by Thomas Perry
He said, “What’s your name?”
She answered, “Violet Peterson.”
His eyes had a new intensity. “What’s your husband’s name?”
“William Tanaghrisson Peterson. He’s a professor of psychology at the University of Buffalo.”
“Jane McKinnon bought your plane ticket. Is she a relative? Are you related to Jane McKinnon?”
Violet nodded. “Not in the way you keep track of these things, but the way we do.”
“I see,” said Marshall. He stared at the table, where he had arranged her ID cards and licenses and tickets. He seemed to turn his mind inward, as though he had received a blow and he was testing how much it hurt. “I wish you hadn’t done this.”
“Done what?”
“She was under police surveillance. The F.B.I. thought it was following her around the country for over a week. You’ve been obstructing a murder investigation.”
“I flew out of Buffalo on a ticket with my own name on it. I’m here for a legitimate purpose. I don’t know anything about a murder investigation.”
“What legitimate purpose?”
“This week I was here for the Cherry Creek Powwow. Next I had planned to go to Wisconsin for another one.”
“You’re from New York. You must be some kind of Iroquois, right?”
“Seneca.”
“The people here are Cheyennes. In Wisconsin they’re what—Ojibway?”
“I was going to a Menominee celebration. You don’t have to be a Menominee. You could go, too. I’ve always wanted to make the powwow circuit, but there was always a reason why I couldn’t. This time I could.”
“Was that Jane’s idea?”
“Not really. Senecas made a point of traveling around to visit other nations a thousand years ago.”
“Has she done it?”
“Quite a few times, I believe. She used to be very political.”
Marshall’s face was sad. “You’re not afraid of what’s going to happen to you now, are you?”
Violet surprised herself. “I know you can make things very hard and unpleasant for me right now. But I know that if I wait, there’s a limit, an end. You have to let me out because I haven’t done anything wrong. At that point, my side gets to take its turn.”
“Your side?”
“My lawyers. I don’t know you, and I don’t know anything about this murder, and I don’t know how watching Jane would constitute an investigation. Maybe it does, but maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know what this really is, but I know what it will look like. It wouldn’t be the first time that police have used public safety as an excuse to harass members of a troublesome and politically active minority group who were going to a peaceful assembly.”
“Don’t worry,” said Marshall. “I’ve been around long enough to know better than to arrest people who want to be arrested.” He stared at her hard. “But that’s not the real penalty for obstructing a murder investigation.”
“What is?”
“Thousands of people get murdered in this country every year. We don’t catch all of the killers. Even if we find the man we’re looking for, get him convicted and put away, we’ll probably never know what else he did while we were looking for him. A body is being found somewhere tonight. Right now. We may not ever find out who that person used to be, let alone who killed her. Will you ever be absolutely sure that the man we’re looking for didn’t do it during the extra week you bought him?”
21
Jane flew to San Francisco as Julia Kieler, then boarded a flight in San Francisco for Rochester, Minnesota, using a driver’s license and credit card in the name Diane Fierstein. The old habits had come back almost too easily: never start in the direction of your real destination, never miss a chance to put a pursuer you haven’t yet seen at a disadvantage. She spent the flight lying back in her seat with her eyes closed.
What was Carey doing right now? He was probably asleep, even then holding the attention of the police at home. These days he had little possibility of getting himself into more trouble, but no possibility of freeing himself of suspicion. Jane’s practical purpose in going back there had been to present the police with a dull domestic scene that would make them lose interest in him. She supposed she should have known he would already be under surveillance, and that showing up would not change that. But the surveillance had a positive side: as long as the police were watching him, he was safe.
Was Violet Peterson safe? Jane had needed Vi as a decoy to break herself out, but that left Vi and Billy in the same state as Carey—frozen in place, watched and suspected, but not exactly in trouble because nothing they had done could easily be restated as a criminal charge.
She was more confident about placing Dahlman in the retirement home. As long as the money held out and he didn’t need the services of a doctor, he would almost certainly be safe. But the price of keeping him away from the police and his enemies was keeping him away from her too. Whatever else he knew would be of no use to her, because he was placed in storage like the others.
As she stepped off the plane into Rochester Municipal Airport, she wondered whether she had prudently provided for the safety of her family and friends, or simply locked in place everyone who might have helped her. She rented a car, drove it in a circular path to be sure she had attracted no attention at the airport, then committed herself to Route 52 and headed north.
She thought about her enemy, trying to feel for a solid, recognizable shape in the dark. She had asked Sid Freeman if he had ever seen any women or children among the clients sent to him. There had been few women and no children. Jane searched her memory again for a census of her own runners. After a few moments, she was sure: the people who were in jeopardy, but who had no relatives or friends or co-conspirators at hand ready to help them, were more often women or children than men. The people whose only option in times of danger was to run were the weak and the young. Most men would turn and fight unless the odds were absurd. They only came to her after they had tried on their own and failed. She didn’t have to spend any time wondering about the discrepancy. The one thing that few women and no children had was money, and Sid had said the face-changers were in it for money.
But who were they? There had been two men who had gone to Dahlman in Chicago after the death of Sarah Hoffman and posed as policemen. There had been two different men who had shown up at the hospital in Buffalo to kill him. They worked in pairs. That might be useful, too. At the very least, if she saw two men behaving suspiciously, she would know enough to get out of their way.
Runners had come to Jane because someone had told them that her kind of help existed, if they could only make it as far as her door. It had always been one person telling another—sometimes a social worker who had gotten tired of telling clients that the system had no way to protect them, or maybe the prisoner in the next cell, who had been whispering her name to himself like a mantra for years. Even if the face-changers had turned disappearing into a practical business, their operation could only work by quiet confidences and tips, too.
But the people who came to them needed to have money, and that made certain differences. If the word had simply gotten around among people who had troubles, then the face-changers would have to spend much of their time turning unacceptable runners away. That could go on for only a short time before one of the rejects got caught by the police and traded the face-changers for a lesser charge. No, someone must be doing an initial screening of the clients, maybe even recruiting them.
The screener had to be somebody who came into contact with potential clients. There had to be some place where this secret operation touched the surface, some person who met prospective clients and heard their stories, and then said, “If it’s that bad, and you have no defense and no way of getting past it, there may still be a way … if you’re willing to spend the money.”
Maybe it was a banker. There were certainly bankers who catered to people who had reason to expect that some day they might need to disappea
r: drug dealers, money launderers, gun runners, embezzlers. Or it could be a stockbroker, the one who invested and hid illicit money in the maze of electronic transactions that flashed from computer to computer each day.
It could even be a receptive, sympathetic bartender who worked in the right spot. People who stole a lot of money seldom did it so they could stay home in the evening and watch television by themselves. No, Jane realized, a bartender was wrong. There were bartenders who made extra money by trafficking in information and introductions; some would tell you where to place a bet or buy drugs, or would give a whore your room number. A few would even set up a meeting with a man who would kill your rival for you. But those were rare and unreliable sources of income—for the dishonest bartender, certainly, but even more so for the dealers and prostitutes and bookies, and the market for disappearances was much sparser than the market for drugs, sex, or gambling. The bartender would have to chat with thousands of people, each of them when the bar was empty or nearly so, before one of them asked him the right question. It might take a hundred years to meet three clients.
The screener had to be somebody who spoke privately with a lot of people whom he might expect to be in serious trouble at some point. They had to come to him and volunteer to tell him their stories, because if the trouble was public enough for a stranger to hear of it and approach them, then it would be too late to disappear. They had to tell him what the problem was, and that would require that they believe they could reveal it without getting in worse trouble. That sounded a lot like a lawyer.
The lawyer would be a specialist in criminal law. Judging from the sums that had been spent on Hardiston’s plastic surgery, it would probably be the sort of practice that didn’t take many small-time cases. Armed robbers got a lot of police notice and press attention and public concern. The only thing they didn’t get a lot of was money. They were, as a rule, not good candidates for disappearing. They were temperamentally unsuited for taking instructions, which was why their job prospects had narrowed down to showing up in places where cash changed hands in plain sight so they could grab it.
The people Sid Freeman had described sounded like white-collar criminals who had gotten away with serious money. In Jane’s experience, that kind of runner was easy to hide. In order to get that far, they must have taught themselves to lie and pretend to be something they weren’t for an extended period of time. They had to be smart enough to have worked themselves into positions of trust, where they could skim profits or take kickbacks or accept bribes or offer them. Before you could get into trouble for insider trading, you had to be an insider. And before you could be charged with tax evasion, you had to make enough to owe taxes.
The lawyer would have to be highly regarded—not just in the underground, but above the surface. People who were in the position to pay a couple hundred thousand to get the right plastic surgeon probably had millions. When a person like that got into trouble, his first impulse was to get himself the biggest, fanciest lawyer he could find.
Jane sensed that she was taking this too far. There was no evidence that it was a lawyer at all. She decided to put the screener out of her mind. The ones she had to face now were the pairs of men who weren’t sitting in offices somewhere. They had been out getting false identity papers made and transporting clients from place to place. They had also, when the job required it, had the stomach to kill people who had seen their client’s face, and had the cunning to frame one of the survivors for their murders.
They had not come from the world the clients inhabited. Just knowing that Sid Freeman existed put them in the category of people who had connections rather than credentials, and who bought their coats a little loose so the gun wouldn’t show. At least two pairs of them, and maybe more, had managed to operate in a coordinated, effective way in different parts of the country at once. Two of them were good enough to have convinced Dahlman they were policemen, and the other two had managed to anticipate the route Jane would take to get Dahlman out of Buffalo, which was better than the real police had done.
For the past few minutes a quiet, insistent alarm had been sounding in the back of Jane’s mind, and now she allowed herself to acknowledge it: these men had certain disturbing qualities. They had a comfortable working knowledge of where to obtain illegal commodities: good fake IDs, guns without histories. They had been up to carrying out a regular massacre on the medical staff at Dahlman’s clinic. They had been knowledgeable enough not to simply make Dr. Sarah Hoffman’s murder look like a botched burglary, but to make it look like the way an intelligent but inexperienced killer would go about making it look like a botched burglary.
They all worked undeviatingly to fulfill a fairly complex and delicate plan of action, which would indicate that they had received very specific orders from somewhere. They were as brutal and violent as anyone, but also unusually patient and organized. The foot soldiers acted with the sort of discipline that came only when failure carried a more convincing probability of reprisal than the legal system offered. And they worked with a benign and respectable above-the-surface screener, the friendly face who could make that crucial phone call and get you a favor. There was a lot about this that smelled as though Dahlman had fallen into the path of some small, fledgling enterprise of the Mafia.
As she thought more about it, she sensed that the framing of Dr. Dahlman didn’t feel like Mafia work. They were imaginative enough to concoct it, and professional enough to carry it off if they wanted to, but would they want to? They had thrived for five generations by keeping things simple. If they had wanted five people silenced, they would have swept through the clinic that day and killed all of them at once. Ornate, rickety constructions designed to throw suspicion in all directions—this wasn’t Mafia style at all. They never wanted to cast suspicion in other directions. The protection of all of their existing operations demanded that everyone know who had done it.
She considered the possibility that these men might have something to do with law enforcement. But no, that wasn’t right either. There were certain standard signs. When people like that needed arms that couldn’t be traced, they took them from the piles of confiscated weapons that had supposedly been destroyed. They didn’t need to go to anyone like Sid Freeman. And they didn’t need any false IDs from him, either. They had access to the equipment for making real ones in false names.
As Jane drove along the dark highway, following the Mississippi toward the north, she picked out the constellation the Old People had called the Loon, and began to navigate by it. The world had changed so much since then, and none of the changes had been anything that mattered. The foot trails had been straddled by wagon ruts, then covered over with asphalt. This stretch of land had always looked like this: flat prairies covered in the summer by long grasses.
The Grandfathers had come here regularly on foot in groups of three or four warriors. Just to get as far from Nundawaonoga as she was now, they needed to pass through the countries of enemies: the Eries, the Shawnees, the Miami, Kickapoo, Potawatomi, Sauk, Fox, Mascouten, and Iowa. They had done it by moving in silence and covering their tracks carefully. They had followed a course parallel with the main trails but had stayed off them, just as she was doing now. When the Europeans came they called these little bands “skulking parties.”
What they really represented was the customary way of making war. When a Nundawaono died, the women of his clan—his mother, sisters, and aunts—would ask the men of other clans, who were their husbands, to make up for his loss. This they did by traveling to the land of an enemy people and bringing back a prisoner. It was what men did for women, what one clan did for another, what the clear-minded did for the bereaved.
If the grief of the women was inconsolable, the prisoner would be tormented to demonstrate his bravery, killed, and eaten so his power would still belong to the people. But usually, the prisoner would be adopted to take the name, home, family, and responsibilities of the lost Seneca.
When a life was lost it weakened the sid
e of good and order and happiness by one, and robbed the people of the services of a human being. It made the side of chaos and cruelty and disorder and darkness a little stronger. Whether or not a person had ever heard of the Twin Brothers, that much was undeniable.
It seemed odd to her that tonight the only force in motion was a skulking party of one small, weak Nundawaono woman. But she had seen enough fighting to know that it had probably always seemed that bad to the ones who had to slip quietly through the forest into the country of enemies, and she had been to this part of the battleground before.
22
The electric alarm clock gave an insistent high-pitched chirping sound, and the woman rolled over to reach for it, her long black hair streaming behind her on the pillow. She turned it off and listened to the sounds of cars and trucks moving on the street below the window: New York. She squinted at the display on the clock. It was three A.M. She slipped out of bed quietly, then padded across the carpet to the bathroom, closed the door, and stepped into the shower. The warm water came out in a hundred hard jets and made her skin feel alive again. She could not possibly have had more than two hours of sleep, but she was already alert.
She emerged from the bathroom with one of the hotel’s big soft towels wrapped around her, and saw that the man was just sitting up in the bed. His voice was hoarse when he said, “It’s still dark. What time is it?”
She moved closer and smiled down at him apologetically. “It’s three-fifteen. I’m sorry, but this is part of the game, too. When you have to travel, you try to do it in the dark when nobody else is likely to see you.”
He reached out and grasped her hand, then gave a gentle tug that made her sit on the bed. She let him kiss her neck. “That’s all,” she announced, and stood up. Her eyes softened. “It was wonderful. But if you make me forget I have to get you out of here on time, then it won’t happen again. The flight to Morocco leaves at six, so you’d better get in the shower.”