The women were practically having a private conversation between themselves, and a brief silence was their way of welcoming the new arrival. The men, whose participation in the conversation seemed limited to nodding and occasionally agreeing, looked up and readily greeted Ted—who remained standing, having no intention of taking a seat. At this point Ted recognized one of the men as another former classmate, now sporting a thick black beard. His sky-blue eyes gave him away, not only because Ted vaguely recalled seeing him in the high school corridor, but because he glimpsed a flash of submission in them, just as he had in Robichaud’s eyes earlier. God. Was anybody at this party not an old classmate? Ted felt a twinge of envy for this club of outsiders who still enjoyed celebrating together, when his old high school friends hadn’t gotten together in years.
“The temperature of the floor saved him,” said one of the women. The wife of the guy with the beard and the sky-blue eyes. Her words immediately attracted Ted’s attention. He brought the beer can to his lips and moved a baby step closer.
“I don’t follow,” said the other woman.
“You explain it, Bobby.”
Bobby Pendergast! Ted suddenly remembered his name, like an arrow from the past. The guy had always been a sort of mini genius who knew the answers to everything. He had transferred to a school for the gifted in his junior year, Ted recalled.
“You’re Pendergast,” Ted said, motivated more by his pride at remembering than by anything else.
All four faces turned to look at him, slightly shocked. Bobby nodded in silence. You got no answers for that one, eh, Bobby? Ted decided to sit in the only empty chair around the table. With the chatter of the other guests in the background, the silence wasn’t too awkward.
“Ted McKay,” he said, offering his hand.
Bobby took care of the introductions.
“This is Lance Firestar.” Ted was sure he’d never heard the name before. Not one you’d forget. He shook the thin redheaded man’s freckled hand. Then he shook hands with the women. “This is Teresa, and this is Tricia.”
Tricia’s hand was limp as a sponge, and for some reason—you didn’t have to be Bobby Pendergast to figure this one out—Ted’s mind went straight to Wendell’s corpse. Had it been removed yet from the living room rug?
“Ted and I went to school together,” Bobby said.
Ted didn’t want the conversation to get sidetracked.
“A second ago, you were talking about that police case. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help hearing.”
Tricia wrinkled her brow for a moment. Then she recalled.
“Oh, of course! The guy got off scot-free, and now the family has a theory, how he might have pulled it off, though it’s too late now. I can’t believe you haven’t heard about it, Teresa.”
“I haven’t turned on the TV.”
“You never hear anything. But anyway, he got off. I think he’s a Hispanic.”
She uttered the word “Hispanic” with disdain. When she remembered that someone she had just met had joined the conversation, she blushed, but not much. Ted wanted to keep listening, so he looked serious and nodded with resignation, as if he and everyone else around the table weren’t also the descendants of immigrants in search of opportunity.
“How did he fool them all?” Teresa asked.
Ted had a knot in his stomach. Lynch had told him these findings were the result of an investigation carried out by the organization he worked for. If he’d lied about that, why not lie about everything? Ted was afraid of what might come next.
“I already told you: the temperature of the floor,” Tricia whispered, as if she were giving away a secret. “There’s a commercial laundry in the basement.”
Ted’s heart sank.
“I don’t get it,” Teresa said.
Her husband shook his head and rolled his eyes, as if the fact that his wife didn’t understand something didn’t surprise him in the least.
“Don’t you make faces,” Teresa said without glancing at him. Lance raised his hands in surrender.
“They use the temperature of the corpse to calculate the time of death,” Bobby said in his professorial voice.
“The guy had a perfect alibi,” Tricia jumped in. “At the time when the experts decided the poor girl was getting murdered, he was sitting at a bar. And he had tons of witnesses to prove it. That’s why they let him off.”
Ted was following the conversation as if it were taking place in some other dimension. His worst fears had just been confirmed. How deep did Lynch’s duplicity go? He asked himself this over and over again as Bobby Pendergast relayed the rest of the story.
“According to an expert hired by the girl’s family to throw light on the crime, the apartment floor was heated by a ventilation duct from the commercial dryers. Therefore the body lost heat much more slowly than normal, on account of which the forensic scientists calculated the ETD incorrectly.”
“Talk normal, Bobby!”
“Sorry, dear. They estimated the time of death wrong.”
“Do any of you remember the guy’s name?” Ted interrupted.
The Pendergasts looked at each other.
“Ramirez,” Tricia said without hesitation.
“No, not Ramirez,” Bobby said. “And he’s not Latino. You’re getting it mixed up with another news story, love. The guy’s name was Blaine. Edward Blaine.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s Ramirez, Bobby, and I’ll prove it to you as soon as we get home. Don’t argue with me when you know I’m right.”
Bobby lowered his eyes and nodded.
Edward Blaine.
Why had Lynch taken credit for an investigation that was public knowledge? Maybe he and his Organization had taken steps to forward the information to the family, but that was wild speculation, and Ted was tired of accepting the least plausible explanations to justify what had happened over the past twenty-four hours. The truth was much simpler: Lynch had tricked him.
Who have you killed?
Ted sat back in the chair and looked out the picture window a few feet away. Why was Arthur taking so long?
10
The scene outside was more interesting than the conversation between the Pendergasts and the Firestars, which had devolved into unpleasant sniping about their new neighbors. Ted thought it would be too impolite of him to get up and walk over to the window, but he did turn away crossly and gaze out. Arthur had a large, well-tended yard with a set of monkey bars, a slide, and a merry-go-round, which at the moment was the center of attention. A boy who looked a lot like Norma was working the wheel at its center, spinning it faster and faster; two girls held on to their seats with all their might, laughing and screaming for him to stop, please, stop it! Ted could just hear their distant, childish voices. Other, even smaller children were waiting their turns for the merry-go-round, jumping up and down and cheering for the powerful conductor who, with his strong arms and methodical concentration, was whirling the contraption around at the speed of light. One of the girls on board was begging Timothy to stop, but her giddy laughter made it clear that stopping was the last thing she wanted. Timothy had a different future in store than his father, who at his age had been timid and shy around everyone.
The girls’ turn on the merry-go-round ended. They staggered off, reeling with dizziness, to Timothy’s delight. He stayed on to continue working the central wheel, pretending not to be dizzy, waiting for the next two victims of boyish brawn and centrifugal force. He was born to play Lord of the Merry-Go-Round. A boy and a girl, smaller than the previous pair of kids, took the two open spaces, one on either side of Timothy. He gave them instructions, though Ted couldn’t hear him very well from so far away. The children stopped smiling as they heard the long list of warnings, as if they were about to take their first trip on a dangerous roller coaster.
From where Ted sat, he could also see the tree with the tire swing that had caught his attention when h
e was in the office. Compared with the rest of the yard, this old rubber tire looked even more out of place than it had before. He couldn’t say he really knew the woman of the house, but from the little he had seen of her, such as when she fussed over the guests, including him, she seemed concerned about appearances above all. And that tire swing, visible from every window in the living room, seemed like an odd letter of introduction for a house that oozed perfection. At the moment, the tire swayed gently back and forth. A few feet from the tree, two women sat on a bench. Maybe they were there to supervise the children, but they seemed much more interested in their own lively conversation. Ted saw them in profile, because they had turned to face each other. A girl no more than a year old, in a white dress with red polka dots, toddled around them, falling and standing up again.
Ted alternated his attention between the swinging tire and the toddler who was learning to walk. She was holding on to the bench or clutching at the air, lurching forward in clumsy steps that always ended with her sitting on the grass. She laughed to herself and babbled to her mother, whether or not the woman was listening. The tire seemed to be swinging more vigorously than before. How could that be? Nobody had touched it.
The toddler had homed in on a tiny flower, studying it for the longest time, kneeling next to it, moving her lips, perhaps asking whether she could pick it, finally picking it carefully, grasping its slender stem with chubby fingers. She gave it to her mother, who accepted it with hardly a glance. If the flower had been a lit stick of dynamite, the woman would have taken it with exactly the same smile. Thank you, sweetie! The toddler, apparently satisfied by this minimal encouragement, smoothed her dress and set off on a new trek.
The tire was definitely moving in a much wider arc than before. It would have taken quite a gust of wind to make it swing like that, and even from inside the house Ted could see that the wind was barely blowing. There was something dangling from the tire, something that hadn’t been there before. At first he thought it was a snake, but then the face of the possum peeked through the hole in the center of the tire. Its tail hung below. The possum stared straight at Ted, who jumped involuntarily. Tricia Pendergast noticed and frowned. Ted pretended it had been his cell phone: he took it out, looked at it, put it back in his pocket. He focused his attention on the tire. His eyes met those of the vile vermin.
Bits and pieces of his dream came back to him as the possum gnawed the tire with its sharp little teeth, never taking its eyes off the window. Off Ted.
The toddler wandered dangerously near the animal, holding her little arms straight out in front of her, ready for a stumble that never came. Ted sprang to his feet and in two strides was at the window. He stopped, aware that the conversation in the room had halted and that several faces had turned to look at him. The possum climbed to the top of the tire, holding on with its front paws; its claws were terrifyingly long. For a second, the little girl seemed to see it: she had stopped six feet away, and then took a couple of ungainly steps, apparently unconvinced. Come on, come on—get back to your mother. Pests like that were so dangerous: they carried all sorts of diseases, and they could be aggressive. The toddler might mistake it for a cat or some other harmless animal and try to go over and pet it. At last, after a moment’s hesitation, the little girl gathered her courage and hurtled toward the tire. My God!
Ted banged on the glass with the palm of his hand.
“Watch out!” he shouted.
Everyone fell silent and turned to look. The quickest guest ran to the window; two or three of them stood behind Ted. Some remained where they were, expectant, looking in every direction without understanding. Norma raced in from the kitchen and asked what had happened. Outside, neither the two women talking on the bench nor any of the kids had heard Ted’s warning. Especially not the little girl, who was stumbling forward those last few steps. Ted struggled with the window, which was made to slide open but was latched at top and bottom.
“What’s wrong?” asked a man at another window.
“That baby girl!” Ted replied without looking away. “There’s a huge possum sitting on the tire!”
His panic spread to the others. The women who had remained in their chairs unfroze and ran over, some of them screaming. How horrible! How was it possible?
“I can’t see it!” one woman shouted.
There aren’t many other tire swings out there, lady.
Other hands began banging on the windows, finally getting the attention of the chatty mothers, who looked toward the house with worried expressions. The spectacle they saw inside must have been startling, with dozens of faces desperate to get their attention. Had something happened in there? Neither seemed to understand. Fortunately, the noise also got the little girl to stop; her outstretched hand was just a foot or two from the swinging tire.
Ted finally got the window open.
“The baby!” he shouted. “There’s a possum in the tire!”
Maternal instinct sprang into action. One of the mothers jumped from the bench and ran to the child.
“Rose!”
A bunch of men who had seconds ago been sitting around the living room were now outside and racing over. The one in front wielded a broom. The mother caught Rose by the waist and picked her up, swung about, and ran from the tire as if it were a bomb set to explode.
Now all three picture windows were open and everybody looked on in silence at what was happening outside. The possum was hiding inside the tire, where there was no place for it to go. Ted wondered if a broom would be enough to stop it if it jumped down and tried to run away.
“Hey guys!” one of the extemporary hunters shouted to the kids standing by the merry-go-round. “Get up on it—all of you!”
There were eight kids. The merry-go-round had only four seats, but they all squeezed on board. Smart move. The possum might feel threatened by being shooed off and try to bite somebody on the ankle. The two women got the same idea and climbed onto the bench, bringing Rose with them. Now only the four men remained on the grass, marching forward in diamond formation, armed with a broom.
“Hey Steve,” said Broom Guy, “go find something more convincing, like a shovel or whatever.”
The man bringing up the rear scurried off. The remaining triumvirate marched on. The kids on the merry-go-round, the women on the bench, the guests at the windows—all followed the action with bated breath. Broom Guy came to a halt about ten feet back from the tire swing, went into a sort of crouch, and, brandishing the broom by the bristle end, jabbed the handle as far as it would reach.
“Wait for Steve to get back!” yelled a woman at a window.
The man shook his head no. The tire had stopped moving.
The tip of the broom handle gently pushed the tire, which wobbled in circles. Steve got back just then. He hadn’t found a shovel, but he had brought a baseball bat. Everyone approved of the new weapon. Broom Guy gave instructions, telling Steve to circle around to the other side while he poked the broom handle into the tire to get the critter to leave.
That’s what they did, circling the tire, sticking the handle in here, then there. The possum might be running around inside the cavity of the tire, in which case they’d never get it to leave. Slowly they drew closer, step by step, until they could see inside.
No possum.
Broom Guy lifted the tire with both hands, displaying it to the audience at the windows like a magician showing an empty top hat that a dove had settled into seconds before. All eyes turned from the tire to Ted. All at the same time. The kids, still standing on the merry-go-round, looked unbelievingly at the stranger who seemed to be responsible for the commotion. So did the adults. The guests standing around him in the living room silently moved away, as if his ravings might be contagious.
Ted was barely conscious of their reactions. He was unable to take his eyes off the swing. The possum had been there; there was no way it could have escaped without being seen. He had only glanced away for one split second to unlatch the window, but by then
other people were watching. He turned around. The room had gone totally quiet. Everyone was staring at him, perhaps expecting an explanation. Lance and Teresa looked at him disapprovingly; Bobby Pendergast seemed disappointed. Norma stared daggers at him. Arthur Robichaud, who had left his office at some point, perhaps attracted by the uproar, was the first to approach him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Ted didn’t react.
“We were lucky with Lynch,” Arthur said. At first Ted had no idea what he was talking about. “He’s a lawyer, works on his own.”
He handed Ted an index card with something written on it.
“My contacts got me his office address and phone number. Hope it helps. Call me later and let me know how it turned out. Maybe you should go now.”
Ted had to agree.
11
The building where Lynch had his office was a decaying brick box in an aging suburb on the outskirts of town, surrounded by parking lots, abandoned buildings, dangerous backstreets, rusting car frames, and swirling trash. It was 7 p.m. and there were no signs of life. The only window with a light on behind it was on the seventh floor; Lynch’s office was on the fifth. Ted pulled out his cell and called the number on the index card, and for the second time he listened to the weary voice of an older woman announcing that the working hours of the law firm were from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday through Friday, and that he could leave a message after the tone. Ted hung up without a word. He hadn’t harbored much hope of finding the guy this late, but he’d had to give it a try anyway. Maybe Lynch would turn out to be the sort who liked working late.
While the last red wounds of sunset faded on the horizon behind that mass of architectural brutality, Ted made a plan that would have to wait for the following day. On his way home he managed to avoid thinking about anything at all. As soon as he arrived, however, he realized that something was off, and he immediately went on the alert. The front door was slightly ajar; inside, everything was a mess. In the welter of scattered books, ripped seat cushions, and file boxes turned upside down he saw a blatant malice that infuriated him. The intruders hadn’t come searching for anything in particular, but had gone out of their way to leave the biggest trail of destruction they could. Knickknacks shattered against the floor, cracks in the TV screen where it had been smashed, food stains on the walls…Ted rubbed his temples, not daring to cross this minefield of objects from his daily life.
Kill the Next One Page 6