by John Lutz
She looked over at Al as he leaped into an oncoming wall of foam. “He even likes to swim,” she said. “Maybe he’ll go out with you some morning.”
Carver wasn’t sure what he thought of that idea. He stared at the damp sand, careful about where he placed the tip of his cane. “I talked with Jefferson Brama today.” He had to raise his voice above the breeze and surf.
“He assure you of Norton’s innocence?”
“Not so much Norton’s as Freel’s. In his lawyerly way, he warned me not to delve any further into a possible romance between Freel and Adelle Grimm.”
Beth paused, picked up a lumpy piece of driftwood, then hurled it into the sea for Al to retrieve. “He might be right about Freel’s innocence,” she said, “but not about Adelle’s.”
Here was something new. Carver stood next to her and watched Al fling himself into the surf and search fruitlessly for the chunk of driftwood.
“I had Adelle’s house staked out as usual tonight and I saw a man enter,” Beth said. “He approached the house on foot and was inside almost before I knew he was there.”
Carver continued watching the dog. “Freel?”
“I don’t know. I think so. But he seemed larger than Freel.”
“Was he let in?”
“Yes, I’m sure of that. He was inside so fast, he wouldn’t have had time to use a key. A light came on in the rear of the house, and I saw that the drapes weren’t closed all the way in one of the windows. I got out of the car and moved onto the property, sure I could sneak a peek inside.” She started walking slowly again along the surf line, keeping her bare feet on the firm, wet sand. “Then Al barked.”
“Barked at what?”
“I don’t know, a squirrel or something. Maybe the breeze blowing a leaf. Or maybe something else. I thought I heard somebody moving in the bushes, saw someone’s shadow, but I can’t be sure. I know I was spooked. I ran. We ran. Back to the car. When I was halfway there, I heard an engine and turned around and saw that big black car of Adelle’s come roaring out of the garage and tear away down the street. I’m sure there were two people in it, and a man was driving. There was no time to follow. They were out of sight even before the automatic garage door lowered, and I saw that all the lights in the house were off.”
“Blue,” Carver said.
“What?”
“Adelle’s car is dark blue.”
Al was barking now, standing and staring out at the ocean, angry that it had appropriated his driftwood. Lightning made the sky glow yellow again out over the sea, and thunder rolled softly like low celestial laughter, nature putting on quite a show to taunt the simmering land.
“What did you mean about Freel being innocent and Adelle guilty?” Carver asked.
“I’ve been making contact with people, asking about Adelle Grimm. Her maiden name was Neehaus. She came from a wealthy family in Philadelphia who more or less disowned her after she stole some money and was thrown out of Vassar. She went through half a dozen jobs before she married Harold Grimm, who was already practicing medicine at the time, and regained financial solvency.”
“How did you find out about this?”
“By modem.”
Carver, who was barely computer literate, must have looked puzzled.
“Using the Internet. Someone even faxed me a copy of the fourteen-year-old newspaper item about the embezzlement from the university. Adelle claimed she stole the money out of love for one of her professors. He was a married man and denied any involvement. She was convicted and given probation. Even after that, she came close to going to prison because she continued her claims on the professor and almost destroyed his marriage.”
“Fourteen years is a long time ago,” Carver said.
“Maybe, but it provides some insight into Adelle. She can be a possessive woman. I think it’s possible she killed her husband to be with Freel, and Freel might know nothing about it. Now she’s emotionally distraught and financially strapped again, but she isn’t opting for an abortion because it’s Freel’s child she’s carrying and not her dead husband’s.”
“Which would give her considerable leverage over Freel.”
“It would if she needed it.”
“If she was from such a wealthy family, why would she have to embezzle money when she was in college?”
“She was on a meager allowance, and her parents were strict disciplinarians determined not to let their daughter be spoiled by wealth. Adelle didn’t adhere to their philosophy. She’d had trouble before with money.”
“I doubt if she’s poor now. Grimm was doing okay financially, and he probably had life insurance.”
“He did, for two hundred thousand dollars. But that isn’t much to a woman who has roots in obscene wealth and might want to recapture it. Reverend Freel has major-league wealth, and she might be pregnant with his child.”
They reached the rocky area of beach and turned around to walk back the way they’d come. “That’s a lot of conjecture,” Carver said. “You might be making it all too complicated. Seems more likely to me that Freel wanted Adelle and used his band of pro-life fanatics and Norton to kill Grimm and cover his true motive.”
“What about his alibi?”
“Desoto isn’t as sure as Wicker that it’s solid.”
“Adelle had access to the clinic. She could have planted the bomb there anytime, possibly days before it went off.”
“How could she know she’s carrying Freel’s baby and not Grimm’s?”
“The point is, how could Freel know?”
Carver realized Beth had given this hypothesis considerable thought. It was amazing what a labyrinth had to be negotiated to reach the truth. It was so difficult to be sure of anything.
Al trotted up to them and shook his entire body violently, spraying water over Carver and Beth. Carver was irritated, but Beth leaned down and hugged the still-soaked dog, then kissed the top of his nose. What could Carver say. She’d lost a child and gained a pet. It was the sort of trade that wasn’t really a trade, that made him want to cry.
When she straightened up, Carver hugged her to him, then kissed her on the lips. She smiled at him, sad in the faint light, and leaned back away from him, staring at him with her dark eyes.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m getting okay, Fred. Isn’t that what life’s all about, getting over things, all the way if you’re lucky, before something else happens?
“Seems that way,” he said.
She stared out at the lightning-illuminated clouds on the horizon. “We’ve all got to learn to do that. Otherwise the past will pull us under.”
He kissed her again. “Not you,” he said.
“No, not me.”
When they returned to the cottage, the phone was chirping. Beth answered it, looked puzzled and concerned, then said simply, “Yes,” and held the receiver out for Carver.
He pressed it to his ear and said hello.
“This is Archie Anderson,” a man’s voice said.
It took Carver a few seconds to realize who was speaking.
“FBI Agent Archie Anderson,” the voice said before Carver could reply. “The agent who had your cottage under surveillance,” Anderson sounded more than tense, almost enraged, as if barely holding himself in check. “You might want to drive out here, Mr. Carver. Oliphant Road, about five miles out of town, a big orange grove with a white rail fence running alongside it.”
“I know where it is,” Carver said. “What’s wrong?”
“Wicker’s here,” Anderson said. “McGregor’s here, too. You’d better come.” Emotion had a grip on Anderson’s throat, choking off his words. Not at all like someone connected with the bureau; lawyers and accountants with guns.
Carver said he’d be there in less than twenty minutes and hung up.
When he told Beth about the conversation, she insisted on going with him.
“All right,” he said reluctantly, already moving toward the door. “But leave the dog. I don’t know
what this is.”
38
They took Carver’s car and were on Oliphant Road in less than fifteen minutes. Beth had been quiet during the drive, and Carver had said nothing to interrupt her thoughts. The Olds’s windows were down and the air rushing into the interior made the taut cloth top slap against its steel struts while the pressure of the wind whistled and drummed.
The flat, paved road narrowed and ran between acres of orange and grapefruit trees. The trees were all of uniform size and aligned in neat rows that seemed to run together just before they disappeared in the night, like an art class study in diminishing perspective. They must have been recently irrigated. The wind caroming about the inside of the car carried a fresh, fertile smell of damp leaves and rich earth.
A white wooden fence appeared on the right, running alongside the road. It was made of thick posts about ten feet apart, to which were nailed two rows of parallel horizontal boards, one about a foot above the ground, the other a foot lower than the tops of the posts. Except for the occasional orange and yellow dots of citrus fruit among the clumped, shadowy branches of the trees, the white fence was the only bright object on a bleak landscape.
Then Carver saw flashing red-and-blue lights ahead and tapped his foot on the brake pedal, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.
Several cars were parked on the gravel shoulder, along with what appeared to be an ambulance. Carver braked harder as he saw a Del Moray police cruiser parked sideways in the middle of the road. A uniform was standing by its front fender, prepared to stop and divert any traffic on the little-traveled alternate route between two state highways.
The uniform walked toward the Olds as soon as it stopped,
A young blond patrolman without a cap leaned down to peer into the driver’s side window. His gaze flicked to Beth, back to Carver. “You’ll have to turn around, sir, or proceed slowly and carefully on the left shoulder.”
“Anderson sent for me,” Carver said. “Name’s Fred Carver.”
The uniform didn’t move for a long moment, as if weighing what Carver had said. Finally he nodded, then walked toward a knot of people visible beyond the cars parked on the right shoulder. The ambulance’s rear doors were open and a white-uniformed paramedic and a man in civilian clothes were dragging a collapsible wheeled gurney out. Alternating blue and red light glinted off its steel frame, then its spoked wheels as they dropped down and locked into place. The uniform who’d stopped Carver walked back out into the road and waved his arm, signaling him to drive forward and park on the right shoulder.
“You’d better stay here,” Carver told Beth when he’d braked the Olds to a halt and turned off the engine.
“Think again, Fred,” She already had the door open and was climbing out of the car.
But she did lag behind as Carver limped along the shoulder toward the shadowy forms huddled around a section of the white fence, the tip of his cane occasionally flicking pieces of gravel. When they were about a hundred feet away, the tallest figure detached itself from the knot of people and came toward them.
McGregor.
“What the fuck are you two doing here?” he demanded.
“I called Carver,” Anderson said. He’d been a yard or two behind McGregor, blocked from Carver’s vision by the tall, loose-jointed man with his flapping suit coat.
McGregor turned sideways and waited for Anderson to catch up. He started to say something, then clamped his lips together as if he’d changed his mind. Something about Anderson’s eyes had stopped him. Was still stopping him. McGregor slid his hands into his pockets and silently walked away.
Anderson looked from Carver to Beth but didn’t comment on her presence. “C’mon,” he said, and began walking back toward whatever was going on by the fence. The gurney was there now, sitting off to the side at a slight downhill angle.
Bodies parted as they approached, and Carver saw the object of everyone’s attention. His stomach lurched with fury and disbelief. “Christ!”
“I think that’s the idea,” Anderson said softly.
Wicker was on his knees with his back to a fence post, his lower legs extended to the other side of the fence beneath the bottom rail. His head lolled and his arms were spread wide to the top rail, his wrists bound to the thick white boards with bailing wire. And something else. Long, thick nails had been driven through his palms, pinning his hands to the fence board. Wicker’s face was bruised, bleeding from a cut above his right eye. There was blood in his tousled hair. His eyes were closed and oddly peaceful considering the expression of horror and pain on the rest of his face. His mouth was contorted, a string of saliva dangling from his lips. Carver could see Wicker breathing and hoped Wicker was unconscious.
“We got a call saying we’d find him here,” Anderson said.
The paramedics were bending over Wicker now, studying the situation, figuring out the best way to remove the nails. One of them was working to loosen the bailing wire, which had cut off the circulation so that Wicker’s impaled hands were pale as bone in the moonlight.
“The caller identify himself?” Carver asked.
“He didn’t have to.”
Wicker opened his eyes. They rolled around, found Carver, and fixed on him. “Masterson,” Wicker said in a dry, thin voice. “He did this to me, told me I might find redemption here.”
“We’ll find him,” Anderson promised.
Beth moved forward as if to comfort Wicker, but one of the paramedics extended an arm and waved for her to back away. She stood next to Carver. He could hear her breathing, soft, airy whimpers of rage and horror.
“He mentioned your name,” Wicker said to Carver. “Told me you were a sinner just like me in the service of Beelzebub.”
While he was driving nails through a man’s palms, Carver thought.
Anderson pulled him aside and they walked a few feet away, letting the paramedics do their work. Beth followed, staying close to Carver.
“Ezekiel Masterson,” Anderson said. “We’ll find him.”
“Lieutenant Desoto in Orlando might be able to help,” Carver suggested. “He’s the one who ID’d Masterson for us from a photo I sent him. Reverend Freel might know something, too, but he probably won’t talk.”
“He will if we don’t ask him nice,” Anderson said.
“That might have been you nailed to that fence,” Beth said.
Anderson’s jaw muscles flexed. “Any one of us.”
Carver remembered Beth thinking there might have been someone in the bushes outside Adelle Grimm’s house earlier that evening when Al barked. He told Anderson about it, and about his conversation with Jefferson Brama at the Surfside Hotel.
Anderson listened closely, staring at the ground. The red-and-blue glow from the emergency vehicles bathed his face with a shifting, harsh illumination that took away highlight and shadow and made his features a flat, tragic mask. The pulsating glare lent the scene even more of a sense of urgency, setting it to a wild rhythm and making the landscape surreal. Somehow a nightmare had found its way into Wicker’s time awake.
“We’ll get more from Wicker when he’s patched up and has some medication for the pain,” Anderson said when Carver was finished talking.
But they both knew there was little more to get. Ezekiel Masterson had acted out his fanaticism again, then disappeared, and no one who knew anything would talk. Nothing much had changed except that Wicker had been brutally beaten, then crucified with sixteen-penny construction nails.
“You wanted us to see this to make an impression on us, didn’t you?” Beth said. “That’s why you called.”
“Partly,” Anderson admitted. “I feel an obligation to be sure you know what kind of people we’re dealing with. And I thought if I got you out here, you might be more likely to tell me anything pertinent.”
“Did we?” Carver asked.
“No way to know yet.”
Anderson told them good night and turned to walk back to where the paramedics were removing his supervisor
and fellow agent from the fence. The strobelike effect of the flashing lights made his movements seem abrupt and intermittent.
He paused and turned. “Stay available, you two. And stay safe.”
“You’d better notify Delores Bravo about this,” Beth said, “but not yet.”
“Do it right,” Carver added.
“If only you could tell me how,” Anderson said, leaving them in the somber dance of the flashing lights.
39
Carver was quiet for a long time during the drive back to the cottage. Anderson’s strategy of calling them to the scene of Wicker’s agony had worked. Not that Carver and Beth had had any doubts about Masterson’s viciousness after what he’d done to Linda Lapella. But that was a simple, brutal beating that resulted in murder. What had been done to Wicker was different; it was torture in the name of God and as ancient as man, and behind its mask, it was worse than indifferent to the pain it inflicted.
As they were rocketing along the highway, the wind pounding again in the car’s interior, Beth said, “I still think Adelle is behind the bombing, and I think she might have hired Ezekiel Masterson. He might have been the man I saw driving away with her from her house earlier tonight.”
“Or the man lurking outside her house who might have done to you what was done to Wicker.”
She smiled. “You afraid, Fred?”
“Oh, I am most of the time on some level. For me and for you.”
“And you still believe Norton acted on Freel’s orders.”
“Or was set up to take the fall for the bombing. Freel had to know Norton was a nut case who was working away on assembling bombs in his home workshop. What better dupe could he find to take the high-minded blame for what really was a squalid murder for the two most frequent motives in the world-love and money?”
“It sounds good when you say it fast,” Beth admitted, “but Adelle’s still my choice.”
Carver watched the dark road. “Freel will be doubly on guard now that he knows his affair with Adelle is known.”