The Iron Ring

by Matty Dalrymple

  “Yes.”

  “And so her motivation now is …?” He looked at her expectantly.

  After a moment, Louise said, “I think it’s safe to assume that she might come after me.”

  Theo nodded gravely. “All the more reason for you not to hurry away from the safety of my compound.” He sat back in his chair. “And where do you suppose she is now?”

  “I assume she’s somewhere in the Philadelphia area, waiting for McNally and Castillo to be discharged from the hospital. As far as she knows, with Gerard and George both dead, and with Mitchell having betrayed me, I’ve exhausted my resources, so she may not consider me a threat, at least for now.”

  “But at the moment, neither McNally nor Castillo are in a position to help her.”

  Louise sighed. “There’s also McNally’s brother, Andrew. He helped Owen McNally get Ballard away from us when we had her at the Pocopson house.”

  “Is she close to Andrew McNally?”

  “I’m not sure what her relationship is with him.”

  “She has a growing band of allies.”

  “Yes,” said Louise. She was silent for a moment, then continued, frustrated. “I’m afraid I haven’t executed this operation as smoothly as I would have liked to.”

  Theo shrugged. “It’s not really your usual occupation.”

  She scowled. “No.”

  Maja and a young woman whom Theo introduced as Elsa arrived to serve dessert—almond tart and Earl Grey tea—then retired.

  Theo added milk and a sugar cube to his tea. “I imagine you will be anxious to get back to your research.”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to do that. Or where. I obviously can’t go back to the Vivantem headquarters. In fact, I imagine I’ll need to leave the country and go into hiding, although that also,” she added, “is not my usual occupation. I’m not sure how I would do it. I must admit that I’ve been hoping you might be able to help me with that.”

  “That would be no problem,” he said comfortably. “You know how much I admire your work, Louise, and I believe I can provide the facilities you would need to continue it right here on the property.”

  “But for how long?”

  “As long as is needed.”

  “The police and the government have long memories,” she said. “It might be quite a long time.”

  He waved a hand. “That is of no concern to me. It could be a permanent arrangement.”

  She hesitated, her tea cup halfway to her lips. “Permanent?”

  “Certainly. No lack of room. And no lack of resources for you to pursue your research. You need only tell me what you desire and it will be provided.”

  Louise gave a strained laugh. “I’m fifty-nine years old, Theo. I could live another thirty years. I doubt you want me creeping around your compound when I’m ninety years old.”

  Theo gave an urbane laugh. “Not unless you were still enjoying your time here.”

  “Well.” She put her cup down. “It’s … a very generous offer, Theo.”

  “Give me an opportunity to demonstrate what such a life could offer,” replied Theo with a smile. “Then you can make up your mind.”

  15

  Brady slammed down his desk phone. “Den, they found Casal’s rental car in a lot a couple of blocks from Dos Sombreros. And guess what was in the back seat?”

  Den glared at Brady.

  “Oh, come on, humor me.”

  “Take out menus from Dos Sombreros.”

  “Nope.”

  “Jimmy Hoffa?”

  “Nope.”

  “The gun that matches the bullet in George Millard’s leg?”

  “Nope.”

  Den sighed. “I give up.”

  “The crime scene techs found a stain they think is blood.”

  Den smiled wolfishly. “Did they swab it?”

  “They’re doing that now.”

  “Even if it’s not Castillo’s, it sounds like the events of that evening didn’t go down exactly like he told us.”

  “Let’s go talk to him again,” said Brady.

  Den tapped a pen on the blotter on his desk. “There’s nothing illegal about having been in jail, and Castillo’s not going anywhere. I think we should talk to the guy in Jenkintown again. I feel like he knows more about Castillo than he’s letting on.”

  “Sounds good,” said Brady.

  They stood up and retrieved their jackets from the backs of their chairs.

  “What about the other medical record—what was the name on it?” asked Den.

  “Elizabeth Ballard.”

  “Any luck finding Ballard?”

  “Not yet. There’s an Elizabeth Ballard who lives in Parkesburg whose dad was killed in a mugging back in December.”

  “Another mugging?”

  “Yeah. She was sixteen at the time—would be seventeen now. Preston checked out the Parkesburg house and no one was home. They’re going to swing by again. Mom’s dead—not a mugging,” he said, in response to Den’s raised eyebrow. “Guess what the cause of death was.”

  “Brady, goddammit …”

  “Died of a stroke ten years ago.”

  “Like Gerard Bonnay and George Millard.”

  “Exactly. There are a surprising number of people dropping dead of strokes.”

  “We should do a search for other people in the area who’ve had unexpected strokes.”

  “Will do.”

  “And ask Dottie to check on who Ballard’s guardian is.”

  “She’s on it.”

  “Ask her to get a move-on—we want to have all the information we can when we talk to Castillo.”

  16

  Philip woke to a buzzing sound—some new monitor? He would have thought at this point they would be removing monitors, not adding them.

  He looked around for the source of the sound and spotted a cell phone sitting on his bedside table. The phone buzzed again, and the screen lit with an incoming text. Philip picked it up.

  It’s Andy. Police realize you were involved in fire, they’re coming to arrest you. If you can get to the entrance I’ll pick you up.

  Philip groaned and replied with a text: No clothes

  I stopped by earlier you were asleep but I put some clothes in the closet

  The fact that Andy McNally had stopped by his room and Philip hadn’t even been aware of it gave him an unpleasant turn at his lack of diligence, but he supposed he had to cut himself some slack—he was still on the mend.

  He swung his legs off the bed, trying to ignore the stab of pain from his shoulder. He removed the tape securing the IV line and pulled out the needle, then grabbed a few tissues from a box next to the bed to stanch a surprising amount of blood. He bent his arm to hold his makeshift bandage in place and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, then walked gingerly to the closet.

  Inside hung a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a flannel shirt, socks, and a pair of leather boots. They matched Philip’s usual apparel, although at a higher price point: Pendleton shirt, Ariat boots. At least the jeans weren’t designer. The addition was a baseball hat. He was not normally a baseball hat kind of guy, but having the ability to hide his face seemed wise.

  He shrugged out of his hospital gown and, keeping his ear tuned for footsteps in the hallway, put on the new clothes. He flushed the bloody tissues down the toilet and hoped that the plaid of the shirt would disguise any stain that might leak through the fabric. He had to stop periodically to steady himself with a hand on the wall when a spell of dizziness hit him. He had told Andy that he could get to the entrance, but he wasn’t going to be able to make it much further than that.

  He stepped to the door and glanced into the hallway. It was oddly quiet, not a doctor or nurse or orderly in sight. He stepped out of the room and started down the hall. He knew which direction the elevator was from the couple of nurse-escorted walks he had taken.

  The wait at the elevator seemed interminable. He expected any moment for someone to tap him on t
he shoulder and ask him what he thought he was doing out of bed, but there was no way he could handle the stairs. Finally, the doors opened and he stepped in. Based on the looks the other passengers threw his way—fortunately, all visitors, not hospital staff—he was not looking his best.

  When the doors slid open, he hung back, leaning against the wall while the other occupants stepped out. One of them, a young woman, turned back.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, thanks. Just got some bad news.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there …” She trailed off.

  “Thanks, I’m fine. Just need a minute.”

  She nodded. “Sure. Well … good luck.”

  She started down the hall, glancing back once.

  She was wearing a coat and carrying a handbag, like she was on her way out. Philip hoped that if he followed her, he’d end up at the entrance where Andy was waiting.

  He got as far as the lobby, then had to lower himself onto one of the couches. He could feel the tug of the sutures against his skin and was pretty sure his wound had opened up.

  He pulled out the phone and laboriously pressed out a text.

  Got to lobby not sure how much further I can get

  Can you get to the entrance? came the response.

  He sent back a thumbs up, pushed himself up from the couch, stifled a groan as his shoulder protested, and started his unsteady way to the entrance.

  He was almost there when he heard a voice call from the vicinity of the information desk, “Sir, are you all right?”

  Philip turned as much as he dared without losing his balance and waved his good arm. “Yup, thanks for asking.”

  He turned back to the door, but not before he saw the security guard—a middle-aged man with a buzz cut and sharp eyes—leave the desk and walk toward him. “Are you a patient, sir? Have you been discharged?”

  Philip saw the sequence of events like a movie playing in his mind’s eye: if they hadn’t already connected him with the burned house and dead body in Pocopson, as Andy’s text suggested was the case, then certainly his attempt at an unauthorized departure from the hospital would cause them to look further into why Philip Castillo of Sedona, Arizona, had come to Pennsylvania. They wouldn’t have to look far to find enough to put him back in prison.

  And he hadn’t been exaggerating when he had told Lizzy that he would rather die than go back there.

  The guard had almost reached him, but Philip had no energy to run. He wondered illogically if he could possibly delete the texts from Andy so as not to implicate him in whatever was about to happen, when another man appeared at his side—young, blond-haired, blue-eyed.

  “Mr. Castillo,” he said with a Scandinavian accent, taking Philip’s arm, “I’m so sorry I was detained. The car is right outside.”

  The guard slowed, then stopped a few yards from Philip and the new arrival. “Do you gentlemen need any assistance?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” said the young man. He steered Philip toward the door. “Dr. McNally sent me,” he whispered.

  Philip stepped outside, to where a sleek black limo idled. The young man led him to the car, a steadying arm on his elbow, and opened the back door.

  Somehow this didn’t seem like Andy McNally’s style. Philip glanced back to the entrance where the security guard was standing, a walkie talkie at his mouth.

  Sometimes the devil you didn’t know was preferable to the devil you did.

  He lowered himself into the limo and the young man pressed the door shut behind him.

  The phone in Philip’s hand buzzed with a text: Safely away, I believe?

  That was definitely not the Andy McNally he knew.

  Who is this? he replied.

  An ally. Texting is so awkward. We can communicate more easily if you turn on the monitor.

  There was a video monitor next to the seat. Philip reached out with his good arm and turned it on as the car glided away from the curb. A face appeared—a more mature, and more aristocratic, version of the driver.

  “How do you do, Mr. Castillo,” said the man. “I’m Theo Viklund. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He even shared the driver’s accent, although his was less pronounced. “I apologize for the ruse of pretending to be Andrew McNally, but it was in fact the case that the police had tied you to the arson at Dr. Mortensen’s home and the murder of Mr. Millard. I felt that convincing you that I was Dr. McNally was the most expeditious way of enlisting your cooperation.”

  “Who are you?”

  “As I said—an ally.”

  “You provided the phone? And put the clothes in my room?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “We merely had to wait for you to be asleep.”

  “Do you work for Louise Mortensen?”

  Viklund smiled, but there was a coldness to the expression that suggested irritation rather than amusement. “No. But I do have access to her resources.”

  “And what resources would those be?”

  “That is better explained in person.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a place you will be able to recover in peace, without concern about interference by the authorities.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “My home. You will arrive here within a few hours. If at any time during the trip you wish to take a break, just ask the driver.”

  “And what if I ask him to take me somewhere other than your home?”

  “To what end? I would just have to call the police with an anonymous tip about a sighting of a person of interest in the Pocopson arson and murder, and you’d be right back where you were, except in handcuffs.”

  Philip grimaced.

  “If you need any pain medication,” said Viklund, “there’s a pill and some water in the center console.”

  Philip glanced over. Sure enough.

  “I will give you some privacy for the drive,” continued Viklund. “I look forward to meeting you in person.” The monitor went black.

  Philip leaned back in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. He would have been tempted to unbutton his shirt and check the size of the blood stain on the bandage, but he wasn’t about to assume that Viklund wasn’t still watching him.

  He turned his attention out the window, trying to memorize the route they took—generally west—and the turns they made, but the quiet hum of the tires on the road was soothing, and he felt a little light-headed from the additional loss of blood.

  In a few minutes his eyes drifted shut and he slept.

  17

  Mitchell hurried to the door, hoping to get to it before a second knock increased the chances that the sound would break through his aunt’s NyQuil-induced slumber. The two cops from Lenape Township stood on the porch.

  Mitchell opened the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pieda,” said the older one, back to the incorrect pronunciation. “Detective Denninger and Detective Plott.”

  “I remember.”

  “Can we come in for a minute?”

  “My aunt’s sick. She’s in bed, taking a nap.”

  Denninger dropped his voice. “We’ll be quiet.”

  Mitchell scanned Denninger’s thoughts and found them just as opaque as during his first visit. He turned his attention to Plott, but sensed nothing other than a general excitement that masked any more detail. He sighed and stepped aside. “Let’s go in the kitchen.”

  He led them to the kitchen and remained standing.

  “Mr. Pieda,” said Denninger, “we’ve uncovered some information that makes us even more convinced that the man whose picture we showed you yesterday was involved in the fire and murder in Pocopson. We’d like to ask if you’d be willing to come to the hospital where he’s recovering from a gunshot wound to see if you recognize him.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know who he is.”

  “I know you didn’t recognize him based on the photo we showed yo
u, but sometimes seeing people in the flesh is different.” A mobile phone buzz emanated from Denninger’s coat pocket. He reached for the phone as he continued talking. “We could arrange it so that he wouldn’t be able to see you—” He glanced down at the phone, then did a double-take. Mitchell could see the text of the message as if he were holding the phone himself: Head over to Mercy. Someone drove Castillo away from the hospital.

  “Damn!” exclaimed Denninger.

  Plott raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “What is it?” asked Mitchell innocently.

  “Unanticipated complication,” muttered Denninger. He passed the phone to Plott, who read the message.

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Mitchell. “So, should we go to the hospital?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Oh no? I thought you were anxious for me to see him,” said Mitchell, enjoying himself.

  “He’s not at the hospital anymore.” The scowling Denninger took the phone back from Plott.

  “He was discharged?” asked Mitchell.

  “Not discharged.”

  “He’s on the run? How concerned should I be if a person who’s suspected of arson and murder, and who had a paper with my name on it, is now on the run?” Mitchell tried to inject some concern into his voice.

  “We’re going to head over to the hospital now and check things out. If there’s any information you should be aware of, we’ll be in touch.”

  Mitchell followed the pair to the door.

  “If you see the man whose photo I showed you,” said Denninger, “or can think where he might have gotten the document with your name on it, please give us a call.”

  “Will do.”

  Mitchell eased the door shut behind them. The two cops had a brief exchange at the car—the sound of slightly raised voices came to him through the door—then they climbed into the Impala and departed with a squeal of tires.

  Had Elizabeth Ballard and her allies spirited Castillo away from the hospital? Owen McNally surely couldn’t be in any condition to be driving, but maybe his brother was responsible for Castillo’s unplanned departure.