal, screeching tires, stopping inches from collision. Deep in thought, he had looked up just in time to avoid smashing into the bumper of a car stopped in front of him at a traffic signal.
Enough. Get your mind off the case. You're a professional, he told himself. Remember that. Remember that the fact that Marie Della Porta was Tony Androlini's sister is immaterial. Remember that your personal concern for Claudia is immaterial. This is a job. No more, no less.
Tony Androlini and Harry Trent were getting what all Donal's clients got; a thorough, painstaking, investigation. All of the resources at Donal's disposal. Everything that Donal could do. They wouldn't get more than that. No one would.
Donal throughout his career had succeeded in separating his work from the rest of his life. He had seen, like all cops saw, the scum of society. Festering sores that were gauzed over, hidden from the uninitiated. Hidden from the good people who went to work, paid their taxes, attended their churches, raised their children and their dogs and their cats and their gold fish.
Donal was one of the good people. He worked at keeping his personal life well separated from the miscreants he dealt with professionally. Maintaining the separation between the personal and the professional had kept the man sane and he reminded himself to keep it that way. But could he? Would he?
He forced thoughts about the Capers case from his mind and concentrated on driving.
***
Donal let the cat pass in front of him as he opened the door. The critter had been outside when he had left home that morning. Now, she was on her way outside again. That meant Victoria was back. He glanced over a note inviting himself, Victoria, and Mike to a private screening of Claudia Chatrian's new film and a champagne reception. He tossed the invitation and the rest of his mail on a hall table, pulled off his suit coat and loosened his tie.
Victoria stood hipshot, framed in the bedroom doorway, dressed in Levis and a white cashmere sweater. She watched as Donal moved toward her, noting the lines of tiredness on his face.
“Hey, baby,” Donal put his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.
She reached up and kissed him, holding him close, feeling his tiredness. “Johnny, you look beat. No progress?”
Donal shook his head, “Not enough
. Not yet.” He sat slumped on the edge of the bed, Victoria watching him. He clenched his fist and pounded the mattress, forgetting his determination of minutes before not to bring the case home. “It's a brick wall. Three times the bastard has disappeared. Where in hell is he?”
Victoria knelt behind him on the bed, massaging his shoulders. “What about that Faulkner guy? No help there?”
“He's avoiding me. He and his boss are playing games.”
“Why?”
Donal dropped one shoe onto the carpeting, pushing the other off with a sock clad toe. “CYA.”
She shook her head, “This Capers case is beating you up.”
He lifted his palms in a gesture of frustration. “I never meant to bring the damned case into our lives. It's more than you bargained for.”
“No,” Victoria said, softly, “no, Johnny. Your work is part of who you are. And you, my love, are more that I ever hoped for.” She kissed him and tugging his hand said, “I have a pitcher of martinis in the kitchen. Come on.”
Donal smiled broadly, tension draining, “Yes ma'am. Comin’.”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Moultrie Bay, SC
October 19
A week and a day passed since Victoria came home to Moultrie Bay. Now, resplendent in black velvet, she came into the room. The cat who had followed her jumped up on Donal's bureau top and admired herself in the mirror. She sat on her haunches, licked her paw, and smoothed it over her whiskers.