She whimpered in her sleep and tugged the blanket up to her lips. Finally, the nightmare dissipated. It thinned out and disappeared, leaving her in a strange, dark void, eager for the sun to rise and the day to begin.
Bernard Lyle was eager too; eager to do what had to be done and go home.
The moment Faye, Scott, and Michael Fein entered Barstow, they knew something unusual was happening. A town that should be relatively quiet and asleep at this hour was buzzing. There was considerable traffic and an unexpected number of pedestrians moving about excitedly. A column of silver and gray smoke spiraling and dissipating over the west side of town drew Faye’s attention.
“What’s that ahead?” she asked.
“Looks like a bad fire,” Scott said.
Michael Fein sat up. He had been asleep for the past two hours.
“So we’re in Barstow, Michael. Which way now?” Scott demanded.
“You make a right here and then a quick left,” he said, his voice filled with concern. As they drew closer to Doctor Goodfellow’s house, the traffic became more congested until, finally, a policeman blocked any further progress. People lined the street and fire hoses crisscrossed like thick, brown snakes over the pavement. Horns blared. An ambulance wove its way through the traffic and then shot away.
Faye rolled down her window. Scott did the same and tried to look behind the trucks and cars ahead. Then he turned to Faye as they reached the policeman.
“Careful what you say,” Scott warned.
“What’s happening, officer?” she asked.
“House fire. Pretty bad one,” he said. “It’s just smoldering now, but we’d like to keep any traffic away from the scene. There are electrical problems right now and the area is not secured.”
“Whose house was it?” Michael Fein asked, shifting in his seat to see.
“Marvin Goodfellow.”
“Goodfellow! Is he all right?”
“Are you related?” the policeman responded.
“No, but I know him and his mother. Are they all right?” Michael asked again.
“There are no survivors, sir. Please pull over to the right or turn back,” the policeman said and started to wave at another car.
“Wait a minute,” Scott screamed. “Wait!”
The patrolman turned back, annoyed.
“Look, Mister, we’ve got…”
“How many bodies were found?”
“Two bodies, Doctor Goodfellow and his mother.”
“Any children hurt?”
“Not as far as I know, no.”
“Well, who knows for sure?” Scott demanded. “It’s very important,” he added when the policeman hesitated.
The patrolman tipped back his cap and then stretched out his arm to point.
“See that fireman over to the right, just behind the pickup. He’s the chief. Pull over into that space ahead, but don’t go any farther.”
“Thanks. Drive,” Scott ordered.
“Jesus,” Michael nuttered.
“This fire is rather convenient, don’t you think?” Scott said.
“Convenient?”
“What Scott means is your people knew he was aware of Goodfellow and that he might be coming out to see him and see if his daughter’s here,” Faye said.
“So we burned down his house and had our own psychological expert killed?”
“Why not?” Scott said turning on him. “You don’t hesitate to kill other people when it’s convenient. Just think, Michael,” he added, “it’s probably going to be convenient for them to kill you now, too.”
Faye pulled the car over to the curb behind the pick-up truck.
“I’ll go myself. Give me your keys again,” Scott demanded, holding out his palm.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she responded. “I’m not running off and neither is he,” she said, glaring back at Michael Fein. Scott hesitated, still holding his hand out. “Scott, you’ve got to trust someone. Your lawyer isn’t a bad place to start.”
“My lawyer?”
“Yes, your lawyer,” she said firmly. “I don’t like the way I was being used, either.”
Scott held her gaze for a moment and then pulled back his hand.
“All right. If he gives you any problem, just scream.” He looked at Michael. “After I kill him, we’ll explain why.”
“Mr. Fein isn’t going to give me any problems,” Faye said and reached under her seat to come up with a snub-nose .38. Scott smiled.
“You had that under there all this time?”
“Call it feminine paranoia. On the other hand, with an organization like the Solomon Organization at work, it might not be so much paranoia as good preparation.”
Scott nodded and got out of the car.
“Excuse me,” he said, approaching the fire chief. He looked up from his clipboard. He was a tall, lean man with graying dark brown hair. Right now his face was streaked with soot and ash, and his eyes revealed his fatigue. “The policeman back there told me you were the man to ask.”
“Ask what?”
“Were there…any children killed or hurt in the fire?”
“Children? No, sir. Only two bodies have been found, both adults.”
Scott looked toward the smoldering ruins. Most of the house was down to its foundation. Some of the firemen were chopping away at the pieces of charred walls that remained.
“Are you positive? I had reason to believe my daughter might have been in that house tonight.”
“We’ve combed through that place pretty good, sir. There are no other victims but the owner and his mother.”
Scott released a long-held breath.
“Thank you.”
“You might want to speak with those police detectives from Los Angeles, though,” the fire chief added and nodded toward the opposite end of the street. “They were asking after possible child victims, too.”
“Detectives?”
Scott focused his eyes on the two men talking to a local policeman. When they turned and looked in his direction, he quickly backed away.
“Thank you,” he said and retreated to the car.
“Well?” Faye asked as he got back in.
“No other victims.”
“Thank God,” Faye said.
“They’re here,” he said.
“Huh? Who’s here?”
“They’re here, too,” he said and spun around to seize Michael’s collar at the throat. He squeezed hard. Fein’s face turned red as he struggled to free himself. “Are those two with you? Were they the ones sent to shut up Goodfellow? Talk, you son of a bitch.”
“What two, Scott?” Faye asked.
“The policemen who first arrested me and who came to my apartment to warn me to stay away from Beezly…Detectives Parker and Fotowski. Well?” he demanded from Fein again.
Fein shook his head vigorously.
“You don’t even know who’s in your organization and who isn’t, do you? Do you, you bastard?”
“As far as I know, they’re not with us.”
“Maybe he’s not lying, Scott. We should go to them and ask for help.”
“Why would they be here? They’re out of their jurisdiction. And how would they know to come?”
“Where are we going to go from here, if we don’t go to the police now, Scott?” Faye asked quietly. Scott thought a moment and then spun on Michael Fein again, this time pressing his pistol to the man’s temple and pulling back the hammer.
“Where is she, damn you? Where have they taken her? Tell me or so help me God…”
“I don’t know. I don’t have anything to do with this end of it. Honest.”
“He could be telling the truth, Scott,” Faye said. “Killing him isn’t going to get him to talk anyway, is it?”
“She’s right, Mr. Lester,” Foto said. He had come up beside the car and now leaned in through the open window. Scott felt the barrel of Foto’s pistol on the back of his head. In the meantime, Lt. Parker opened Faye’s door.
“Why don’t you all get out, real slowly now,” he said. He had his pistol drawn, too, only much less conspicuously.
“I’ll shoot him,” Scott promised. “I swear I will.”
“So what?” Foto said. “Shoot him. What the fuck do we care?”
Faye looked at him and shook her head.
“Don’t do it, Scott. If you do, you’ll be no better than they are.”
“I’m not any better,” he replied. The hysteria and frustration had him close to tears. Faye put her hand on his wrist.
“Yes you are, Scott. You have remorse; you care.”
He hesitated and then he lowered the gun.
In the quiet moment that followed, everyone became aware of the stench. Michael Fein had lost control of himself in a state of utter fear.
“Give me the gun,” Foto said. “Quickly. I can’t take the stink.”
Scott handed it over.
“Step out,” Foto ordered. He and Faye did so. Michael started to move.
“Not you, Mr. Fein,” Lt. Parker said. “Just remain where you are for the moment, sir. Step to the side, please,” he ordered Faye. “We’ll proceed this way toward my car,” he added and pointed with his pistol. “Mr. Lester.”
Scott and Faye started down the street, walking in front of Lt. Parker. When Scott looked back, he saw Foto lean into the Porsche with a pair of handcuffs.
“What the hell are you going to do?” Scott demanded. Lt. Parker paused. He had placed his pistol back in its holster.
“Well,” he began. He looked at his watch. “In about twenty minutes or so, it will be morning. I figure we’ll all get some breakfast. There’s an all-night flapjack place in town I’ve been to before.”
“Breakfast?”
“And then what?” Faye demanded.
“Then we’ll help Mr. Lester here get his daughter back,” Lt. Parker said.
12
Billie Madison straightened up so abruptly she frightened Justine. Justine’s new mommy’s eyes were bright with fear as she turned sharply toward the front entrance of the house. Billie had just helped Justine wash and dress and had brought her out to the breakfast nook where the table had already been set and where Justine’s glass of fresh orange juice waited. Her new mommy had even remembered to put out a dish of milk for Little Bit, who lapped contentedly at her feet.
The doorbell sounded again.
Mark entered the room, tightening his tie.
“Awful early for a visitor,” he remarked.
“Mark,” Billie said, seizing his wrist quickly as he turned toward the front of the house. Justine’s eyes widened. Billie looked like she wanted to keep Mark from answering the door.
“It’s all right. I’m sure it’s nothing,” he assured her. He kissed her on the cheek and then smiled at Justine. “How’s the little princess this morning? Did you sleep well?” Justine nodded. “No more nightmares?” She thought about telling him and decided against it. She shook her head. Mark smiled at Billie and then at her. The bell was rung again. “I’d better go see who that is. Probably the newspaper boy. Did we forget to pay our last few months’ charges?” he called back as he headed toward the front of the house.
“No. We’re up to date,” Billie replied. Unable to control her nervousness, she made herself busy by going to the cabinet and getting the variety pack of cereal. Then she started to take them out to place them before Justine.
“Choose whichever one you want, honey,” she said, her attention half tuned in on the sounds coming from the front door.
“Good morning,” Bernard Lyle said and smiled when Mark opened it.
“Morning.”
Without introducing himself first, Bernard turned in the doorway to pan the surroundings.
“When I arrived last night, I didn’t get a chance to appreciate how pretty it is here,” he said. “So quiet, so stressless…suburban paradise, huh?” he asked. His face beamed. He looked fresh and awake, despite the creases in his clothing and the untidy way the strands of his hair crossed and flopped over his forehead and temples.
“We think so. What can I do for you, Mr…”
“Lyle,” Bernard said, extending his thick fingers. They wrapped firmly around Mark’s soft, graceful hand, clamping down as though Bernard had no intention of ever letting go. “Bernard Lyle,” he said.
“How can I help you, Mr. Lyle?” Mark asked, aware that the man was still clinging to his hand. Bernard smiled again and released him.
“Doctor Goodfellow sent me,” he said.
“Oh.” Mark instinctively looked back toward the kitchen and Billie. “Something wrong?”
“Oh, no, no,” Bernard said, nearly laughing. “Everything’s perfect. In fact, things couldn’t be better.”
“That’s good,” Mark said, relaxing his shoulders. “Well then…oh, I’m sorry. Come in, please.”
“Thank you,” Bernard said. He stepped into the house and gazed around the entryway and through the doorway that opened on the cozy living room. “Very nice. I love what you’ve done with the front. It’s picture perfect. Belongs on the cover of Suburban Living or something,” he added. The way he pronounced suburban, it almost sounded like a pejorative.
“Thanks, but that’s mostly my wife’s doing. A house might be a man’s castle, but his wife designs it,” Mark quipped. Bernard laughed.
“Mark?” Billie said, coming to the doorway of the kitchen. “Anything wrong?”
“No, honey. This is Mr. Lyle.”
“Bernard, please.”
“Bernard Lyle. He’s come from Doctor Goodfellow, but there’s no problem,” Mark added quickly.
“No. I’m just here to make sure there’s no problem,” Bernard explained with a grin. “I didn’t mean to come so early, but…”
“No, no, that’s fine. Matter of fact, we’re just about to have some breakfast. Can we offer you something?”
“Oh, thank you. Cup of coffee?”
“You need more than coffee, Mr. Lyle,” Billie said with a motherly tone. “How about scrambled eggs, toast…”
“You’re too kind, Mrs. Madison. Thank you.” Bernard leaned toward Mark and whispered, “How’s the little one doing?”
“Just great. Wait until you see her. Come on,” Mark urged and led Bernard into the breakfast nook where Justine was eating her cereal. She looked up curiously at the stout man who smiled down at her.
“Hello there,” Bernard said. “I bet your name is Justine. Am I right?”
Justine nodded. Bernard’s gaze went to the puppy that had curled at her feet and was chewing on an artificial bone.
“And who’s that?”
“Little Bit,” Justine replied.
“He certainly is,” Bernard said. He laughed and turned to the Madisons. “She looks good, looks happy,” he confirmed. Billie’s eyes brightened. “Doctor Goodfellow is going to be pleased. It’s a lot harder than you think to find good homes today.”
“Oh, we can imagine,” Mark said. “Have a seat, Bernard. Please.”
“Thank you.” He sat across from Justine and winked at her. She continued to scrutinize him. There was something vaguely familiar about him. As if she were turning the pages of a photo album, she reviewed the faces of people she knew, for she had the distinct feeling this man was somehow involved with her real mommy and daddy. Was he one of their friends? One of Daddy’s customers?
Thinking about cars brought back an image—she was in the backseat of a big car and there was that horrible woman and…yes…this was the man who was sitting in the front. She felt sure and that certainty made her stomach feel as if she had just swallowed an ice cube. The chill exploded down her legs and made her shudder, but no one noticed, no one but Bernard perhaps, for his eyes narrowed and his smile turned cold.
“Doctor Goodfellow didn’t mention any follow-up taking place so soon,” Mark said after he had sat down. Billie poured the coffee.
“Well…” Bernard began and then looked up at Billie. “It’s our way to drop in
unannounced. Doctor Goodfellow feels we’ll get a much more accurate picture of things. Not that we mean to spy on you from here on in, mind you,” he added quickly. Billie nodded, happy to hear that. “We’ve just found that spontaneity produces the most reliable results. But once you’re over the initial period, visits by me or anyone else become very infrequent. Unless there is a problem, of course.
“But,” he continued, looking around the nook as if its neatness and cleanliness were proof enough, “it’s clear that’s not the case here. Nor will it be,” he added, his voice deepening with just the hint of an ominous tone.
“We couldn’t be happier,” Mark said. He leaned forward. “I have to admit that when the proposition was first made to us in that clandestine manner, we hesitated. We’re not the sort who like to do anything underhanded. Hell,” he added with a smile, “I don’t even cheat on my income taxes.”
Bernard laughed and sipped his coffee. Billie began scrambling the eggs.
“But when it was explained to us…how unfortunate things were for a little girl like Justine and how we could change it for her practically overnight…”
“Exactly,” Bernard said. “Sometimes, people who have the power and the skills have to take action and bypass the bureaucratic system. The arteries of our government are clogged with the cholesterol of inefficiency. Oh, sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to preach. It’s just that I can get carried away whenever I espouse the benefits of our organization.”
“We understand,” Mark said. He looked at Billie, who nodded.
“How do you like your eggs?” Billie asked.
“Oh, practically raw, Mrs. Madison.”
Billie nodded and then dumped the batter into the pan. As she watched it take form, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Justine’s body had begun to tremble. She turned with surprise. Tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks, but she didn’t utter a sound.
“Mark,” Billie said softly, but with a distinct tone of anxiety.
Mark Madison, still holding a smile, looked up at his wife. He saw how she was clutching her hands.
The Solomon Organization Page 21