by Anthony Izzo
“They’re never going my way.”
As he neared the scene of the murder, he flipped on his blinker and eased over to the side of the road. He threw his hazards on, but in this weather it was doubtful anyone would see them before they were ten feet from his taillights. There was enough room to go around his car, but he would have to hope that they saw it first.
Better make this quick and then get that heap off the side of the road.
He checked the rearview and when he was confident no one would come along and make road pizza out of him, he stepped from the car. The wind came hard, flipping the back of his trench coat up over the back of his head. After a moment of struggling with the coat (and looking like a colossal asshole in the process) he managed to get it down and button it. He knew he should have worn the big eastern parka that was now sitting in his front closet, and if he could physically kick himself in the ass, he would have. It was damn cold. Too cold for a London Fog raincoat.
Head down, he slogged through the snow and saw the spiked fence separating the Steadman property from the road. He squatted down in the approximate area where the kid’s body had been found, but all he saw was freshly fallen snow. This was futile. Anything on the ground was long gone by now.
He spent five more minutes looking around and was about to head for the car when something on the fence caught his eye. His ears burned from the cold and his nose felt as if it might break away like a glacier, but he had to check it out. Something flapping in the breeze, attached to the gate, perhaps only a stray plastic bag, but maybe not.
He got close and saw it was a scrap of fabric, navy blue and torn. Wispy threads hung from the edges. Bingo.
He took out a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and a pair of tweezers. Careful not to dislodge it before he could grip it with the tweezers, he pinched it and dropped it into the bag. Once sealed, he stuck it in his pocket.
When he turned to go back to his car, the hairs on his neck prickled. Someone watching. The estate had dense pines, firs, maples, and sycamores on the other side of the gate. The watcher was in those trees, of that he was sure. Squinting to see through the blowing snow, he scanned the trees from left to right, and he caught a glimpse of someone behind a tree, twenty yards away.
“Show yourself.”
No answer.
He had drawn his gun exactly one time in the line of duty, when chasing a suspect who robbed the Lucky Goose minimart. Now was the second time and there was no question he should draw it. As if by reflex, he pulled out the .38 special and dropped into a shooter’s stance.
“This is Detective Kempf of the Brampton police! Show me your hands and come out of there slow!”
The guy stepped out, but not slowly and not with his hands up like all bad guys were supposed to do when you had them covered. He strode ahead, and something in his guts told Kempf to run, a sensation that originated in his testicles and spread up through the belly. The guy moved quicker and Kempf yelled, “Stop or I’ll let you have it!” It would occur to him later that it sounded like a bad line from a Jimmy Cagney gangster flick.
The guy kept coming, almost to the gate, a man dressed in blue coveralls obviously not afraid of the gun. As he approached, Kempf saw the bandages covering the man’s face. They were black and dirty, full of pus below the mouth and nose. It looked like something a leper would put on to cover his affliction.
Something was off (besides the bandages) and he didn’t notice it at first, but when he looked again he saw it and almost pissed down his leg.
The eyes were hollow sockets, black as an eight ball. The guy had no fucking eyes. “Oh, good Lord Jesus!”
The bandaged man stood across from him, silent as the dead.
Get gone, George. Now.
He backed away, nearly stumbling ass over tin cup into the snow. The bandaged man watched him go until he was into the car. He gripped the wheel hard to keep his hands from shaking and his heart thudded so hard it hurt. If he didn’t have the big one right now, he never would.
“That’ll give me enough fucking nightmares for a while.”
When he looked in the rearview mirror, the man in the bandages was gone. Kempf radioed for backup, and in the ensuing sweep of the Steadman property, seven Brampton police officers found only snow and trees.
Jack and Emma emerged from the basement room to find Paul and Chris sitting on the steps.
Emma’s tears had dried, and the only evidence of crying was her red-tinged eyes.
He looked at her. Emma, just one of the boys (until she had asked him to the Christmas dance, apparently), always one of the best at throwing a fastball, running a buttonhook, or whipping snowballs with sniperlike precision. Until recently he had thought of her only as a pal, someone to knock around with on a Saturday afternoon. But lately more and more he had noticed the way she smiled, the nice soapy smell when she walked by, even the curves that were sprouting under her sweatshirts. The invitation to the dance made his day, hell, his whole year.
They headed to the stairs, the dusty-dry smell of old books in the air.
“Everything okay?” Paul said.
“You two weren’t making out in there, were you?” Chris asked.
“I save that for your mom,” Jack said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Cool, Daddio. Let’s split before my dad comes home.”
They started up the stairs single file, Paul in front. The side door groaned and feet stamped on the throw rug in the hallway.
“Oh, shit,” Paul said.
“What?” Chris said.
Jack could see up the stairs from under Paul’s arm. Paul’s father stood in the hallway, snow in his hair, a gray waist-length coat on, and a paper bag tucked under his right arm. If Jack had to guess, he would say it contained some type of alcohol.
“We were just—”
“You were just breaking the rules.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“What’s so hard to remember, Paul? You’re not supposed to have anyone in the house.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t.”
The snow on his forehead had begun to melt, and water dribbled down and ran off the tip of his nose.
“Get upstairs. And I want your friends out of here.”
Paul slunk ahead, head bowed, moving quickly past his father as if he expected a swat. At first Jack thought he would go upstairs and that would be the end of it. It appeared Mr. Fussel didn’t want to hurt Paul in front of his friends (too many witnesses for the bastard), and Paul would remain unscathed.
On the stairs, Paul said, “I live here too.”
That was all Mr. Fussel needed to hear. He took a step forward and slammed his fist into Paul’s back, and it landed with a wicked thud. Paul fell forward on the stairs, and Jack could hear him gasping for air.
Without hesitation, Jack brushed past Emma to the landing where Mr. Fussel stood.
“Mouthing off, too,” Mr. Fussel said.
Jack got as close as he dared to Paul’s father, who was built like a lumberjack.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Jack said.
“What?”
“You’re a lot bigger than him,” Jack said.
“This is none of your business, Jack. Get gone before I call your parents.”
“My parents know all about you. They’ll take my side.”
Jack shot a look at Paul, who propped himself up and was sitting on the steps. His breath came in shallow rasps, and he crossed his arms, hugging his rib cage.
“Get out of my house, you smart-ass son of a bitch.”
“Paul, come with me,” Jack said.
“Yeah, Paul, come with us,” Emma said.
“It’s not safe here, Fussel,” Chris said.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’ll be a cold day in hell when I let—”
Paul moved like a greased eel, darting to the left of his dad, who reacted almost as quick, trying to pin Paul to the wall wit
h his hip. He lost his balance and started forward, bending over, his wide butt presenting a great target for Jack. Jack lifted his leg and nudged Paul’s dad, sending him face-first onto the stairs. The bag fell to the stairs and glass broke. The aroma of beer filled the small hallway.
Paul was first out the door, followed by Chris, Jack, and Emma. They ran down the driveway, skidding on the ice, and Mr. Fussel came out roaring behind them. Jack looked back, and Mr. Fussel stumbled, windmilling his arms. He had a beer bottle in his hand and Jack realized with horror that he was winding up to throw it.
“Look out!” Jack shouted.
He whipped the bottle, but it skipped off the driveway and rose up before landing harmlessly in a snowbank.
“You better not come home, you little shit!”
The four of them turned the corner onto the sidewalk and didn’t stop running until they were a block away.
CHAPTER 23
Kempf pulled the car into the lot of the Brampton Police Station, nearly spinning into a donut. He parked, got out, and started across the lot, lowering his head to avoid the wind. Stavros passed him, the snow collecting in his bushy mustache, and Kempf nodded a quick hello to him. He reached the door and wrestled it from the wind before finding refuge in the rear foyer.
After stamping the snow off his shoes, he removed his coat and headed to the combination locker/break room. He poured the remains of the coffee into a Styrofoam cup and swigged it down. It tasted about as good as paint thinner, but it was hot and warmed his insides.
He went back to his office and was settling in his chair when Mike Blessing, the dispatcher, stuck his head in the door.
“Someone out here for you, George. Reporter.”
“Ah, shit. Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.”
He set his coat on the back of his chair and took out the evidence baggie with the cloth in it.
Who the hell are you, my friend?
Better yet, what are you? If somebody had no eyes, how the hell would he see?
And the bandages. The guy could have been a burn victim, or maybe he was deformed under there and wore the bandages to cover himself, much like John Merrick did with a sack. But the eyes, those damn eyes. He looked like something that crawled from the grave, one of those zombies out of that old Romero movie, only worse. Kempf thought back to his youth, going to Saturday matinees and watching movies like that, where zombies walked the night. Half the fun was being so scared you almost clawed the seats open.
But this wasn’t a movie. That thing at the estate had stood in front of him and stared with those dead eyes. That was too real.
His ulcer flared in his gut like lava spewing from a volcano. He gave a little tap on his chest with his fist and belched.
He turned the baggie in his hands, working it around, hoping to get his mind going. Did anyone see them from the road? He didn’t remember seeing any cars, but the snow was blinding and he was so scared he couldn’t think straight, let alone notice passing traffic. It would be better if he had a witness, because he was going to have to tell Ramsey, and it was questionable whether the chief would believe him.
And the sweep of the grounds had turned up nothing.
He was anxious to get the sample to the lab and have it analyzed. Hopefully it would tell him more and present a sane and logical explanation for what he had just witnessed. Good old science would right things. He hoped.
Blessing appeared in the doorway. “That reporter, George. He’s getting antsy.”
“Let him. I need to talk to Ramsey first. Give me ten minutes.”
“Whatever you say.”
He picked up the receiver and rang Ramsey’s office. The chief said he’d be right over.
Ramsey came in and sat on the chair beside Kempf’s desk. His tanned skin seemed to glow, and Kempf wondered if that radiance couldn’t power a small city.
“What’s up, Tank?”
“I collected this from the scene out by the Steadman place.” He handed Ramsey the evidence bag.
“Where was it?”
“Stuck to the fence.”
“Hmm. Could be anything, couldn’t it?”
“It’s not just anything. It’s from the killer’s clothes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I saw him.”
Kempf explained how he went out to talk to the Winter woman and came back with nothing. He told Ramsey about the piece of gauze in the crime scene photo, and how it got him thinking to take another look out there.
“I found this, and then I felt like someone was watching me,” Kempf said.
“Yeah, we didn’t find whoever you thought it was.”
“It was our guy,” Kempf said.
“Don’t know, George.”
“Serial murderers often return to the scene of their crimes to relive the thrill of offing someone.”
“So that proves it was our killer?”
“No. But the bandages on his face did. Remember how I said there is gauze on the victim’s body? This guy’s whole face was bandaged up, like a burn victim or something. He also had on blue coveralls, which I’m positive is the same fabric as the swatch I collected from the fence.”
Ramsey crossed his legs and leaned on the desk. “This is good work, Tank, real good work. Get that sample over to the lab. I’m going to get on the horn with the sheriff and see if they can help us out. We’ll step up patrols in the area by the Steadman Estate. A bandaged man is hard to miss.”
The chief seemed almost giddy about the whole thing, but he hadn’t seen the crazy-looking bastard. If he had, he might not sound so chipper.
They could find out for themselves when and if they found this guy that he didn’t have any eyes in his head. If Kempf told Ramsey that, Ramsey would have him carted off to the booby hatch in no time.
“We’ll hold a press conference, too. The civilians are shitting in their drawers over this. We need to give them confidence.”
That was Ramsey, never missing an opportunity for some camera time.
“What about that reporter?”
“Tell him to go piss in the wind. You’ve got more important things to do.”
Ramsey clapped him on the arm and said, “This is really nice work, Tank.” He smoothed his hair, no doubt preparing for the press conference that would come. “Fill out a report. We’ll consider this guy armed and dangerous. I’m a little concerned he got the drop on you, but it was because of the snow, right?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t see shit out there.”
“Okay, Tank. Just want to make sure you’re not losing a step.”
Ramsey strode out of the office, full of purpose.
John had just popped open a can of chunky beef stew when the phone rang.
“Damn it. Can’t even get a meal around here.”
It was Cassie on the phone, and she wanted him to come up to the main house as soon as possible. He said he’d be right up and hung up the phone. After rummaging in the kitchen drawer, he found a small plastic container and lid. He dumped the soup from the can into the container and set it in the fridge. The gourmet dinner would have to wait because the boss lady needed him, probably for something stupid like throwing more wood on the fire.
His house on the estate had a fireplace made of gray stone with a raised hearth. He jabbed it with the poker, then shut the glass doors so no sparks would fly onto the rug. He put on his wool coat and gloves and stepped out the door, amazed that the snow continued to fall. This was one time he wished he had hair, because his head felt like a chilled cue ball almost immediately.
He drove his pickup to the mansion, parked in front of the steps, and went inside. Cassie had said she’d be in the solarium (it always reminded him of playing Clue as a kid), and that’s exactly where she was.
She was sitting on a padded bench running along the window. Outside, the back of the estate ran on in a seemingly endless blanket of snow, interrupted only by pines. A brown rabbit scampered in front of the window, sat up on its haunches,
and darted off. Steadman’s old groundskeeper had told him there used to be abundant wildlife on the estate. Deer, raccoon, woodchuck, and even the odd coyote were seen in the woods, but they had thinned out once Cassie brought It here.
She sat with one leg folded under her, a teacup grasped in her hands.
“I want to talk about some things that happened, John. I’m sure you can guess what they might be.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“The boys were in the tunnels.”
“I know.”
“They’re not supposed to be. Ronnie told me the Fussel boy was almost taken away by Him.”
“I gave them a talking-to.”
“I don’t want them down there again. Understood?”
“Yes.”
Yeah, it’s understood. Other things could be understood, too. Like you understanding my hands around your throat. It would be so easy if you were just a woman, so easy to wrap the hands around the throat and squeeze until it collapsed. Many a night he had thought about it, but he knew whatever lived under that skin would tear him to pieces in minutes. He had seen the end product when people had fucked with her, and it wasn’t pretty.
“You’re not thinking bad thoughts, are you?” she asked.
“No.”
But she knew he was. Somehow she did. John wasn’t sure if she could read minds, but she always came close to knowing what was going on in your head. On top of that, she liked to play with you, get you wondering if she really knew the thoughts that bounced around in your melon.
“Good, then.”
Daylight receded and the smudgy gray clouds continued to pour snow onto Brampton. John didn’t relish the thought of driving back to his house in the dark. Even though he kept a loaded .45 in the glove box, it still gave him little comfort because he knew what lived in those woods. They had only been here a short time, but it hadn’t taken long for the Wraith to find a home among the firs and pines.
“Jack Harding pushed Ronnie, didn’t he?”