by Dean Koontz
“But you’re putting more into this case than even the average homicide detective usually does, more than even you usually do. Aren’t you, Lieutenant?”
“Maybe.”
“You know you are.”
“Arf, arf.”
“What?”
“The bulldog in me.”
“Why such a bulldog on this case?”
“I guess I was just in the mood for some action.”
“That’s no answer.”
“I just ate too much Purina Dog Chow, have too much energy, got to work it off.”
Seames shook his head. “It’s because you’ve got a special stake in this one.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t you?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Dan said, although an image of Laura McCaffrey’s lovely face rose unbidden in his memory.
Seames regarded him with suspicion and said, “Listen, Haldane, if someone was bankrolling McCaffrey and Hoffritz because their project had a military application, then those same—let’s call them financiers—those same financiers might be willing to spread a lot of money around to get their hands on the girl again. But any money they spread would be dirty, damned dirty. Any guy who took it would probably come down with an infection from it. Know what I mean?”
At first it had appeared that Seames was somehow aware of Dan’s romantic inclinations toward Laura. Now it was suddenly clear that a darker worry nagged the agent.
For God’s sake, Dan thought, he’s wondering if I’ve sold out to the Russians or someone!
“Jesus, Seames, are you ever on the wrong track!”
“They might be willing to pay a lot to get their hands on her, and while a police detective is reasonably well paid in this city, he’s never going to get rich—unless he moonlights.”
“I resent the implication.”
“And I regret your reluctance to make a plain denial of that implication.”
“No. I haven’t sold out to anyone, anywhere, at anytime. No, nyet, negative, definitely not. Is that plain enough for you?”
Seames didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Anyway, when the surveillance team lost Benton, they drove right back here to wait, to see if the woman and girl would return, or whether maybe somebody else would show up. As an afterthought, they came to have a look around the house, found the door the way you found it—and this weird mess.”
Dan said, “What about the mess? What do you make of it?”
“The flowers are from the garden in the back.”
“But what’re they doing here? Who brought them inside?”
“We can’t figure it.”
“And why’s the security chain been torn out of the door?”
“Looks like somebody forced their way inside,” Seames said.
“Really? Gee, you Bureau guys don’t miss a trick.”
“I’m at a loss to understand your attitude.”
“So is everyone else.”
“Your lack of cooperation.”
“I’m just a very bad boy.” Dan went to the telephone, and Seames wanted to know what he was doing, and Dan said, “Calling Paladin. If Earl felt Laura and Melanie were in danger here, he might’ve moved them in a hurry, the way you say he did, but when he got wherever he was going, he’d call his office and tell them where he was.”
The night operator at California Paladin, Lonnie Beamer, knew Dan well enough to recognize his voice. “Yeah, Lieutenant, Earl took them to the safe house.”
Lonnie seemed to think Dan knew the address of that place, which he didn’t. Earl had spoken of it a few times, when he’d been telling tales about various cases on which he’d worked, but if he had ever said exactly where the safe house was, Dan had forgotten. He could not ask Lonnie Beamer for the address without alerting Seames, who was watching intently. He’d have to call the night operator again from another phone, once he had slipped away from the FBI agent.
On the phone, Lonnie said, “But they probably won’t be there much longer.”
“Why not?”
“Haven’t you heard? Mrs. McCaffrey and the kid won’t be needing our protection anymore—though she hasn’t decided to let us go just yet. She may want us to hang around too, but for the most part, you people are taking over for us. You’re giving them police protection.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” Lonnie said. “Around-the-clock police protection. Right now, Earl’s over there in Westwood, at the safe house, waiting for a couple of your people to show up and take the McCaffreys off his hands. They’ll probably be there any minute.”
“Who?”
“Uh . . . let’s see . . . Captain Mondale ordered the protection, and Earl’s been told to relinquish our clients to Detectives Wexlersh and Manuello.”
Something was wrong. Very wrong. The department was too shorthanded to provide around-the-clock protection even in a case like this. And Ross wouldn’t have called Paladin himself; that was always delegated to assistants. Besides, if protection were to be offered, it would be in the form of uniformed officers, not vitally needed plainclothes detectives who were in even shorter supply than patrolmen.
And why Wexlersh and Manuello, in particular?
“So you might as well stay there in Sherman Oaks,” Lonnie said, “because I imagine your people will bring the McCaffreys straight back there.”
Dan wanted to know more, but he couldn’t talk freely with Seames breathing down his neck. He said, “Well, thanks anyway, Lonnie. But I think it’s inexcusable that you don’t know where your operative is or what’s happening to your clients.”
“Huh? But I just said he was—”
“I’ve always thought Paladin was the best, but if you can’t keep track of your agents and your clients, especially clients whose lives might be in jeopardy—”
Lonnie said, “What’s wrong with you, Haldane?”
“Sure, sure,” Dan said for Seames’s benefit, “they’re probably safe. I know Earl’s a good man, and I’m sure he won’t let anything happen to them, but you better start running a tighter ship there or, sooner or later, something will happen to a client, and then there goes the whole agency’s license.”
Lonnie started to say something more, but Dan hung up.
He was desperate to get away from there, to find another phone and get back to Lonnie to hear more details. However, he didn’t want to appear eager to depart, because he didn’t want Seames to come with him. And if Seames thought that Dan knew where Laura and Melanie were, there would be no hope of leaving alone and unobstructed.
The FBI agent was staring hard at him.
Dan said, “They don’t know anything at Paladin.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Yeah.”
“What else did he tell you?”
He wanted and needed to trust Seames and the Bureau. He was, after all, a cop by choice, and he believed in authority, in systems of law and enforcement. Ordinarily, he would have given Seames his trust automatically, unthinkingly.
But not this time. This was a twisty situation, with stakes so high that the usual rules did not apply.
“He didn’t tell me shit,” Dan said. “What do you mean?”
“Something’s got you really scared all of a sudden.”
“Not me.”
“You just broke into a sweat.”
Dan felt it on his face, cool and trickling. Thinking fast, he said, “It’s this knock I took on the forehead. It feels okay, and I forget about it, and then all of a sudden the pain starts up again so bad it makes me weak.”
“Hats?” Seames said.
“What?”
“At the Sign of the Pentagram, you told me you’d hurt yourself while trying on hats.”
“Did I? Well, I was just being a smart-ass.”
“So . . . what really happened?”
“Well, see, usually I don’t think very much or very hard. Not used to it. Big dumb cop, you know. But today I had to think so hard that my h
ead got hot, blistered the skin right off.”
“I believe you’re thinking hard all the time, Haldane. Every minute.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“And I want to warn you to think hard about this: You’re just a city cop, while I’m a federal agent.”
“I am acutely aware of your exalted status and the hovering ghost of J. Edgar Hoover.”
“Though I can’t meddle in your jurisdiction on just any excuse, I can find ways to make you wish you’d never crossed me.”
“I never would, sir. I swear.”
Seames just stared at him.
Dan said, “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”
“Where?”
“Home, I guess,” Dan lied. “It’s been a long day. You’re right: I’ve been working too much. And this head hurts like hell. Ought to take a few aspirins and make up an ice pack.”
“All of a sudden you’re no longer worried at all about the McCaffreys?”
“Oh, well, sure, I’m concerned about them,” Dan said, “but there’s nothing more I can do right now. I mean, this mess here, it’s sort of on the suspicious side, but it doesn’t necessarily indicate foul play, does it? I figure they’re safe with Earl Benton. He’s a good guy. Besides, Mr. Seames, a homicide cop has to have a pretty thick skin. Can’t start identifying with the victims, you know. If we did that, we’d all be basket cases. Right?”
Seames stared, unblinking.
Dan yawned. “Well, time to have a beer and hit the sack.” He crossed to the door.
He felt hopelessly obvious, transparent. He had no talent for deception.
Seames spoke to him as he was about to step over the threshold. “If the McCaffreys are in danger, Lieutenant, and if you really want to help them, you’d be wise to cooperate with me.”
“Well, like I said, I don’t suppose they are in danger right this minute,” Dan said, although he could still feel the sweat trickling down his face and though his heart was racing and though his stomach was again tied in a burning knot.
“Damn it, why are you being so stubborn? Why aren’t you cooperating, Lieutenant?”
Dan met his eyes. “Remember when you pretty much accused me of selling out, turning the McCaffreys over to someone?”
“It’s part of my job to be suspicious,” Seames said.
“Mine too.”
“You mean . . . you suspect me of being opposed to that little girl’s best interests?”
“Mr. Seames, I’m sorry, but though you have the round, unlined face of a cherub, that doesn’t mean you’re an angel at heart.”
He left the house, went out to his car, and drove away. They didn’t try to follow him, probably because they realized it would be wasted effort.
The first telephone that Dan saw was one of those artifacts whose steady disappearance seemed to symbolize the decline of modern civilization: a fully enclosed glass booth. It stood at the corner of a property occupied by an Arco service station.
By the time that he saw the booth and parked beside it, he was shaking badly, not in a panic yet but certainly within sight of one, which wasn’t like him. Ordinarily he was calm, collected. The worse that things got, the faster a situation deteriorated, the cooler he became. But not this time. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t get Cindy Lakey out of his mind, couldn’t forget that tragic failure, or perhaps it was because the murders of his own brother and sister had been much on his mind in the past twenty-four hours, or perhaps the attraction Laura McCaffrey had for him was even far greater than he was yet willing to admit and perhaps the loss of her would be far more devastating than he could imagine. But whatever the cause of his crumbling self-control, he was becoming undeniably more frantic by the moment.
Wexlersh.
Manuello.
Why was he suddenly so frightened of them? He had never liked either of them, of course. They were originally vice officers, and word was that they had been among the most corrupt in that division, which was probably why Ross Mondale had arranged for them to transfer under his command in the East Valley; he wanted his right-hand men to be the type who would do what they were told, who wouldn’t question any questionable orders, whose allegiance to him would be unshakable as long as he provided for them. Dan knew that they were Mondale’s flunkies, opportunists with little or no respect for their work or for concepts like duty and public trust. But they were still cops, lousy cops, lazy cops, but not hit men like Ned Rink. Surely they posed no threat to Laura or Melanie.
And yet . . .
Something was wrong. Just a hunch. He couldn’t explain the intensity of his sudden dread, couldn’t give concrete reasons for it, but over the years he had learned to trust his hunches, and now he was scared.
In the booth, he hastily and anxiously fumbled in his pockets for coins, found them. He punched the number for California Paladin into the keypad.
His breath steamed the inner surface of the glass walls, while rain streamed down the exterior. The service station’s silvery lights shimmered in the rippling film of water and were diffused through the opalescent condensation.
That curious lambent luminescence, combined with the unsettling harmonics of the storm, gave him the extraordinary sensation of being encapsulated and set adrift outside the flow of time and space. As he punched in the last digit of Paladin’s number, he had the weird feeling that the booth door had closed permanently behind him, that he would not be able to force his way out of it, that he would never see or hear or touch another human being again, but would forever remain adrift in that rectangular prison in the Twilight Zone, unable to warn or to help Laura and Melanie, unable to alert Earl to the danger, unable to save even himself. Sometimes he had nightmares of being utterly helpless, powerless, paralyzed, while right before his eyes a vaguely defined but monstrous creature tortured and murdered people whom he loved; however, this was the first time that such a nightmare had attempted to seize him while he was awake.
He finished entering the number. After a few electronic beeps and clicks, a ringing came across the line.
At first even the ringing did not dispel the miasma of fear so thick it inhibited breathing. He half expected it to go on and on, without response, for everyone knew that there were no telephone lines between reality and the Twilight Zone. But after the third ring, Lonnie Beamer said, “California Paladin.”
Dan almost gasped with relief. “Lonnie, it’s Dan Haldane again.”
“Have you regained your senses?”
“All that stuff I said . . . that was just for the benefit of a guy who was listening over my shoulder.”
“After you hung up, I figured it out.”
“Listen, as soon as I hang up this time, I want you to call Earl and tell him there’s something fishy about all this police-protection crap.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Tell him the guys who come to his door might not really be cops and he shouldn’t open up to them.”
“You aren’t making sense. Of course they’ll be cops.”
“Lonnie, something bad is about to go down. I don’t know exactly what or why—”
“But I know I talked to Ross Mondale. I mean, I recognized his voice, but I still called him back at his office number. Just to double-check who he was before I told him where Earl was keeping the McCaffreys.”
“All right,” Dan said impatiently, “even if it’s actually Wexlersh and Manuello who show up, tell Earl it stinks. Tell him I said he’s in deep shit if he lets them in.”
“Listen, Dan, I can’t tell him to shoot it out with a couple of cops.”
“He doesn’t have to shoot it out. Just tell him not to let them in. Tell him I’m on my way. He’s got to hold out until I get there. Now, what the hell’s the address of this safe house?”
“It’s actually an apartment,” Lonnie said. He gave Dan an address in Westwood, south of Wilshire. “Hey, you really think they’re in danger?”
“Call Earl!” Dan said.
; He slammed down the receiver, threw open the steam-opaqued door of the booth, and ran to the car.
chapter twenty-eight
“Under arrest?” Earl repeated, blinking at Wexlersh, frowning at Manuello.
Earl looked every bit as surprised and baffled as Laura felt. She was on the sofa, with Melanie, where the detectives had indicated that they wanted her to remain when they had first come into the room. She felt terribly vulnerable and wondered why she should feel vulnerable when they were only policemen who said they were there to help her. She had seen their identification, and Earl apparently had met them before (although he didn’t seem to know them well), so there was every indication that they were what they claimed to be. Yet dark buds of doubt and fear began to flower, and she sensed that something was not right about this, not right at all.
She didn’t like the looks of these two cops, either. Manuello had mean eyes, a superior smirk. He moved with a macho swagger, as if waiting for his authority to be questioned so he could kick and stomp someone. Wexlersh, with his waxy white skin and flat gray eyes, gave her chills.
She said, “What’s going on? Mr. Benton is working for me. I hired his company.” And then she had a crazy thought that she voiced at once: “My God, you didn’t think he was holding us here against our will, did you?”
Ignoring her, speaking to Earl Benton, Detective Manuello said, “You carrying any iron?”
“Sure, but I have a permit,” Earl said.
“Let me have it.”
“The permit?”
“The piece.”
“You want my weapon?”
“Now.”
Drawing his own revolver, Wexlersh said, “Be real careful when you hand it over.”
Clearly astonished by Wexlersh’s tone and suspicion, Earl said, “You think I’m dangerous, for Christ’s sake?”
“Just be careful,” Wexlersh said coldly.
Handing his gun to Manuello, Earl said, “Why would I draw down on a cop?”
As Manuello stuck the pistol in the waistband of his trousers, the telephone rang.
Laura started to get up, and Manuello said, “Let it ring.”
“But—”
“Let it ring!” Manuello repeated sharply.
The phone rang again.
A dark stain of worry appeared on Earl’s face and grew darker even as Laura watched.
The phone rang, rang, and everyone seemed transfixed by the sound.