Death Watch

by Elizabeth Forrest

  “Here, too.”

  Not as evident or as forceful. McKenzie withdrew her hand from his, then looked into his face.

  “You saw blood, all right. Mine. All mine.”

  “What—”

  “I tried to commit suicide. Twice.”

  “Oh, Carter.” McKenzie bit her lip. “Why?”

  He turned, caught a stool with the toe of his shoe, and pulled it close so he could sit down. “My writing was responsible for getting a convicted man off Death Row.”

  “Was he guilty?”

  “Oh, yes. We all knew it.”

  She did not know what to ask. “Did you ... did you lie about it to get him freed?”

  “No. But I got involved. You see, he’d killed a number of people. The closer he got to his death sentence, the more he decided to talk. But it was me he talked to. I wanted the story. I made the mistake of listening. Then, when I’d heard what he had to say, it was too late. His sentence got commuted, as long as he kept talking.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  “No.” Carter looked down at his sleeves, rolled them back into place, buttoned the cuffs loosely. He’d gotten used to wearing long-sleeved shirts, even in L.A.’s sometimes hellish summer weather. “No. But some idiot decided he wanted to study Georg Bauer’s brain— that was his name—and Bauer took advantage of the possibilities. He escaped and started killing again.”

  She knew the name. Vaguely knew the cold, calculating face from television shots. “Oh, God. Carter, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. It’s been years. The first time or two, he,” Carter stopped, swallowed. “He sent me a thank you note. So, after these healed, I decided I’d find him. I’ve been looking ever since.”

  Mac put a hand to her scalp, remembering. “My hair. “Did you think—”

  “At first.”

  She put her hand down. It shook a little, so she covered it with her other hand.

  “I don’t know why you saw what you did, McKenzie, but that doesn’t make you crazy.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then what does it make me?”

  “Something different, something wonderful.”

  Carter left, a feeling settling somewhere between the pit of his stomach and the damaged part of his heart he had thought would never heal. He had left her sleeping again, resting lightly, but this time there was a serenity over her features he hadn’t seen there before. He did not think he was fooling himself by thinking he’d put it there.

  He bumped into a gurney in the hallway. The orderly bringing it out of a room had oversteered and they collided. He and the blonde woman following it stepped aside. She had a doctor’s jacket on over her expensive suit. She looked at Carter only slightly more warmly than she might look at a cockroach.

  He danced aside a step. “Sorry.” He looked down at the gurney. A young boy was wrapped tightly into the sheets and strapped down to the stretcher. His face was slack, the eyes closed, drool stringing from his mouth. “I didn’t hurt him—”

  “No,” the doctor said coolly. “He’s catatonic. You wouldn’t reach him if you nuked him.”

  She motioned the orderly to push the gurney down the corridor.

  Carter’s pleasant mood thinned considerably. “Sorry,” he repeated inadequately.

  “It was nothing you did,” the doctor said. She turned away, following after her patient. She had a crumpled-up napkin in her hand, a drawing he thought, for he could see the multicolors of crayon decorating it. As she walked, she crumpled the napkin up into a tighter and tighter ball until Carter could see nothing of it whatsoever.

  He signed out at the reception desk, verifying it with the attendant, and left, telling himself he would leave McKenzie there no longer than necessary. He did not see a lean, hard-jawed man back into a room entrance as he passed, a man who watched him intently.

  Jack watched the other man go by. The receptionist had stopped him cold, even in janitorial jumpers, but this jerk had waltzed right in like he owned the place. He leaned on his mop, waiting until the other’s footsteps had faded and he could hear elevator doors. Who the hell was this Carter Wyndall and what was he doing here with McKenzie? He could feel his lips thin as though he were sucking out a long-necked bottle of beer without taking a breath. Maybe he’d taken the baseball bat to the wrong man in Mac’s life. She hadn’t come running home to papa. She’d had another stud waiting for her all along. Maybe she’d met him on the college campus. They were always bringing in some liberal jerk to lecture. Well, she wouldn’t get away with it. She might be locked behind closed doors, but Carter Wyndall wasn’t. Time to get in a little more practice, Jack decided. He dropped the mop in the alcove. “Batters up!”

  Chapter 24

  John Whiteside woke to a promising Seattle day. The sky was a brilliant cerulean blue and the few clouds which came through were faint, white tails which drifted by quickly. He showered, shaved, and came out to the kitchen, looking for coffee since Sarah had already been out of bed long enough that her side had been cold when he got up. But the kitchen, when he walked in, was even cooler. He double-checked the coffeemaker, his face twisted in disappointment. The filter unit was clean and ready to go, but that was it. Sarah must have had an early meeting, planning for the summer school session. He decided to rummage through his in-laws’ cupboards and make coffee himself.

  It was an experience he didn’t relish. He didn’t like pawing through other people’s belongings and damn sure didn’t like the idea of somebody going through his. While the coffee began to brew, he found the morning paper at the front door. Sarah didn’t read the morning paper, but she at least could have tossed it in, he thought as he tucked it under his elbow. Good thing it was a clear day.

  The whole idea of spending the time at the in-laws was not a comfortable one for him, but Sarah had been so emphatic after McKenzie’s ordeal that he knew he’d be voted down if he objected, so he hadn’t. Last night the kids had spent the evening with their friends to get off to school more easily, so he was able to kick back and read the paper the way he liked to without the various sections being torn out of his hands. He’d call Sarah from the line at lunchtime and see what was up. He finished his coffee with an English muffin, then left for work.

  He called early for lunch and got his mother-in-law. “Hey, Betsy. Is Sarah home yet?”

  “Oh, John. I’m so glad to hear from you. We were worried about Sarah. No, she’s not home.”

  “She’s probably tied up in a meeting. She told me the book budget was murder for the summer session. Well, just tell her I called. I’ll be home around five thirty.”

  Betsy Beckmann hung up and turned to her husband, who’d drifted into the kitchen when the phone rang. She smiled in relief. “That was John. He said Sarah had gone to a meeting at school. You see, we were all worried over nothing. They’ll both be home later.”

  Chester Beckmann warmed up his coffee, nodding. “That’s good. I didn’t think that could be her I heard leaving last night. Probably the Collins girl next door. I know she’s twenty, and all, but they should make her stick to reasonable hours coming and going.”

  His wife put her hand on her shoulder. “I listen to you talking, and hear your father. Remember when we were dating?”

  Chester tilted his head a little. “Do I!” He laughed, and drew his wife closer to him.

  At five thirty, John trudged up the sidewalk to his in-laws’ house, stomping the factory dirt off his shoes. He came in the kitchen door to find both of them sitting at the table, fixing snap beans for dinner. The family van hadn’t been in the drive.

  “Sarah still not home?”

  “No, John. That meeting must have run over.”

  “You hear from her?” He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and tasted it. From the strength of it, it was the same batch he’d brewed that morning. Well, it was better than nothing.

  “No, just what you told me, that she’d gone to school.”

  H
e blinked, both at the slight bitterness of the drink, and at his mother-in-law. “But she never called you? I mean, I don’t know that she went into work. I just assumed ... she wasn’t here this morning when I got up—” Chester Beckmann stood up. “We thought you knew where she was.”

  John was already fishing out his well-worn leather wallet and taking out the number for the English department. Without saying anything to his father-in-law, he picked up the phone and dialed.

  He got one of the department secretaries who giggled a little at the idea that Sarah would be there, adding, “We don’t even start work on the summer session until next week. Even teachers get some time off!”

  He hung up. “No meeting,” he said to Betsy’s worried face. “She hasn’t been there.”

  “Then where could she be?”

  John Whiteside stood for a moment. His clothes were stiff with metallic dust and dirt from his job as plant manager, and his feet hurt vaguely, and one knuckle stung from when he’d had to take a wrench to a stubborn tool and die setup and the sucker had flipped back on him. He didn’t want his wife to be missing. He didn’t want to not know where she was or what she was doing.

  “I’m going home,” he said. “First. I’ll call from there.”

  It made him feel no better to see the van in the driveway, dusk gathering about the house, when he pulled up. House lights were on, blazing out the windows. As he approached the driveway entrance, flies buzzed angrily in and out, a lot of them that sunset hadn’t yet driven away, and he could smell the reek of death.

  He charged through the door and damn near killed himself tripping over his wife’s prone figure. It was the grotesque object in the open refrigerator that smelled, swollen and crawling with flies. He caught himself on the kitchen counter, turned, and looked.

  It might have been a dog’s head, once, tongue blackened and pushing out of the toothful grimacing mouth. He pushed the refrigerator door shut, trapping flies and the stink inside, thinking that they’d never use that appliance again. Sarah groaned and stirred on the floor, her glasses lopsided on her face, her sable hair feathered about her head.

  He wet a kitchen towel and knelt beside her. As he ran a hand over the back of her head, helping her to sit, he could feel a lump the size of a goose egg. She must have fainted and knocked herself cold.

  She held onto his hands with hers, chilled. “John—the fridge—”

  “I know.”

  “It was Cody.”

  He hadn’t known McKenzie or her dog that well, though she’d brought him over to play with the kids a couple of times. The carrion object was not recognizable to him. But its significance was.

  “He’s been here.”

  Sarah shuddered. “He’s been all over here.” She groaned. “What time is it?”

  “About seven.”

  “God. I’ve been here all night.”

  “And day. Do you want me to call the paramedics?”

  She started to shake her head no, then winced. “Later,” she amended. “I’ve got to call someone first.”

  “Who?”

  “On the machine. Some policeman in Los Angeles. McKenzie’s in trouble.” She groaned again, and licked chapped lips. “John, I’m so scared. She’s in real trouble.”

  Carter was more than ready for mu shu pork and lo mein by the time the knock on the door sounded. He yanked it open eagerly and then slammed it shut.

  The brief moment had shown Dolan framed by the two Feds, Franklin and Sofer, an apologetic look on the spotted editorial assistant’s face.

  Carter had not locked the door and had only moved away a step or two when it opened on its own and the three men edged inside, Dolan whining, “Jeez.” A cloud of fragrant smells from the carry-out dinner came with them, scents of plum sauce and garlic and other wonderful aromas.

  “I’m sorry, Windy.”

  “Forget it.” Carter watched the Feds shut the front door carefully.

  Franklin wore a hideously purple tie this time, like something dyed at the bottom of grape fermentation vats. A pink neon golf club graced its widely flared bottom. Sofer looked like he’d acquired a sunburn since yesterday, and it had already begun to peel down his freckled forehead. Carter felt his nose twitch. He rubbed at it to hide whatever he was really thinking and said, “How did you know?”

  Franklin sat down on the edge of the low bookcase which ran the length of the living room wall. “I learned something last year,” he said, settling his tie over his belt and navel. “I got to spend a month in London at New Scotland Yard. It’s not that they’re any better than we are, it’s just that they’re so damn thorough.”

  Sofer let go of Dolan’s arm and the lanky young man made a beeline for the dinette table and sat down, bags and all, his face creased in sorrow at his failure. One of the bags had begun to leak a little, and smelled of the brown sauce used with lo mein. Under Dolan’s elbow was a tightly clenched file folder, but Carter had no doubt Franklin or Sofer would take it whenever they wanted.

  Sofer said, “We asked around about the pizza delivery. Seems you don’t get your pizza that way. The neighbors say you like to go down to D’amico’s two blocks over for free pitcher night, that you have a fondness for hot pizza and cold beer. The neighbors say last night was the first night in their memory you’ve ever had pizza delivered. So we wondered who was delivering, and what.”

  Franklin finished, “So when the same kid showed up tonight with Chinese, we knew you were having something else delivered.” He pointed with his chin to the computer. “A little behind in your technology?”

  Dolan sniffed. “Told you guys it’s all he can do to just turn it on. There’s no way I can get him to download a GIF, or modem files.”

  “Dinosaurs,” Franklin interrupted. “We’re both dinosaurs, Carter. If you’d stuck to the computer for transmission, we wouldn’t be here now. But you had to have hand-to-hand delivery. That’s the way of things, isn’t it? You’re just enough over forty to be slightly out of step. Let’s see what you’ve got in the folder.”

  Carter came over to the dinette as Dolan, nudged by Agent Sofer, opened the folder and spread it out. Two pictures, one the computer-generated photo he’d had yesterday and the other an aged copy, putting the girl into the womanhood she’d probably achieve today. The two agents looked at the revised photo. Franklin muttered, grudgingly, “Not bad work.”

  “Thanks.” Enthusiasm replaced the misery on Dolan’s spotted face. “We didn’t have the artist do much here and here—the bone structure suggested she wouldn’t age a lot. And it’s only been, what, ten, twelve years?”

  Carter looked at the woman. The computer had colorized the photo, and the sharp blue eyes glared at him from under a fringe of malt-colored hair. Mousy brown , he thought. He didn’t know the woman. Still, her image niggled at him as though he ought to. The white lab coat had been replaced by updated clothing. They’d even changed the hairstyle slightly. He knew the artist the newspaper consulted was good at what she did. Her portraits had proven themselves time and again. He knew that when this woman was found, if she was found, she would probably match this rendition. Then, why didn’t he recognize her as he’d thought he would?”

  Franklin said, as though he wasn’t, really, “Sorry, Carter, but we’ve got to take this.”

  Carter sighed. He moved away from the dinette table. Dolan looked up, then away quickly. Sofer added, “And we’ll be by tomorrow morning for the originals at your office.”

  The tension deflated abruptly from Dolan. He nodded, misery again settling on his features. Franklin and Sofer swapped looks.

  “Look,” added Franklin, smoothing his tie again. “If it’s any consolation, whoever did John Nelson probably had nothing to do with the Bauer case. That’s the way it’s shaping up, anyway. Sources are telling us he came in because of a quiet, low profile investigation on Federal funding of the new subway system, and the problems with the methane gas underground and water seepage, and possible misuse of the money.”
r />   Carter felt his eyebrows go up. “He was hit because of the MTA?”

  “Subcontractors had some Mafia connections, it appears. Anyway, the funding committee John was on had asked him to look into it, very subtly, but evidently someone knew he was coming.”

  Not that he’d ever really thought it could have been Bauer, but—Carter sat down at the little dinette opposite Dolan. Nelson shot because of a corruption probe. John always had hated government. He looked up, saw the two watching him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Sofer shrugged. “No one’s positive yet, but things are shaking down that way.” He headed for the door. He looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t suppose you could swap us any info?”