Turning Angel

by Greg Iles

  There’s a brief silence on Paul’s end. “As a matter of fact, the sheriff called. He was quite rude, actually.”

  “Are they questioning Marko now?”

  “No, Marko’s out on a date.”

  “I didn’t think kids went on dates anymore.”

  Paul laughs. “They don’t really, but Marko and this girl spend a lot of time together.”

  “She’s his girlfriend?”

  “Well, she’s quite taken with him. Obsessed, I would venture to say. But I don’t think Marko confines himself to one girl. When he was a child, he learned not to get attached to anyone, because he might lose them at any moment.”

  “Is Marko usually late getting in?”

  “Sometimes he doesn’t get in at all, to be honest. Sometimes he stays at Alicia’s house.”

  “Alicia Reynolds?” I ask, thinking of a troubled girl in the senior class.

  “That’s right.”

  I turn onto the bypass and drive in the direction of Paul’s subdivision. “Paul, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Marko?”

  “Not at all. I know you’ve spoken up for him at least once on the school board, and I appreciate it. But before you ask me anything, let me say this. I know a lot of people think I just bury my head in the sand when it comes to that boy. But that’s not the case at all. Nobody around here has any idea what Marko went through in Bosnia. He was in Sarajevo during the worst of it, Penn. He was ten years old, and he saw unspeakable things there. Nobody who experiences those kinds of things comes out whole on the other side—especially a child. Marko doesn’t talk about it, but I know some.”

  “Would you feel comfortable sharing any of it with me? It might be relevant to the current situation.”

  “Well…Marko reminds me of that kid in Empire of the Sun, the Spielberg film about World War Two. Christian Bale plays the kid. He’s in a prison camp, and conditions are abominable. John Malkovich teaches Bale to survive, and Bale becomes the consummate hustler. That’s Marko. And if that’s what you are, you don’t change overnight just because you’ve been dropped into the land of milk and honey.”

  “Have you ever seen Marko get violent?”

  “Never.”

  “The kids at school think he carries a gun.”

  Silence. “I’ve certainly never seen him with a gun. I’m not saying it’s impossible, considering his level of paranoia. But I’ve never seen one. I’d be very disappointed if I did.”

  You might be disappointed. Someone else might be dead. “Do you keep guns in the house, Paul?”

  “Not one. I’m a firm advocate of gun control.”

  “Hm.”

  “Penn, I heard a rumor that the board is thinking of expelling Marko. Maybe even trying to get him deported.”

  Wonderful. As I told Holden Smith, nothing in those meetings stays secret. “Just between you and me, Paul, that’s true. I told them they couldn’t do it without proof that he’s broken the rules.”

  “I see. Penn…I know it’s late, but I think perhaps you and I should have a face-to-face conversation about Marko. If he’s in serious trouble, I need to know the extent of it. And I know some things about his experiences in Sarajevo that you should probably be aware of.”

  I look at my watch. 11:25 p.m. Mia is probably getting antsy by now. But on the other hand, Marko is the biggest question mark in this whole bloody mess. And after having Sonny Cross’s gun stuck into his mouth this afternoon, there’s no telling what he might decide to do tonight.

  “I think that’s a good idea, Paul. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

  I dial home, and Mia answers, her voice alert.

  “How you doing, girl?”

  “I’m good. Annie’s sound asleep.”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “I finished Bowles’s book, and I started The Secret History. I meant to read just one chapter, but it hooked me. I can’t believe this was written by a girl from Mississippi.”

  “In longhand, no less. Don’t you ever just have fun?”

  “This is my idea of fun, believe it or not.”

  As I ask Mia if she can stay another hour, a crackle of static fills my ear. Then the felt wall of silence that heralds a failing connection greets me. I accelerate up the hill in front of me until my phone shows three bars, then pull over to the curb and dial Mia again.

  “Can you hear me now?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I had to pull over. Can you stay another hour?”

  “Sure.”

  “What will your mom say?”

  “I already called her and told her I might have to stay over.”

  This takes me aback. “Meredith was okay with that?”

  “Yeah. She knows you’re working on Drew’s case.”

  “How does she feel about Drew after all she’s heard?”

  “She’s reserving judgment. Mom doesn’t put much stock in gossip. She’s always respected Drew, and she told me she has a really hard time believing he could have killed Kate.”

  “But she believes he slept with her?”

  “Oh, yeah. I mean…he’s a guy, right?”

  I laugh softly. “Well, I don’t think you’ll have to stay over. I’m going by Paul Wilson’s house, but it shouldn’t take long.”

  A sudden tension enters her voice. “Are you going to talk to Marko?”

  “I’d like to, but he’s not there. He’s out with his girlfriend.”

  Mia makes a derogatory noise.

  “What is it?”

  “Marko doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Then what was Paul talking about? What about Alicia Reynolds?”

  “God. Alicia worships Marko. She’s kind of…I don’t know, Goth, I guess. For about a year she had black fingernails. Now all she talks about is Third World debt. I think she’s kind of a sex slave for him, actually.”

  “But not his girlfriend.”

  “Marko’s not into boundaries. He takes whatever he can get.”

  “Does that make him different from most of the guys you know?”

  “Well…I guess when it comes down to it, no.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’d better get going.”

  “Hey, wait,” Mia says. “I heard a cop got killed tonight. Is that true?”

  The cellular jungle drums are beating overtime tonight. “Yes.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Was the killer local?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “I didn’t figure you’d tell me who it actually was. So I asked for what you could tell me.”

  “You seem to realize the drug business extends outside of Natchez.”

  “Well, sure. They don’t grow the stuff here. Except for some shitty pot out in Jefferson County.”

  “Mia, I think you should consider a career in law enforcement.”

  “I might. But I don’t think they teach that at Brown.”

  I laugh again. “I’ll see you in less than an hour.”

  “If I fall asleep, wake me up.”

  “I will,” I tell her, realizing as I do that we sound like nothing so much as a married couple.

  The Wilsons live on Espero Drive, part of a large subdivision built in the 1970s, one that I once thought of as the “new” part of Natchez. Now Espero and its parallel street, Mansfield Drive, are shaded by mature oaks and house many retired couples who keep perfectly manicured lawns. The Wilson house is a one-story ranch set well back from the road. Behind it and to the right stands a two-story garage, the upper story containing the apartment where Marko lives.

  I park on the street and walk up a flower-lined sidewalk, trying to recall what I can about Paul Wilson. His wife is a Natchez native, but Paul hails from Ohio. He taught political science for years at the University of Southern Mississippi at Hattiesburg, about three hours by car from Natchez. I once attended a lecture he gave on race relations, at the Natchez Literary Festival, an
d I was impressed. Paul seemed to have a better grasp of his subject than most Yankees ever get, and I credited his wife for that. He probably knows more about the former Yugoslav republics than I could learn in a year, and I suspect that his choice of Marko Bakic as an exchange student was rooted in that knowledge. On the other hand, he might simply have been assigned Marko at random.

  The doorbell rings loudly enough for me to hear it through the door, but no one answers. I wait about thirty seconds, then ring it again.

  Nothing.

  Maybe Marko got home, and they went out to his room to talk to him. I step over some shrubs and walk around the right side of the house, where the driveway runs back to the garage. Rather than interrupt a family conference, I decide to check the rear of the house proper. If I remember right, the Wilsons added a large sunroom to the main house a couple of years back.

  They did. The glass enclosure juts out unnaturally from the original brick, but I imagine the Wilsons were more than willing to trade symmetry for a nice place to drink wine and admire their garden without mosquitoes eating them alive.

  As I move closer, I see Janet Wilson sitting in a wicker chair in the sunroom. I don’t see Paul. I’m walking up to the glass door to knock when something stops me cold. From this distance, what I thought was a floral print on Janet Wilson’s blouse looks more like spattered blood. With my own blood roaring in my ears, I scan the yard behind me for intruders.

  Nothing.

  I lean against the door and search the rest of the room with my eyes. Two chairs lie on their sides, possible signs of a struggle. Then I see Paul. He’s lying facedown on a pale blue sofa, and this, too, is splashed with blood. I pull out my cell phone and dial 911, not quite believing that I’m reporting murder for the second time in one night.

  “911 emergency,” says the dispatcher.

  “This is Penn Cage again,” I whisper. “I’m at 508 Espero Drive, and I have two probable homicide victims. Paul and Janet Wilson. I need paramedics and cops. The killer could still be on the property.”

  “Could you speak up, sir?”

  “No. Double homicide, 508 Espero. Get two squad cars and an ambulance here, and tell them to come with sirens screaming.”

  I hang up and try the door handle. It’s open.

  I’d give ten grand for my lost Springfield right now, but there’s no use wishing. The smart thing would be to wait in the bushes for the cops. This isn’t rural Adams County, like Sonny Cross’s property. There should be a squad car here inside two minutes. But there’s also a chance that Paul or Janet could still be alive, and for them every second could be critical.

  I open the door and go to Janet first, pressing my finger underneath her jawbone while I survey her wounds. She’s been stabbed more than a dozen times, with most of the wounds concentrated in her chest and abdomen. Both hands show the multiple slashes of defensive wounds. There’s no pulse in her throat.

  Moving to the sofa, I see that Paul, too, has suffered multiple stab wounds, a half dozen on his back alone. I kneel, squeeze his shoulder, and speak close to his ear. “Paul? Paul, it’s Penn Cage.”

  A low rasp comes from his throat. As gently as I can, I roll him over.

  Paul’s eyes are open, but his throat has been slashed from his trachea to his left ear. It was a clumsy effort, a butcher’s job. A small amount of bubbly red fluid pulses from the wound, but I sense that the bulk of Paul’s lifeblood is soaking into the sofa and the rug beneath it. His eyes are glassy, and his face is so gray that I can’t believe he’s alive.

  “Paul? Can you hear me?”

  The rasp comes again. Not from his mouth, though. It’s coming from the laceration in his windpipe. The contents of my stomach come up in a rush, and it’s all I can do to keep from vomiting on Paul. When I recover myself, I realize that the dying professor is trying to turn his head to look at his dead wife. All I can think of is Sonny Cross’s dying concern for the safety of his sons.

  “Janet’s fine,” I assure Paul, hoping he didn’t see her stabbed, but certain that he’ll be dead soon in any case.

  Air continues to bubble through the slash in his throat, and he struggles harder to turn.

  I take him by the shoulders and stop him. “The paramedics said Janet’s fine, Paul. It’s you they’re worried about. Hang on, okay? You have to hang on for Janet. Another ambulance is on the way.”

  His eyes close.

  A crazy thought comes to me, and before I can stop myself, I voice it. “Did Marko do this, Paul? Did Marko stab you?”

  His eyes open again, wide this time, and with a remarkable feat of will, he shakes his head.

  “Did Marko do this?” I repeat, wanting to be sure.

  Paul shakes his head once again, then closes his eyes and sags backward.

  “Can you hear me, Paul?”

  Nothing.

  I take his hand and squeeze it. “I’m here, Paul. You’re not alone. Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  I reach across him with my left hand and grasp two of his fingers. “That’s Janet holding your hand. She wants you to hold on. Can you hear me?”

  The fingers move, and for an instant I feel hope. But then a seemingly endless rasp issues from the throat wound, slowly diminishing to a fluid rattle. Paul Wilson is still in the way that only dead men are still.

  I drop his hands and get to my feet, suddenly aware of how foolish I’ve been to focus on these two while their killer could still be near. I dart back outside and move into the shadows at the side of the house.

  In the distance, I hear a siren.

  As it grows louder and higher in pitch, I find myself looking up at the apartment over the garage. Suddenly I realize the obvious, that the Wilsons weren’t the target of whoever killed them: Marko was. Sprinting across the driveway, I bound up the steps to Marko’s apartment.

  The door stands ajar.

  While I try to decide whether or not to enter, I hear the scream of burning rubber out on the street. Someone is fleeing the scene right now. Jesus. The killer was probably still in Marko’s apartment while I was checking on Paul and Janet. Praying I won’t find Marko’s corpse inside, I enter the apartment.

  It’s a single room, with a bed, a kitchenette, and a toilet behind a partition. The floor is a sea of bedclothes, books, and drawers jerked from the dresser against the wall. An armoire lies facedown on a table, its front shattered by the force with which it fell. Only a computer screen glowing against the far wall seems to have escaped the damage.

  The siren is closer now.

  I pick my way through the debris and go to the computer. It’s a Windows platform system. I go to the My Documents folder and check its contents. The files look innocuous: school reports and letters from junior colleges regarding a possible football scholarship. I scan the rest of the hard drive, but nothing jumps out at me. Marko seems to be a serious gamer, with numerous combat-oriented games residing on his drive.

  The wail of an ambulance joins the police siren, and the cacophony sounds as though it’s coming from the Wilsons’ front yard. Knowing I’m pressing my luck, I go to the Windows control area and click “Show Hidden Files.” When I recheck the hard drive, several new folders have appeared, each with a semitransparent icon indicating that it was designated by the computer’s primary user to be concealed from a casual user. I try to open one folder, but I’m immediately prompted for a password. Another folder gives the same result. Desperate for some clue to Marko’s inner psyche, I look down at the floor, into some drawers that were ripped from the computer desk. Between the drawers, lying amid cracked CDs and DVDs, is a USB flash drive similar to the ones in Kate Townsend’s shoe box. This one is a Sony, about a half inch wide and three inches long.

  As the sirens fade into silence out front, I plug the flash drive into the USB port and copy the formerly hidden folders onto it. Then I dismount the drive, shove it into the instep of my shoe, and run downstairs to the driveway.

  “Stop!” yells a male voice. “Police
! Put up your hands.”

  I can’t see the face of the officer in the driveway because a floodlight on the side of the Wilsons’ house is backlighting him. But I see the gun in his outstretched hands.

  “I’m Penn Cage! I made the 911 call.”

  “Reach slowly into your pocket and take out some ID.”

  As I obey the command, I speak in the calmest voice I can muster. “The bodies are in the sunroom out back. Paul and Janet Wilson. They have an exchange student living with them, but he’s not here. He’s involved in the drug trade, and the killer tore his room apart. He lives over the garage.”

  The officer moves toward me and checks my ID, then follows me back to the sunroom. He’s Natchez PD, not a sheriff’s deputy, and I’m glad for that. While he surveys the crime scene, two paramedics with a gurney arrive, followed by more uniformed cops and a plain-clothes detective named John Ruff. I’ve talked to Ruff five or six times, but never in a professional capacity. Usually I see him at the softball field. Like me, he has a daughter who plays.

  “This is something, huh?” he says in a soft voice.

  “I can’t believe it, John. After what’s already happened?”

  Ruff nods and steers me away from the patrolmen to question me. I answer his questions as fully as I’m able, but the shock of seeing three murder victims in one day is taking its toll on my concentration. The vagaries of fate and chance are hitting home as well. Paul and Janet Wilson must have been attacked only seconds after I hung up with Paul. If I hadn’t pulled over to maintain good cellular reception with Mia, the couple might still be alive. Or I might be dead…

  While Ruff questions me about the immediate past, a memory from my more distant history intrudes. It was here, on Espero Drive, that the first homicide that ever touched me personally occurred. A divorced young schoolteacher was raped and brutally murdered one night while her four- and seven-year-old daughters slept in the house. Her killer wasn’t a depraved stranger passing through Natchez, but a fifteen-year-old boy with whom I had played often. I was seventeen at the time, and while I understood both rape and murder, I’d never heard of the two being united in the way I would come to know so well later, when serial murder became an American obsession. But what shocked me most deeply—and likewise the town—was that such a crime could intrude upon our placid little universe at all. Even now, twenty-six years and infinite blows of disillusionment later, the spectacle of Paul and Janet Wilson cut to pieces in their own home seems more like a stunt mounted for Punk’d rather than reality. As I recite my narrative to Detective Ruff, I keep expecting Paul and Janet to get to their feet, wipe the fake blood from their clothes, and burst out laughing. But they just lie there, bad sports about the whole thing.