Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 01 - When The Bough Breaks

by When The Bough Breaks(Lit)

  The house was massive, a three-story structure of hand-hewn stone that had blackened with age. I couldn't imagine it as ever being beautiful but doubtless it had once been grand: a brooding, slate-roofed mansion trimmed with gingerbread, festooned with eaves and gables and girdled by wide stone porches. There was rusted wrought-iron furniture on the front porch, a nine-foot-high cathedral door and a weather vane at the highest peak in the shape of a witch riding a broomstick. The old crone twirled in the wind, safely above the desolation.

  I climbed the stairs to the front entry. Weeds had grown clear up to the door, which was nailed shut. The windows were similarly boarded and bolted tight. In spite of its size--perhaps because of it--the house seemed pathetic, a forgotten dowager, abandoned to the point where she no longer cared how she looked and sentenced to a fate of decaying in silence.

  I forced my way through a makeshift barrier of rotting boards that had been stacked in front of the porte-cochere. The house was at least a hundred and fifty feet long and it took me a while to check each window on the ground floor: All were sealed.

  The rear property was another three acres of swamp. A four-car garage, designed as a miniature of the house, was inaccessible--nailed and fastened. A fifty-foot swimming pool was empty save for several inches of muddy water in which floated a host of organic debris. The remains of a grape arbor and trellised rose garden were evident only as a jumble of peeling wood and cracked stone supporting a bird's nest of lifeless twigs. Stone benches and statues slanted and pitched on broken bases, Pompeii in the wake of Vesuvius.

  The rain began to come down harder and colder. I put my hands in the pocket of my raincoat, by now soaked through, and looked for shelter. It would take tools--hammer and crowbar--to get into the house or the garage, and there were no large trees that could be trusted not to topple at any moment. I was out in the open like a bum caught in a blitz.

  I saw a flash of light and braced myself for an electric storm. None came and the light flashed again. The heavy downpour made it difficult to see but the third time the light appeared I was able to draw a bead on it and walk in its direction. Several squishy footsteps later I could see it had come from a glass greenhouse at the rear of the estate, just beyond the bombed-out arbor. The panes were opaque with dirt, some of which ran in brown trickles, but they appeared intact. I ran toward it, following the light that flickered, danced, disappeared, then flickered again.

  The door to the greenhouse was closed but it opened silently to the prompting of my hand. Inside it was warm, steamy and sour with the aroma of decomposition. Waist-high wooden tables ran along both sides of the glass room; between them was a walkway floored with wood chips peat, mulch and topsoil. A collection of tools--pitchforks, rakes, spades, hoes-stood in one corner.

  Upon the tables were pots of gorgeously flowering plants: orchids, bromeliads, blue hydrangea, begonias of every hue, scarlet and white impatiens--all in full bloom and spilling abundantly from their terra cotta houses. A wooden beam into which metal hooks had been embedded was suspended above the tables. Hanging from the hooks were fuchsias dripping purple, ferns, spider plants, creeping char lies more begonias. It was the Garden of Eden in the Great Void.

  The room was dim, and it reverberated with the sound of the rain assaulting the glass roof. The light that had drawn me appeared again, brighter and closer. I made out a shape at the other end of the greenhouse, a figure in yellow slicker and hood holding a flashlight. The figure shone the flashlight on plants, picking up a leaf here, a flower there, examining the soil, pinching off a dry branch, setting aside a ripe blossom.

  "Hello," I said.

  The figure whirled and the flashlight beam washed over my face. I squinted in the glare and brought my hand up to shield my eyes.

  The figure came closer.

  "Who are you?" demanded a voice, high and scared.

  "Alex Delaware."

  The beam lowered. I started to take a step.

  "Stay right there!"

  I put my foot down.

  The hood was pulled back. The face it revealed was round, pale, flat, utterly Asian, female but not feminine. The eyes were two razor cuts in the parchment skin, the mouth an unsmiling hyphen.

  "Hello, Mrs. Hickle."

  "How do you know me--what do you want?" There was toughness diluted by fear in the voice, the toughness of the successful fugitive who knows vigilance must never cease.

  "I just thought I'd pay you a visit."

  "I don't want visitors. I don't know you."

  "Don't you? Alex Delaware--doesn't the name mean anything to you?"

  She didn't bother to lie, just said nothing.

  "It was my office darling Stuart chose for his last big scene--or maybe it was chosen for him."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't want your company." Her English was clipped and slightly accented.

  "Why don't you call the butler and have me ejected?"

  Her jaws worked; white fingers tightened around the flashlight.

  "You refuse to leave?"

  "It's wet and cold outside. I'd appreciate the chance to dry off."

  "Then you'll go?"

  "Then I stay and we talk awhile. About your late husband and some of his good buddies."

  "Stuart's dead. There's nothing to talk about."

  "I think there's plenty. Lots of questions."

  She put down the flashlight and folded her arms in front of her. There was defiance in the gesture. Any trace of fear had faded and her demeanor was one of irritation at being disturbed. It puzzled me--she was a lone woman accosted by a stranger in a deserted place but there was no panic.

  "Last chance," she said.

  "I'm not interested in blowing your cover. Just let me--"

  She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  A large shadow materialized into something living and breathing.

  I saw what it was and my bowels went weak.

  "This is Otto. He doesn't like strangers."

  He was the largest dog I'd ever seen, a Great Dane the size of a healthy pony, colored like a Dalmatian-white dappled with gray-black splotches. One ear was partially shredded. His maws were black and wet with saliva, hanging loose in that half-smile, half-snarl so characteristic of attack dogs, revealing pearly-white fangs and a tongue the size of a hot-water bag. His eyes were piggy and too small for his head. They reflected orange pinpoints of light as they scanned me.

  I must have moved, because his ears perked. He panted and looked up at his mistress. She cooed at him. He panted faster and gave her hand a fast swipe with the pink slab of tongue.

  "Hi there, big fella," I said. The words came out strangled. His jaws opened wider in a growling yawn.

  I backed away and the dog arched his neck forward. He was a muscular beast, from head to quivering haunch.

  "Now maybe I don't want you to go," said Kim Hickle.

  I backed away further. Otto exhaled and made a sound that came from deep in his belly.

  "I told you I won't give you away."

  "So you say."

  I took two more steps backward. Baby steps. Playing a deranged version of Simon Says. The dog moved closer.

  "I just wanted to be alone," she said. "Nobody to bother me. Me and Otto." She looked lovingly at the great brute. "You found out. You bother me. How did you find me?"

  "You left your name in a library file at Jedson College."

  She frowned, bothered by her carelessness.

  "So you hunted me."

  "No. It was an accident, finding the card. It's not you I'm after."

  She clicked her tongue again and Otto came a few feet closer. His malevolent leer loomed larger. I could smell him, rank and eager.

  "First you, now others will follow. Asking questions. Blaming me, saying I'm bad. I'm not bad. I'm a good woman, good for children. I was a good wife to a sick man, not a sick woman."

  "I know," I soothed. "It wasn't your fault."

  Another click. The dog
moved within springing distance. She had him controlled, like a radio-operated toy. Start, Otto. Stop, Otto. Kill, Otto...

  "No. Not my fault."

  I stepped back. Otto followed me, stalking, one paw scraping the ground, the short hairs rising.

  "I'll go," I said. "We don't have to talk. It's not that important. You deserve your privacy." I was rambling, stalling for time, my eyes on the tools in the corner. Mentally, I measured the distance to the pitchfork, covertly rehearsing the move I might have to make.

  "I gave you a chance. You didn't take it. Now it's too late."

  She clocked twice and the dog sprang, coming at me in a blur of snarling darkness. I saw the forepaws raised in the air, the wet, hungry, gnashing mouth, the orange eyes zeroed on their target, all in a fraction of a second. Still within that second, I feinted to the right, sank to my knees and lunged for the pitchfork. My fingers closed around wood and I snatched it and jabbed upward.

  He came down on me, a ton of coiled monster, crushing the breath from my chest, the paws and teeth scraping and snapping. Something went through cloth, then leather, then skin. Pain took hold of my arm from elbow to shoulder, piercing and sickening. The handle of the pitchfork slipped from my grasp. I shielded my face with one sleeve, as Otto nuzzled at me with his wet nose, trying to get those buzz-saw jaws around my neck. I twisted away, reached out blindly for the pitchfork, got hold of it, lost it and found it again. I landed a knuckle punch on the crown of his skull. It was like pummeling armor plate. He reared up on his hind legs, roaring with rage and bore down. I turned the pitchfork prong-upwards. He lunged, throwing his full weight down on me. My legs bent and my back hit the dirt. The air went out of me and I fought for consciousness, swallowed up in churning fur and struggling to keep the fork between us.

  Then he whinnied shrilly; at the same time I felt the pitchfork hit bone, scrape and slide as I twisted the handle, full of hate. The prongs went into him like warm knife into butter.

  We embraced, the dog's tongue on my ear, his mouth slavering, open in agony, an inch from carving out a chunk of my face. I put all of my strength behind the pitchfork, pushing and twisting, vaguely aware of the sound of a woman screaming. He cried out like a puppy. The prongs went in a final inch and then could sink no deeper. His eyes opened wide with injured pride, blinked spasmodically, then closed. The huge body shuddered convulsively atop me. A tide of blood shot out of his mouth, splashing across my nose, lips and chin. I gagged on the warm, salty muck. Life passed out of him and I struggled to roll free.

  The whole thing had taken less than half a minute.

  Kim Hickle looked at the dead dog, then at me, and made a run for the door. I pulled myself to standing position, yanked the pitchfork out of the barrel chest and blocked her away.

  "Get back," I gasped. I moved the pitchfork and droplets of gore flew through the air. She froze.

  The greenhouse was silent. The rain had stopped.

  The silence was broken by a low, rumbling noise: bubbles of gas escaping from the big dog's corpse. A mound of feces followed, running down the limp legs and mingling with the mulch'.

  She watched it and started to cry. Then she went limp and sat on the floor with the hopeless, stuporous look of a refugee.

  I jammed the pitchfork into the ground and used it to lean on. It took me a full minute to catch my breath, another two or three to check for damages.

  The raincoat was ruined, torn and blood-soaked. With some effort I got it off and let it fall to the ground. One arm of the leather jacket was shredded. I slipped out of it, too, and rolled up the sleeve of the turtleneck. I inspected my bicep. The layers of clothing had prevented it from being worse but it wasn't pretty: three puncture wounds that had already begun to swell, surrounded by a maze of abrasions. The arm felt stiff and sore. I bent it and nothing felt broken. The same went for my ribs and my other limbs, although my entire body floated just above agony. I stretched carefully, using a limbering routine I'd learned from Jaroslav. It made me feel a little better.

  "Did Otto have his shots?" I asked.

  She didn't answer. I repeated the question, punctuating it with a grasp of the pitchfork handle.

  "Yes. I have the papers."

  "I want to see them."

  "It's true. You can believe me." "You just tried to get that monster to rip out my throat. Right now your credibility isn't high."

  She looked at the dead animal and went into a meditative sway. She seemed to be one who was used to waiting. I was in no mood for a battle of endurance.

  "You've got two choices, Mrs. Hickle. One, cooperate and I'll leave you to your little Walden. Or, you can make it hard for me and I'll see that your story makes page one of the L.A. Times Metro section. Think of it: Molester's widow finds refuge in abandoned homesite. Poetic, isn't it? Ten to one the wire services pick it up."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "Answers to questions. I've no reason--or desire--to hurt you."

  "You're really the one whose office Stuart--died in?"

  "Yes. Who else were you expecting?"

  "No one," she said too quickly.

  "Towle? Hayden? McCaffrey?"

  At the mention of each name her face registered pain sequentially, as if her bones were being broken in stages.

  "I'm not with them. But I want to know more about them."

  She raised herself to a squat, stood, and picked up the bloodied raincoat. Carefully she placed it over the dog's still form.

  "I'll talk to you," she said.

  25

  There was an entrance to the four-car garage that had eluded me: At ground level, hidden behind an untrimmed blue spruce, was a window covered with chicken-coop wire mesh. She kneeled, played with a couple of strategic strands and the mesh came loose. A push, a wriggle and she was inside. I followed. I was much larger and it wasn't easy. My injured arm brushed against the pane and I had to hold my breath to stop from crying out as I squeezed through.

  A half-jump brought me to a narrow room that had originally been a root cellar. It was damp and dark, the walls lined with shallow wooden shelving, the floor of poured concrete painted red. There was a wooden shutter above the window, held in place by an eye and hook. She unfastened it and it slammed shut. There was a second of darkness during which I braced myself for something devious. Instead came the pleasing pungence of kerosene, reminiscent of teenage love by the light of the campfire, and smoky illumination. She tilted the slats of the shutter so that additional light came in but visibility from the outside was obscured.

  My eyes adjusted to the light and the details came into focus: A thin pallet and bedroll lay on the floor. The kerosene lamp, a hot plate, a can of Sterno and a packet of plastic utensils shared space on a rickety wooden table that had been painted and repainted so many times it looked like soft sculpture. There was a utility sink in one corner and above it a rack holding an empty jam jar, a toothbrush, toothpowder, safety razor and a bar of laundry soap. Most of the remaining floor space was taken up by wooden milk cartons of a type I hadn't seen since childhood. The boxes had tube-shaped hand holes on two sides and bore the imprint of "Farmer Del's Dairy, Tacoma, Wash--Our Butter Is Best, Put It to the Test." Below the slogan was a picture of a bored-looking heifer and a phone number with a two-letter prefix. She'd stacked the cartons three-high in places. The contents of some of them were visible--packets of freeze-dried food, canned goods, paper towels, folded clothing. Three pairs of shoes, all rubber-soled and sturdy, were lined up neatly against the wall. There were metal hooks hammered into a raw wood support beam. She hung her slicker on one of them and sat down on a straight-backed chair of unfinished pine. I settled myself on an overturned milk carton.

  We looked at each other.

  In the absence of competing stimuli the pain in my arm took over. I winced, and she saw it.

  She got up, soaked a paper towel in warm water, came over and swabbed the wound. She poked around in one of the boxes and found sterile gauze, adhesive tape and hydroge
n peroxide. Tending to me like Florence Nightingale, she bandaged the arm. The craziness of the situation wasn't lost on me--minutes ago she'd tried to kill me, now she clucked maternally and smoothed down the tape. I stayed karate-wary, expecting her to revert at any moment to murderous rage, to dig her fingers into the inflamed flesh and take advantage of the blinding pain to jab me in the eye.

  But when she was finished she returned to her seat.

  "The papers," I reminded her.