Scavenger

by Tom Savage

  O’Hara watched him silently, merely picking at his own food and keeping Mark’s coffee cup constantly full. By the time the girl arrived to remove their plates, Mark remembered everything clearly, but he was also full of questions. The girl went away again, leaving the two men alone, and they settled back with the rest of the coffee.

  “Okay,” Mark said, “you first. What are you doing in Evanston? How did you know where to find me here? And, for that matter, how did you manage to survive a self-inflicted bullet in your temple?”

  The big man, who had been so grave, so serious in his home in Georgetown a mere five days ago, burst into laughter again. He was positively beaming, and Mark soon realized why.

  “Now, Mark,” he admonished, chuckling, “don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “It’s pretty simple, really. You see, I heard on the news about Robert Gammon, Sarah’s husband, being found in the Tennants’ house, and about Sarah’s nurse from the clinic. I figured out what your friend was doing, eliminating everyone as they came in contact with you. And I thought, What about me? I was part of it. What if he comes back for me? So I decided to trump him. I still have friends at the Bureau and in the Washington PD, so …”

  “So you faked it,” Mark said. “I see. But how did you know where to find me?”

  “The news said you’d gone from New Orleans to L.A., and I figured out what Scavenger was doing, what the scavenger hunt was. He was sending you to the scenes. He started with the last one, in Brooklyn, but after that he was doing them in order, start to finish. New Orleans, L.A.—Evanston. Yesterday, I figured you must have come here, and I got to thinking. Why was he sending you to your own home? What did he have in mind for you there? And I got nervous. I know I told you I wouldn’t interfere until you knew who he was, but then things changed. He didn’t kill Sarah—she’s locked up, for one thing, he can’t get to her. But she’s also, well, kind of dead, anyway, I guess. But he killed her husband. And the nurse. He must have: they couldn’t be coincidences.”

  “No,” Mark said, “they weren’t. And someone else, a motorcycle cop in L.A., who stopped me for speeding and recognized me. He didn’t want the cop fucking up the game, so he shot him. Right in front of me. With my gun!”

  O’Hara’s eyes widened. “How did he get your gun?”

  Mark shook his head, remembering the house in Louisiana. “Long story. I’ll tell you later. So you came to Chicago—when?”

  “Just flew in this morning, about six. I wasn’t sure where to find you, but I figured your old house would be part of the game, so I decided to start there. I rented a car at O’Hare and went there. The door was open, and you know the rest.” He was studying Mark’s face now. “So, what happened in your house last night?”

  Mark took a deep breath and told him. The tree, the decorations, the music. The head in the box. O’Hara emitted a low whistle when he heard that part. The attack, the needle, the blond woman from the plane.

  “So,” O’Hara said, “he has an assistant.”

  Mark shrugged. “I guess …”

  That was when it struck him. He stared at O’Hara for a moment, then turned to look out the window, at the parking lot of the church across the street where the green car had been parked yesterday. He remembered the face from the street in New Orleans, the cemetery in Los Angeles, the rainy road with the dead officer, the house last night. He remembered the words spoken over him as he lay on the floor:

  “You didn’t have to hit him so hard.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

  Then he remembered the telephone calls. The first one in Washington, the second in New Orleans, the two calls in Los Angeles:

  “This game will not continue if you are rude to me again!”

  “… strawberry pancakes …”

  “Sharon Stone in a bikini.”

  “… second wind …”

  He blinked, gasping. Then he slowly turned back to the former agent across the table from him. The words from last night returned, confirming it: “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

  “Sorry …”

  “Oh, my God!” Mark whispered. O’Hara leaned closer, watching him.

  “… I couldn’t resist.”

  He’d almost noticed it last night, but he’d been too hurt, too disoriented, too terrified. Scavenger, but…

  “It isn’t him,” Mark finally managed to say.

  “What do you mean?” O’Hara asked.

  Now Mark, too, leaned forward. Their faces were inches apart, and he was aware that he was whispering. “The man with the scar. The man on the phone. They’re two different people! The man with the scar has some sort of thick accent—I don’t know, maybe Europe somewhere. Last night was the first time I ever heard him. The guy on the phone is American, I’ll swear to it! There are two of them!”

  O’Hara leaned back in his chair, slowly nodding. “I was afraid of that. I’ve always been afraid of that. Even back then, when we were working on it, it was the big question everyone kept asking. How does one person kill an entire house full of people and arrange them with all those props and things? I suppose one person could, but two people makes more sense, doesn’t it?”

  Mark nodded, too. “So The Family Man is actually The Family Men?”

  “Looks that way.” O’Hara leaned forward again. “And we want both of them. Sorry, Mark, but you’re not on your own anymore. I’m coming with you.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’m with you, period. So what’s next? What are your new instructions?”

  Mark opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He stared at the man across the table, feeling the icy prickles of fear again. “Oh, God! I didn’t find it!”

  “Find what?”

  “The photograph! He said I was looking for a photograph. The other things were there: the newspaper in Brooklyn, a mask in the Tennant house, a Bible in my hotel room—that was the ‘word’ I was looking for, the Word of God. Cute, huh? But there wasn’t any photograph at my house.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. It would have been there for me to find, in a black frame or something. The newspaper and the mask and the Bible were all done up in black. Even the cell phone he gave me was wrapped in black. So I should have been looking for a photograph in a black frame.…”

  O’Hara leaned forward again. “Or a black … envelope? Look in your jacket, Mark. Right pocket.”

  Mark blinked, then turned to take his leather jacket off the back of his chair. He reached into the pocket and pulled out a small black envelope. He stared at it for a long moment. “What the hell …?”

  “It fell out when I was undressing you, and I put it back. I didn’t know what it was. They must have planted it on you after they knocked you out.”

  The two men studied the envelope in silence. Then Mark took a deep breath and tore it open. There was a photograph inside, a Polaroid. He held it up to the light, peering at it. It took him a few moments to recognize the subject. It was a woman with blond hair sitting in a chair, taken from several feet away in a dark, shadowy room. She appeared to be asleep, but that was not the most arresting thing about her. She was bound and gagged. There were wide strips of silver duct tape at her wrists and ankles, and a strip across her mouth. Because of the poor lighting in the room where the photo had been taken, Mark had to squint at the face before realizing. When he did, the picture fell from his hand. He reached swiftly out to grasp the corners of the table to keep himself upright. The breath left his body and everything before his eyes disappeared.

  “No,” he whispered. “Please, God, no.…”

  When his breathing and his vision returned, he looked up at O’Hara, who had picked up the photograph and was now studying it. “Who is this woman?”

  Mark raised a hand to his mouth. “It’s—it’s Tracy. My fiancée. Tracy Morgan. Oh, God.” He could taste his breakfast in the back of his throat. He reached swiftly out for his
cup and drained it before he could be sick again. “Oh, God.…”

  O’Hara closed his eyes a moment, then opened them. He turned the photo over. “There’s writing on the back.” He read it in silence, then slowly handed it across the table, standing up as he did so. “Let’s go.”

  Mark looked up at him, then down at the object in his hand. It was the familiar red Magic Marker scrawl. As he read the message, he felt everything in his body once more turn to ice.

  Hello, Mark. Welcome to the final round. Photographs were important to The Family Man because they always recorded his work. Come join us for the end of the game. Midnight tonight—and don’t be early this time, please. I hate surprises. Ms. Morgan is looking a little GREEN, if you catch my drift. You know where we are. You are looking for—

  ARTICLE #5

  THE FAMILY MAN

  47

  It was a woman’s bedroom, and it was probably very beautiful. Under any other circumstances, Tracy thought, I might actually be comfortable here. But not under these circumstances. Feeling as I feel now, I wouldn’t be comfortable in Buckingham Palace.

  She wondered whose room it was, what sort of woman would live here with—with—with that person downstairs. Well, she supposed he was downstairs: she had no reason to think he wasn’t. Downstairs with his henchman, or whatever the blond man called himself—the blond man from the hotel bar and restaurant two days ago, who’d walked by her house, looked up at her window shortly afterward. She’d finally placed his face, and she wondered who the blond woman with him in the restaurant had been. And there was the other one, too, the big man from yesterday morning, if he was back from wherever he’d gone. She’d finally placed his face, too.

  The bedroom door was locked, of course, and there was no other way out. She’d already checked. There was only one other door, and it led to a lovely bathroom with pink marble walls and gold fixtures. There were two windows on the far wall and a window in the bathroom, but they were out of the question. She’d noticed the high ceiling in the living room yesterday, and last night she had been led up many stairs from the ground story to this, the second floor. She’d had the idea that she was in one of those old Victorian painted-lady things where the second-story windows would be some thirty feet above the ground. Now, in the daylight, a glance out the window had confirmed her theory. She was at least that high, too high to jump without killing herself or at least breaking her legs, either of which would preclude escape.

  She nearly laughed at that: jumping out of windows, running through the night, screaming for help, perhaps with a pack of dogs snapping at her heels. It seemed like something out of The Perils of Pauline. But it wasn’t funny. It was really happening to her. There was nothing she could do about it at the moment. Now all she could do was wait.

  To distract herself, she began to make a study of the room, to see what she could surmise about its owner. A rich woman, certainly. Impeccable taste in clothes and makeup. Her scent was Chanel No. 5. Tracy wondered if the woman who occupied this room was the beautiful woman in the painting in the living room, the pianist with the incredible necklace. Probably. But where was she now?

  Because she had no answers to any of it, Tracy pushed it from her mind. She had actually managed to sleep here last night, which had surprised her. This morning, the blond man had brought her food, eggs and toast and coffee, and she had eaten it with no ill effects. The other one, the crazy one, had mentioned something about dinner in the dining room tonight. She decided she could try some of that as well.

  She went into the bathroom, took a long, hot shower, and put on her clothes again. The woman, whoever she was, had everything she needed; shampoo, towels, blow-dryer. She even sprayed herself with Chanel from the crystal atomizer on the dresser, wondering why she felt so odd about it. Then she realized: these things in this room had apparently not been used, not even been touched, in a long time. Tracy was certain of it. Perhaps the woman was dead.…

  The thought made her shudder, and the reality of her situation returned full force, filling her with dread. She sat at the strange woman’s dresser, gazing at her face in the mirror, wondering what was going to happen when Mark arrived here tonight. If he arrived.

  She was thinking about that when she heard a soft knock on the bedroom door. It was the blond man again, telling her that her host would like her to join him for lunch.

  With a sigh, she followed him out of the room and down the stairs.

  48

  Ms. Morgan is looking a little GREEN, if you catch my drift.

  Well, Mark thought, at least we know where we’re going. GREEN. Very funny. Green Hills, New York, home of the Carlin family.

  Ron O’Hara had taken charge of everything. They had flown from O’Hare to La Guardia in New York, and O’Hara had rented a car at the airport. He drove through the gray, overcast afternoon in silence. Mark glanced frequently up at the sky over the Long Island Expressway, remembering his impression that the rain seemed to be following him from Los Angeles to Chicago. It was still following him. Several times during the ride, he heard the low, faraway rumble of thunder.

  Their first stop had been a house in Queens, home of a friend and former colleague of O’Hara’s, who had been expecting them. O’Hara had made several phone calls from the Chicago airport, but Mark had not heard what he’d set up. He had been offered only sketchy information during the plane trip, and he had decided to place his trust in the other man.

  The house belonged to a couple who were introduced to him as Larry and Shira. No last name was mentioned. They were a fortyish couple, and she was small and attractive. Her husband was big, almost as big as O’Hara, and very capable-looking. While the woman gave Mark a cup of coffee and entertained him with pleasant small talk in her immaculate living room, Larry and O’Hara had gone off together to another part of the house. They were gone for some twenty minutes.

  The woman informed him that her husband worked out of the New York office of the FBI, and that he had met O’Hara during the Banes murder investigation in Brooklyn. They’d been friends ever since. Mark, who could tell from her manner that she had no idea what was going on between the two men now, smiled and told her that her house was lovely and the coffee delicious. She smiled and thanked him, and they waited.

  At last the two men rejoined them. O’Hara hugged the woman, shook the man’s hand, promised to call soon, and led Mark back out to the car. It was dark outside now, dark and cold. O’Hara drove north out of the city, and it was more than an hour later when he pulled into a roadside diner in a small town north of Westchester. They had driven the entire way in relative silence. Mark knew that the former agent would fill him in when he was ready.

  This occurred over dinner. They ordered sandwiches, and when they had finished eating, they ordered coffee. O’Hara, with a surreptitious glance around the relatively empty place, leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

  “We weren’t at my friends’ house this afternoon. You never met them. Got it?”

  Mark nodded, waiting.

  “Okay,” the big man went on. “Larry gave me some things we’re not supposed to have, but under the circumstances, I feel better about having them. One for me.” He pulled open the left side of his jacket, and Mark glimpsed a shoulder holster and the butt of a silver weapon before the material fell back in place, concealing it. “And one for you. It’s in my coat pocket in the car. It’s just like your own, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. I figured you’d be more comfortable with something you know. They’re both fully loaded and ready for action. I hope it won’t come to that, but I have a feeling it might.”

  Mark felt his mouth go dry. He reached out shakily for his coffee cup, thought better of it, and sipped from his water glass instead. The cold water seemed to burn his throat.

  “What did you tell Larry?” he finally managed to ask.

  O’Hara shrugged. “Nothing. We go back more than ten years. He didn’t ask and I didn’t offer, just told him what I needed. I’d do the same for h
im.”

  Mark nodded again, marveling at the old boy network that was the result of working together in a dangerous job. Brothers and sisters, all of them. Cops, Feds, the Armed Forces. The CIA, too, probably. He glanced at his watch: it was nearly eight o’clock.

  “We have four hours,” he said. “What do we do in the meantime?”

  O’Hara grimaced. “Recon.”

  And that was that. O’Hara paid for dinner, and they drove north again. As they rode in the now-familiar silence, Mark thought back over everything he’d learned about the Carlin family during his research.

  On Halloween night twelve years ago, Michael and Raina Carlin and two of their three children, a young man and a young woman, and their housekeeper, Mrs. Kolnikov, had been killed in their beds, then carried to the basement of their house, to the private living area known familiarly as the rec room, where they had been arranged on chairs and couches in Halloween costumes and masks. The family’s two Scottish terriers were placed at their feet. The room had been festooned with black and orange candles and crepe paper streamers, and big orange bags of candy. Candy corn and gumdrops had been strewn about the place. Mark had no idea what music had been playing at this scene, but he’d made it “Night on Bald Mountain” in his novel, in deference to the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Carlin were classical musicians.

  Michael Carlin, the world-famous conductor, had been decapitated, and the others had had their throats slashed. Mr. Carlin’s head was in one of the orange candy bags with black pictures of pumpkins and witches and the legend TRICK OR TREAT! on the sides. A big jack-o’-lantern, crudely carved, had been placed on his severed neck, a big candle burning brightly inside it. They had been found there the next morning by their manservant, the housekeeper’s husband, who had been away from the house for two days.