by Craig Smith
‘What was Massey saying about prosecuting Missy Worth?’ I asked Garrat when I had shut the door to her office.
Garrat rolled her eyes. ‘He thinks it is something I need to look at if our only capital case is Mary Worth. Otherwise Booker can claim he didn’t do it – and he’s right.’
‘Did he say what he’s going to use for evidence after her confession gets tossed?’
‘He’ll think about crossing that bridge after he’s burned it.’
‘I want you to make me a promise, Pat.’
Hand up, stopping me, ‘I’m not touching her, Rick. She’s a victim in this thing.’
‘The promise I want is that you’ll take this to trial yourself, if and when we catch this guy.’
‘Let’s catch him first.’
‘We’ll get him,’ I said. ‘Sooner or later, if he hasn’t killed himself, he’s going to be our yo Ds.
I want the promise now.’
‘Why now? Why not let me think about it and look at the situation.’
I shook my head. ‘I want to know whether to kill the son of a bitch with my bare hands or bring him to you.’
She smiled. ‘You can bring him in alive, Rick. I’ll take lead on it – just for you.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
I smiled with a new thought. ‘Do you suppose Lynn Griswold will still be his lawyer?’
‘If he is,’ she said, ‘it will be Griswold’s first defeat.’
Chapter 68
Darkness.
WILL WALKS TO BEN LYONS, whose eyes are closed. Ben’s breathing is ragged, wet. He sleeps. ‘Ben!’ The eyes open. ‘How are you feeling?’ Hissing pain for answer.
Penny will not kill him. Will brings her to him time after time. The gun is reloaded, but she will not touch it, will not give to God and Will what they demand. All the same, Ben is close to death. God takes him soon. One way or the other.
Will studies the crusted wound, the twin bloodied lumps in the fat muscle. He bends over the man, touches his face in compassion. The man’s big hand takes Will’s wrist in a tight grip, and Will is trapped. His pistol is in his pocket, but he can’t reach it with his left hand. He feels the grip of the big man tighten. Will’s bones are almost breaking. Even dying Ben Lyons possesses the power to kill, and Will knows he has made a terrible mistake. The hissing comes again; only now Will understands it: ‘Water!’
Will nods. ‘I’ll get some water for you,’ he says. The hand releases him, and Will stands. He studies the grey face, the wounds. Water might keep him alive a bit longer. He goes to the prison cell and tells Tabit to come out. When she does, he points her toward the laundry room and tells her to give Ben a drink of water.
After helping Ben to drink, Tabit asks Will for blankets and food and water for the rest.
Will sends her into the cell with more water, watching them as they drink. Only when she has finished serving the others does she take some herself. He tells her he will get them food soon.
He locks the door and goes upstairs. The climb is hard for him. His muscles ache. His exhaustion is terrible. He finds bread but will not eat it himself. He takes them two thin slices apiece. Then he finds one threadbare wool blanket in a closet. Tabit asks for more when he delivers it, but he tells her they have more than they need. It is more than his grandfather ever gave him. Will had been locked away so long on some occasions he thought he must die of hunger – three, four days, a week, even ten days once. In the end, the suffering had only made him stronger. That’s what his grandfather told him, anyway.
Before he can leave, Tabit asks to bring Mr Lyons back to their room. Will almost refuses her but he decides that since Penny will not cooperate he might as well send Ben back to them. ‘If you can pull him across the carpet,’ he answers, ‘you can have him.’
Tabit organises it; Tamara and Penny assist. They slip the blanket under Ben and struggle to drag him across the carpet. They haven’t the strength to do it easily, but in time the man is taken close enough that his son crawls out of the room and helps them. Boy has two ruined knees; his wounds taking all his strength, but still he pulls his father’s weight as best he can.
Penny glances up at Will when she sees him studying her brother. She worries for Boy.
Will wonders if she would sacrifice Tabit or Tamara to save Boy.
Tabit is the dangerous one; she gets stronger as the hours pass. Despite being the youngest, she begins to lead the others. He ought to offer Tabit to Penny, but Tamara is the traitor. Who would not kill a traitor for the sake of a loved one?
Chapter 69
Friday 4:56 p.m., March 26.
I FOUND WHAT PASSED FOR the boss in a back room of the library. I asked him if he knew who William Booker was. He did. He had been working the night Booker was attacked in front of the library. He had waited with him until the ambulance arrived.
Mr Wirtzmyer was a tall, thin, bald man with a long, lonesome face. He was my age – pushing toward sixty, if not a year or two beyond. He possessed the quiet habits of a lifetime of libraries: a walk that seemed to slink, hands that had never known a callous, a voice that barely rose above a whisper. He looked to be suffering from a surfeit of virtues, a life lived so grey and frail the colour had left his blood. ‘Too bad he didn’t die right there,’ Wirtzmyer offered softly.
I nodded agreeably at the sentiment and took a second look at the guy. I had made a bad call.
Wirtzmyer was a librarian with Vikings for ancestors.
‘We think he was either talking to someone here or he was looking for something in the area,’ I said. ‘It might help us find him if we can figure out which.’
‘If he checked out a book or tape, I can find out what it was.’
I shook my head. ‘We know he didn’t bring anything back to the Merriweather house.
I’d appreciate your checking anyway, but I’ve got a feeling whatever he wanted he found right here. My first question is a bit awkward.’ The old fellow seemed to brace himself. ‘Have you had any absences since Wednesday? Maybe a regular who hasn’t shown up for the past couple of days?’
The librarian saw at once what I was driving at. His face lost what little blood he possessed. He thought about it. He wouldn’t know about the regulars so much, he said. But the workers might. I pushed it. ‘Any staff absences?’
‘No, I think we’re all on schedule.’ He babbled a bit more. One absence, yes, but then back to work today.
‘I wonder if I might talk to your people?’
The librarian thought about this. ‘Do you have a picture to help them recall his face?’ I tossed him one of Will’s prison issue portraits. He considered it, then looked at me sorrowfully.
‘Not everyone is here, of course.’
‘Let’s start with the people we have,’ I said. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
After we determined Booker had not applied for a library card, we went around the library talking to the employees. I kept my mouth shut and let Wirtzmyer ask the questions. He was a thorough man and seemed to understand exactly what I was after. When he showed them Booker’s picture, the librarian took each shake of the head as hard as I did.
‘I have two girls myself,’ Mr Wirtzmyer said as he walked me out the front door. ‘I sure hope you find him in time.’
Once in my car, I looked at my list of off duty library employees and quickly sketched out a plan. The first two turned out to be easy to find. They were home. Friendly enough.
Excited to be a part of things. Then came the thoughtful shrug I had seen the others give. No one missing that they could think of. Neither had seen Booker inside. I was fairly sure by this point that Max’s people were going to turn up a bus or taxi driver who had given Will Booker a ride somewhere, but I pushed to the end of my list anyway. Call it an old cop’s diehard determination: every lead chased down no matter how thin. We are the statistical leaders in lottery participation, after all, which is what passes for a faith in miracles these days.
‘A friend’s house,’ a mother told me about one young man. I got there and the mother of the friend said they had just taken off for the park to go sledding.
I found the kid in the midst of a group of maybe a hundred people in the twilight. A bonfire illuminated the hilltop and kept off the chill. This kid hadn’t seen Booker either, but he was a good guy. He let me ride with him on his sled back down the hill to my car.
Chapter 70
Friday 8:40 p.m., March 26.
I TRACKED IRENE FOLLET through three of my own favourite haunts, getting a contact high.
One of her co-workers had told me she was helping a friend celebrate something or another. ‘A happy hour gone bad,’ the bartender at the Dug Out told me, when I asked if he had seen her.
‘Try the Shamrock,’ he said. ‘I think she lives around there somewhere.’
‘Can you tell me what she looks like?’ I asked.
‘Got a t-shirt on. You can’t miss it.’
‘Why is that?’
A quiet smile, ‘You’ll see.’
I knew most everyone who frequented the Shamrock, but with quite a few people I didn’t have a name, so when I stepped into my favourite tavern, I looked for distinctive t-shirts. The first t-shirt I saw was kind of goofy, so I asked the woman, ‘Are you Irene Follet?’ She pointed back to a table full of maniacs, and I went on. Irene Follet was in her early-to-mid-forties, a woman who still wore sneakers and blue jeans and plain, unadorned t-shirts. I saw at once what the bartender had meant though. Her figure did wonders for the faded yellow t-shirt she wore.
Absolute wonders. She had green eyes, red curly hair, and pale freckled skin. I knew the face and had admired her figure more than any other on several occasions. But I had never spoken to t I the woman. Once or twice I had caught a coy smile tossed in my direction, but I’d never approached her. She was usually a part of a group, people I didn’t really know.
‘Irene Follet?’ I asked. ‘I’m Rick Trueblood. I’m an investigator with the county prosecutor’s office.’
That was when she laughed.
Not many people laugh when you say prosecutor, so I looked around the table wondering what was so funny. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘Apparently.’ Giggling now, looking me in the eye like I was a perfect idiot.
‘I’ve seen you around,’ I said, ‘but I don’t remember ever being introduced...’
Coy, having some fun now. ‘You don’t remember dancing with me last Saturday night?’
Something about the voice, the straight white teeth, the way her square shoulders moved so easily. And the t-shirt in all its glory...
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘Was that you?’
Irene turned to the others at the table, five of them in all, every one of them toasted. ‘I never saw anyone get as upset as this guy just because someone wanted to cut in while he was dancing!’
‘Oh, God…’ I muttered.
‘Little trouble with the old blackouts, Rick?’
Her girlfriend laughed, ‘The dreaded-blackouts! Been there, done it... just can’t remember what it was!’
They bounced this back and forth a little, leaving me feeling like a damn fool, but Irene
Follet was handling it okay. Like maybe she’d had some fun. ‘They didn’t hassle you any, did they?’ I asked. ‘The cops, I mean? Maybe take you down to the jail?’
This got some oohs and ahhs from her friends, a quiet little grin from Irene that I couldn’t read. ‘They pretty much had their hands full with you,’ she said, when her friends had quieted.
‘To tell you the truth,’ she added, ‘I thought they were going to have to shoot you!’
‘You watched it?’
‘I left when the SWAT team arrived.’
‘That wasn’t the SWAT team. They called all the rookies out. They were taking bets on whether any of them could cuff me.’
‘Anyone win?’
I grinned, ‘They did if they were betting on me.’ I got some razzing from her friends about my bravado, but Irene kind of liked it. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘if I embarrassed you the other night... or said anything inappropriate...’
‘Hey, I thought marriage sounded like a great idea!’
‘I didn’t ask you to marry me, did I? Tell me I didn’t propose marriage.’
The friend beside her liked this. ‘Breach of promise! Lawsuit! Lawsuit!’
Irene was kinder: ‘Hey, if you don’t remember me accepting, I don’t remember you asking. How’s that?’
‘I can live with that.’
‘You’re an awfully good dancer, though, and that’s important ... in a future husband.’
‘I’d love to buy you a drink so, you know, we could try to remember old times, but right now I’m on official business, I’m afraid. Something of an emergency actually. You work in the library, right?’
‘Ten years. But some days it feels like thirty. Is this about my overdue books?’
I pulled Will Booker’s photo out of my sports jacket. ‘I’m looking for anyone who saw this guy in the library. You didn’t happen to see him, did you?’
‘I remember him.’
‘Out front?’
She shook her head. ‘He was inside. Special collections. My area.’
‘Do you know who this guy is?’
One of her friends made a sound of recognition, and I held my hand up, checking him.
‘Not a clue. Kind of cute, though.’
‘You’re kidding me,’ her friend answered. ‘He’s like all over TV!’
‘I don’t watch TV. I don’t own one. Who is he?’
‘You heard about the minister’s kids?’ I asked.
‘I heard about that.’
‘Everybody’s heard about that,’ the friend shouted, taking a huge gulp of beer. ‘Talk about getting what you deserve! That preacher...!’
‘It wasn’t the preacher who got kidnapped,’ I told the guy. Then to Irene Follet. ‘This is
William Booker, the guy who took off with the preacher’s two daughters.’
Irene studied the picture again, ‘Well, he was in the library. Looked like a pretty quiet guy in there.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ her friend answered.
‘How many times did he show up?’ I asked.
She shook her head after a moment of reflection, ‘I don’t know. A couple times?
Three?’
‘Was he alone? Talking to anyone? Do you remember?’
‘I helped him out with the microfilm Sunday. Then I saw him reading it. That’s all I know.’
‘What was he looking at on microfilm?’
‘I didn’t pay any attention.’
‘Do you remember anything else? Was he with anyone?’
‘He was alone every time I saw him, but I remember he was reading a lot of different books.’
‘Did you see which ones?’
‘I remember the area where he got some of them. If that does anything for you.’
I looked at my watch. Four minutes till nine. ‘It might. What are you doing right noh=". d.
‘Goofing around.’ She looked at her friends, grinning. ‘Working on a blackout.’
‘You want to show me exactly where you saw this guy? I can bring you right back afterwards.’
She shrugged, ‘Why not?’
Chapter 71
Friday 9:06 p.m., March 26.
I CALLED WIRTZMYER AS SOON as we were outside. Once I was in the car I called Garrat and told her we might have a lead. Then I got hold of Max Dunn as I drove.
‘He was there?’ Max shouted.
‘My witness saw him inside two, maybe three times.’
‘It was three times,’ Irene Follet announced.
‘The thing is,’ I told Max, ‘there is no way we can put him inside the library the whole time, so he could still have gone out looking for a hideout.’
‘We’re going to finish the search no matter what,’ Max answered.
‘Is there any way you cou
ld spare some people?’
‘What do you need, buddy?’
‘The library is closed for the night, Max. I thought we might treat the place like a crime scene and get some people in there. Find his prints. Figure out what he was reading.’