Jack Thompson's cruiser lit the corpse in alternating gleams of red and blue. Thompson had felt for a
pulse but from the body's distorted angles and vacant, staring eyes he knew that she was as dead as a rock. After snapping flares
and spreading a blanket over the body, he now stood guard. He'd found twenty-three dollars and a
Mostly for something to do Thompson paced off the scene and made a rough sketch of the assumed impact point and
the spot where the body had come to rest. Dragged, he thought, eyeing fresh gouges in the road. In the morning the traffic investigator
would check for fragments of broken glass and paint chips that might identify the hit-and-run vehicle.
The wind shifted and brought
with it the faint wail of an ambulance. Though Thompson had told dispatch there was no hurry, the siren was going full blast. It was
probably Harley Ames who, God knew, loved nothing more than running the bus full out, red lights and siren screaming. A red haze tinted
the horizon like a pale bubble. Thompson slapped his hands and paced back to his cruiser. The freshening wind smelled of crushed plants,
distant smoke and the threat of rain. A bitter storm had already torn most of the leaves from the oaks and sycamores. Tomorrow was
Halloween. In another week people would be watching the sky for signs of an early snow.
* * *
Greg Webster stared at the phone and willed it to ring. For the last half hour he had debated working his way through Carolyn's
address book, but what would he say? Hello, is Carolyn there? This is her husband and I expected her home three hours ago. It
sounded needy and pathetic.
Greg had been in New York City for the last six weeks and now on his second day back in Kansas his wife
was a couple of hours late for dinner. Call out the cavalry! But his hand crept a few inches closer to the phone and he looked again
at his watch. Hell, it could be anything. Out here in the prairie cell phone service was terrible. She could be five miles away and
might as well be on Mars for all the good her cell would do her. Eight-thirty, he decided, he would give her until eight-thirty and
if he hadn't heard from her he would start calling. Webster's head jerked when the clock over the stove clicked forward another notch,
then he almost tipped over his chair when the phone suddenly rang.
"Jesus, Care, about damn time!" he muttered and grabbed the receiver.
But it was a man's voice on the line.
"Mr. Webster?"
"Yes?"
"Mr. Webster, this is Bob Mathews at the Stafford County Sheriff's office.
Could you come down to our office in Varity?"
"What? What's this about?"
"There's been a traffic accident, Mr. Webster and we'd appreciate
it if you could come down to the office."
"Is this about my wife? Has Carolyn been hurt?"
"I just, ah, I have a note from one of our
deputies to ask you to come in, sir."
"Has something happened to my wife?"
"Sir, I really don't have any details, just that there was
some kind of a traffic accident."
"I don't understand. Her car is here in the garage. What's happened? Is she in the hospital?"
"Honestly,
Mr. Webster, I don't have any details, just a request that you come down to our office. Do you need the address?"
"Is she dead?" Webster
demanded, his voice beginning to break.
"I don't have any information, Mr. Webster. Would you like us to have a deputy pick you up?"
"Jesus,
no!" Webster shouted, dropped the phone and raced for the door.
* * *
Greg
Webster was halfway down the long block when the man who called himself The Watcher pulled into
Man, he's really moving, The Watcher thought. I hope he doesn't crash on the way to the morgue. On the seat next
to him sat a ten-megapixel digital camera set to 1600 ISO, sensitive enough to catch the expression on Webster's face when he exited
the coroner's office. The Watcher turned the heater up a notch and cursed the incompetence of the police. Not only had he left her driver's license in her pocket, he had even called them to report the body in the road and it was still almost eight-thirty before
Webster arrived at the combination Sheriff's office and County Morgue.
Webster raced inside before The Watcher could set up for his
picture. Well, no matter. All he would have gotten was the back of Webster's head. It was the face shot he really wanted. For a moment
The Watcher wondered if Webster would be any match for him. God knew these county stumblebums weren't. At first he'd thought that
a retired New York City police detective with twenty-five years on the job might be a worthy adversary, though, of course, never good
enough to catch him, but maybe clever enough to at least make the game interesting. But when he'd seen that helpless, stricken expression
on Greg Webster's face The Watcher had despaired of ever finding a worthy adversary. Carefully, he lifted his camera and waited for
the money shot.
Chapter Two
The cemetery was as bleak and cheerless as a rusted gun. Carolyn's
plot was at the western edge, the land beyond the wire fence covered with dead stalks of some indeterminate color extending to the
windswept horizon. October had been a hard month and the backhoe had broken a tooth scratching out her grave. The service had ended
some time ago, a few minutes or a few dozen, Greg couldn't say. He remembered only a patchwork of images, the pudgy minister in a
flapping black coat, a lump of cold dirt crumbling in his hand, half-heard words carried off by the wind. Terry Singleton, a Professor
of Forensic Psychiatry at the School of Criminal Justice, and Webster's only friend for five hundred miles in any direction, had tried
to drag Greg home then offered to stay with him but Webster had turned away to stare blindly at the prairie, colorless in November's
flat light. At some point Terry had disappeared.
"All those years on the job, Care, and I always figured you would be the one left
behind, not me," Greg whispered. A gust grabbed his words and bore them across the plains so thoroughly that a moment later Webster
wondered if he had spoken at all. A line of high-tension wires marched off to his left but to the northwest the vista was pristine,
broken only by low hills dotted with a scatter of leafless trees.
"Sometimes after I kicked in a door and almost got myself shot I'd
think that if I'd been just a little slower, in a couple of days you'd be standing in some cemetery out on Staten Island, the pipes
playing Amazing Grace, with the city spread out across the harbor in front of you. Now look at us, Care. How the hell did we
end up here?"
Webster closed his eyes and tried to picture her, but the image that appeared was not that of his wife of over twenty
years, but that of a girl barely old enough to buy a drink, the way Carolyn had looked the first time he had seen her back in
* * *
Greg led his partner, Al Cimino, down the hallway, the cracked linoleum squeaking beneath their feet.
"This is not a good idea," Cimino whispered.
"She looks like she did three rounds with Mohammad Ali."
"Hookers get beat up. It's an
occupational hazard."
"It's felony assault."
"We don't have a warrant."
"He'll invite us in," Webster hissed and nodded for Cimino to
back out of the way. Pausing just long enough to shed his coat Webster pounded twice on the door. "Hey! God damn it! You're fuckin'
leakin' water, you asshole!" Webster slammed the flat of his hand against the wood. "Turn off your God damn bathtub!"
From inside they
heard a muttered "What the fuck?" and heavy steps approaching. The peephole went dark. Dressed in typical anti-crime fashion, black
jeans and a worn sweatshirt baggy enough to cover his gun, Webster glared at the door and aimed a fist at the peephole.
"You're floodin'
me out, damn it!"
A coffee-colored man holding a butcher's knife yanked open the door.
"Who the fuck--" was as far as he got before
Greg kicked him in the balls. The guy groaned and folded to the floor. Cimino raced in and knocked the knife across the room.
"ADW?"
Cimino asked.
"Menacing, at least." Webster rolled the guy, Roberto Abuelo according to his ID, onto his stomach and hooked him up.
Cimino approached the kitchen while Greg headed for the bedroom. It was empty but when he passed the closet he heard muffled moans.
A slide-lock secured the door from the outside.
"Al," Webster called, assuming a position in front and to the right of the closet door.
Cimino rushed in and, catching Webster's gaze, slipped the bolt. A pair of eyes glittered in the shadows.
"Police," Greg said, "come
on out."
For a long moment nothing happened then the girl crawled out, light brown skin, long kinky hair, dressed only in a dirty yellow
t-shirt and white panties. She was thin, her breasts barely fist-sized knobs under her shirt. Greg figured she was about sixteen,
then a bar of light crossed her frightened eyes and slid down over the Tweety-Bird logo on her shirt. Webster's gut clenched. Thirteen,
he thought. Fourteen at most.
"Get her some clothes," he growled at Cimino and headed back to the front room. Abuelo heard him coming
and rolled into a sitting position.
"What the fuck you think--" he began then he caught the look in Webster's eyes and curled into
a ball the instant before Greg's toe would have buried itself into in his stomach.
"You fucking son-of-a-bitch!" Webster shouted and
made ready to kick the pimp again but Cimino pulled him back.
"Greg, we don't need this kind of trouble."
"That son-of-a-bitch was turning
her out. . . . You piece of shit!" Webster shouted.
"Greg you can't kick the shit out of every pimp in
Webster glared at Abuelo then nodded and shook off Cimino's arm.
"Yeah, okay, right. She getting dressed?"
"I
found her some pants."
"You want to watch him while I talk to her?"
Webster found the girl sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging her
knees.
"What's your name?"
"Lolli," the girl said, not looking up.
"Your real name."
"Janet," she mumbled after a long pause.
"You got
some place to go?" She shook her head and looked down. "Where're you from?"
"The islands," she said after a long pause.
"Which island?"
"
"Where're your parents?" She looked away and shrugged. "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," she said, not
meeting his eyes.
"What's the story?" Cimino called from the bedroom door.
"Says she's eighteen and she's got no family."
"If she's eighteen
then let's cut her loose and get Abuelo back to the house."
"Yeah, and how long is she gonna last? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Screw that."
"Greg,
we're cops not social workers. We've got this guy on the assault beef. Let's put him in a cell."
Webster looked through the doorway
and saw a grin spread across the pimp's face. Abuelo was thinking that Janet was never going to testify against him. He'd be out by
dinner.
"No," Greg said, glaring at Abuelo. "No fucking way."
"You got a better idea?"
"That piece of shit is going down for statutory
rape, kidnapping, false imprisonment and assault."
Angrily, Cimino pulled Webster aside.
"Jesus, Greg, let's get real here. In half
an hour that kid'll be in the wind and without her we don't have evidence of anything."
"So we keep track of her."
"And how are we going
to do that? You gonna move her into your place? You gonna get the city to buy her a hotel room for a year or so until the case comes
to trial?"
Webster looked at the faded walls and grimy windows, the girl huddled on the wrinkled bed, at Abuelo's grinning face, then
back to the girl, and in the back of his brain something clicked.
"Who was that shrink who came around last month passing out cards?"
"Huh?"
"Some
psychologist, therapist, something, passed out cards for some clinic or something." Webster pulled out his wallet and sorted through
the little pockets. "West Side Women's Aid Clinic" he read off a cheap white card. "'Counseling and shelter for women in trouble.' She's a woman in trouble."
"She's a kid."
"All the more reason she needs their help. Come on, we'll drop her off on the way to the house."
Cimino
shook his head. "Jesus, Greg, this is nuts."
"Worse comes to worst, she skips and the DA 343's the case. At least that son-of-a-bitch
will spend some time in Rikers until it gets tossed." Webster gave his partner a long stare. "How about it? You want this piece of
shit to skate on turning out a fourteen year old kid?"
For a long moment Cimino stared at Webster, then shot a quick glance at the
girl, her bowed head resting on her knees. "Shit!" he whispered. "I never wanted to make detective anyway."
* * *
The West Side Women's Aid Clinic was on the second floor of a four-story brownstone a block
off St. Marks not far from NYU. It wasn't really "on the way" back to the precinct house but by that point Cimino was tired of arguing.
He sulked in the car with Abuelo while Greg led the girl into the Clinic office. A Plexiglas window fronted a worn waiting room.
Webster peered into the empty room then tapped his shield on the plastic. He waited a moment then knocked harder. A face appeared
from a back hallway and Greg laid his badge flat against the plastic. A moment later the door buzzed and popped free.
Halfway down
the hall Greg and Janet were met by a young woman in a cheap cotton dress. Her blue eyes were about level with Webster's shoulder
which made her about five feet five with long auburn hair, and a scattering of freckles across her nose.
"I'm Officer Greg Webster,"
he began holding up his tin. "I work anti-crime out of the 10th Precinct. My partner and I just rescued this young lady," Janet gave
Webster a startled glance, 'Young lady'? Did he mean her? "from a pimp who had her locked up in his closet. He's going away for rape.
She's going to testify against him. She needs someplace to live until then. Can you help her?"
It was all such an extraordinary speech
-- pimp, rape, testify, that for a moment the woman didn't know where to begin. After a brief hesitation she decided to begin at the
beginning and extended her hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Officer Webster. I'm Carolyn Forbes."
Three days later Janet had fled and soon
after that the case against Roberto Abuelo was dismissed. But Carolyn had never left him, until now.
* * *
A cold gust cut through Webster's coat and teared his eyes. Stems and dead leaves pelted his cheek
then flew off over the plains. As Greg turned away from Carolyn's grave a cliff of blue-black clouds bore in from the north and the
light faded to a dull, flat gray.
Chapter Three
The holidays passed in a blur and Webster began
his second Kansas winter, an experience beyond mere weather and more closely resembling an emigration to a foreign land. The landscape
became monochromatic: black trees, white fields, gray sky. Conversations began and ended with the weather -- Was it going to
snow? When would it stop snowing? Could you leave the car in the driveway or would you have to put it in the garage and plug in an
electric blanket to keep the pistons from freezing in the bores? Would it be mild enough to only nip your cheeks or so cold that it
would freeze off your nose? Days passed only as drab stretches of gray hours between eight in the morning and four-thirty in the afternoon
except for those rare, achingly-crystal exceptions when the sky was as blue as the ocean and the snowfields glowed like an acre of
Kenmores down at the Big Sears.
For the first few weeks after Carolyn's death Greg was regularly greeted by neighbors and professors'
wives bearing tuna casseroles and crocks of beef stew and green apple pies. Terry Singleton, multiply divorced and perpetually hungry,
became a regular dinner guest, it being a friend's duty, Singleton contended, to help Greg mercy-eat the donations before they spoiled
and thus insulting the community's charitable spirit.
Mostly because he had no relatives or other real friends nearby, on Christmas
morning Greg presented Singleton with a fifth of Johnny Walker Black Label and received in return a certificate for a year's subscription
to something called Young Naked Girls. "For those cold, lonely winter nights," Singleton said with a wink and a nudge. Webster didn't
know whether to laugh or cry.
At a little after
"Hello?"
"Greg?
It's Mike McGarry. How you doin'?"
Webster paused a second, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Fine, Mike. How about you?"
"I'm okay.
Great, in fact. I'll be pulling nights at Manhattan South for a little longer but I'm at the top of the Lieutenant's list. It looks
like I'll get a command by summer."
"Any idea where they'll send you?"
"A little bird told me I might be heading back to your old stomping
grounds, the 10th Precinct."
Years before Greg and McGarry had caught the guy who had viciously raped a Brooklyn Lieutenant's brother
who was in the closet. McGarry had gotten a confession to a different assault and the brother never had to testify. The doer was still
in Sing Sing. The Lieutenant, now a full Inspector, never forgot his friends.
"That brings back some old memories," Greg said.
"I hear
Lardner's maybe going to get a star."
"That son of a bitch!"
"It's all your fault, you and Cimino. You made him look good in spite of
himself."
"So. . . ?"
"So, I was wondering if maybe you were bored with cows and wheat and wanted to come back to civilization. The
NYPD is still looking for a few good men."
"I'm too old to start over."
"Not necessarily. A lot of people appreciate what you did on
the
"That little bird must be getting a sore throat with all that whispering."
McGarry ignored the jab.
"You interested?"
Greg looked around the empty room and at the night so dark that the windows seemed to have been painted black and
he thought about being back in
"I don't know. I have a contract here through June."
"You could
get out of it, couldn't you?"
"Winter semester starts next week. It's too late for them to replace me."
"The spot they're thinking about
for you is the executive officer of the Intelligence Unit. Two years there and you'd be a full Inspector. So, maybe on patriotic grounds
the dean might give you a pass? I'm sure they can find some other burned-out homicide dick to mold young minds."
Webster rubbed his
forehead. The silence was smothering. McGarry's distant voice was the only evidence that Webster was not the last person on earth.
Would they let him go? They were nice people. But he'd already taken advantage of their decency by taking a leave of absence for the
fall semester to help the Department with the
"I can't do it, Mike," Webster said after a long pause.
"The Commissioner
could give your dean a call."
"It's not that, Mike. I signed a contract. A deal's a deal."
McGarry heard the edge in Webster's voice,
a tone he had heard a hundred times before when Greg's altar-boy conscience started to kick in.
"Jesus, Greg, all we have to do is
. . . ." McGarry would say and Webster's face would get that stony expression, his eyes harden, his lips pressed tight in an obstinate
line. Then he would spout one of his platitudes: 'A deal's a deal.' 'A promise is a promise.' 'We have to do the right thing.'
"God
damn fucking Jesuits ruined you, you know that, Greg?" McGarry would mutter but it never did any good. Once Webster detected the moral
line between right and wrong, a boundary that to McGarry was often as indistinct and confusing as the trails in the Ramble in Central
Park, Greg was the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch McGarry had ever met,.
And there it was. 'A deal's a deal.' McGarry knew when to move
on.
"Well, what about when school's over?"
"June? I don't know. Maybe, tell them maybe. I feel like I'm living underwater
or something. I need some time to figure things out."
"Sure, Greg. I'll tell my little bird 'Maybe June.' . . . Look," McGarry
continued after a short pause, "if there's anything I can do for you, you know, just give me a call."
"Yeah, thanks, Mike. Let me have
your number there."
Webster scrawled a line in his address book and a moment later hung up. Thoughts of being back on the Job tumbled
through his head.
Years ago Carolyn had dragged him to one of the Lord Of The Rings movies. It wasn't his thing but one part of the
film resonated with him. Civilians don't understand what it means to carry a badge. For some it's the Sheriff's seven pointed star
or the NY State Police eight-sided 'stop sign' badge or the almost art-deco NYPD detective's shield. It doesn't matter. There is a
psychic weight to the piece of copper and steel. The object itself is only a tiny physical manifestation of something larger and more
mysterious.
The Badge was power. It was the force of The Law. Each time now that he slipped into his coat Greg felt its absence. He
understood the lure of the ring in the movies. In some invisible way his missing badge called to him like a tongue drawn to the gap
of a missing tooth.
"Making myself crazy," Webster muttered and wandered into the kitchen. For a moment he considered grabbing a beer
then peered into the pantry. In the back was a tall dark bottle. Some kind of
What the hell? Greg grabbed it by the neck and hauled
it out, wondering where the corkscrew was. The bottle was dusty green, the wine black. It wasn't until he twisted it to read the label
that he saw the card. This one was mint green with blue-black ink. Carolyn's printing was unmistakable, the y's curled at the bottom,
the d's hooked at the top.
Throughout their marriage, the days, sometimes the weeks, when they had barely seen each other, Carolyn
wrote him little notes 'to bridge the gaps and fill in the cracks' she told him. At first he thought it was cute, then stupid, then
sappy, then he missed them when they weren't there. That time during the Siragusa case when he was under cover and they barely saw
each other and when they did get together they only seemed to fight, he would sneak home for a change of clothes or quick shower and
prowl the apartment looking for one of Carolyn's notes -- in the sock drawer, under the knives and forks, in the inside pocket of
his Wedding and Funeral Suit. Every time he found nothing it was like a little needle in his heart.
Not counting a few weekends back
in
Absentmindedly putting the bottle on the stove, he eagerly read the card:
"Now is just the beginning. There's a whole new
world just waiting to be discovered -- Care."
A new world.
* * *
"Care, I'm home,"
Greg called, kicking the door closed behind him. Spring had reached
"You're in a good
mood," she said, forcing a smile.
"What's wrong?" One the things he loved about Carolyn was that she never played the Guessing Game.
Greg figured most American wives would have started out with 'Who says anything's wrong?' which would have segued into 'I've seen
that look before'; 'What look?' and then after ten minutes of denials, recriminations and tears she would finally explain what the
problem was. Not Carolyn. She motioned him to the kitchen table and held up an envelope. The return address was
"You
made the Captain's list."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"The Clinic is opening a new center on the
"It sounds like the Webster household is headed for a big celebration."
"I want you to retire," she
said in a flat, dead tone.
"Retire? Now? Before I make Captain?"
"I'm going to quit too."
"What? Care, you've spent your whole life helping
those kids. Now, just when they've recognized your contribution, when you'll finally get the chance to run the place the way it should
be run, you want to quit?"
"How long before you get your captain's posting?"
Greg shrugged.
"I don't know. It could be anywhere from
a couple of months to a year."
"They won't let you sit on the shelf very long. I figure three months, tops."
"Okay. . . ?"
"It's going
to take you three months to get settled into your new precinct and figure out who the good cops are and who are the bums. Then it'll
take you another three months to start to get things set up the way you want. Then there are bound to be two or three big cases that
you're going to have to deal with."
"Yeah, okay, that's the job."
"And that's the problem. We'll barely see each other for the next
year. You'll be in and out at all hours. They'll have you going to meetings and seminars. Then, maybe after a year or eighteen months,
just when things are starting to settle down, they'll figure out that you've got the right stuff and they'll start talking to you
about signing you up for Deputy Inspector."
"Care, I--"
"And I won't be any better. On those rare nights when you actually get home
at some reasonable hour, the odds are that I won't be here. I'll be down at the Center dealing with some kid crisis or employee crisis
or funding crisis or some other kind of crisis."
"Care, we can work it out. We always have. We just need to . . . ." Carolyn frowned
and shook her head and Greg shut up.
"Greg, I can see this as clearly as I can your face. If we don't quit now, if we don't get out
of this city now, our marriage will die. I can see it like a living, breathing person with each of us pointing a gun at its chest.
Taking these promotions will be like pulling the triggers. If we stay here our marriage will die."
"Care . . . ." Greg struggled to
speak but nothing came out.
"I will not sit around and watch our marriage get sicker and sicker in front of my eyes. I can't do that
Greg."
"What do you want to do?" he asked in a soft voice.
"You've got your twenty-five."
"Then what?"
"You'd be a good teacher."
"A teacher?
Teaching what?"
"How to catch crooks. That's something you've always been good at."
"You mean at John Jay?"
Carolyn went to the cabinet,
pulled out a gaily-colored brochure and handed it to him.
"
"The temptation
in this town is too great, for both of us. One way or the other we'd get sucked back in. Besides, we can live in
"It's out in the middle of nowhere. What would you do?"
"For the first year, not much. I've worked hard,
Greg, my whole life. I want some time to rest. I want to bake a pie, watch a movie, read a book. I want to clean my own house instead
of hiring a service."
"You'd be bored to tears."
"If I get bored," Carolyn said in her most logical voice, "then I'll get an MSW license
and do some youth counseling, just enough to keep me busy. There are always kids who need help."
"Jeez--" Greg ran his hand through
his hair. "We don't even know if they have a place for me."
Carolyn handed him a folded, heavy white letter.
"Dear Lieutenant Webster,"
it began, "
"You signed my name to a job application?"
"I know how my husband's mind works."
That's when Greg
knew he was dead. Carolyn only described him as "my husband" when she was prepared to exercise proprietary control. It was her signal
that he was her husband and that he had responsibilities not only to her but to their partnership. There had been times when he had
used the phrase 'my wife.' By unspoken treaty, those words were a trump card that neither could ignore.
"It's cold in
"It's cold in
"It's empty and isolated in
"It's uncrowded and land is cheap. We could have a big house
and a real yard."
"The bagels are lousy there."
"Mike can Fed Ex you a Care Package on your birthday."
"You've made up your mind on this?"
"It's
our marriage, Greg. I'm not letting it go, not for anything."
She gave him a level stare.
"Is it okay if I officially retire at the
end of June? That'll give us some time to find a place and move the furniture and get settled in. I guess we'll need to buy an SUV
or something that works in the snow. . . .
"Training For Tomorrow."
"Training For Tomorrow," Greg repeated
uneasily. "What's their mascot?"
"The Fighting Prairie Dogs."
"Shit."
* * *
"Now
is just the beginning. There's a whole new world just waiting to be discovered."
Webster grabbed the binder from his spare-room-office
and tucked the note inside the plastic sheets on a fresh page, then he read it all over again. Slowly, he leafed through the pages,
one by one, and found himself smiling, until he came to number four, the one he had found under some papers on his desk the day after
Carolyn's funeral, "Is this all there is? I feel so empty and alone -- Care." His heart seemed to stop. For a moment longer he stared
at it then closed the book. He had no idea she'd been that unhappy.
There were nine notes left to be discovered. He wanted to see them
and dreaded finding them. While any of them remained undiscovered it was if Carolyn was still alive and he could let himself imagine
that on some dark night, a night just like this one, there would be a soft knock on the door and she would be there, come back to
him again. The instant he found the last card Carolyn would be well and truly gone. Wearily, he put the binder back on the shelf and
went to bed.
Chapter Four
What in another era would have been the sounds of pencils scraping on
paper was today the hollow rattle of plastic keys. Webster glanced at his class. He had printed "Felony Case Management - Gregory
Webster" in Magic Marker on the white board. According to the roster eighteen students were registered for the course. He vaguely
recognized a few of them from last year. Most were new. Eleven hundred students were enrolled in the Kansas Central University School
of Criminal Justice. Eighteen eager faces, mostly white, mid-western, corn-fed Christians determined to do God's work, protect the
weak, and get a job with full dental and an above average retirement program stared up at him. Here and there he spied a few people
of color, Two African-American males, one very black and the other chocolate brown, two Asian women and a man of indeterminate parentage,
Filipino-Korean? Japanese-Indian? Webster neither knew nor cared.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I'm Gregory Webster and
I'm here to teach you the fine art of felony case management. I began my career with five years as a uniformed officer in the NYPD.
Then I moved to Anti-Crime which means that I was under the command of a Sergeant, wore plain clothes, and worked various types of
street crime such as muggings, robbery, assaults, car thefts and prostitution. After two years in Anti-Crime I made Detective third
grade. After twenty-five years on the force I retired as a Lieutenant in the Major Case Squad. In my career I worked over four hundred
homicides. I am not a professor. I am not an academic. I am a cop. It is my intention to teach you how to be successful, efficient
and, most of all, effective police officers. As in all police work, we will start with a crime."
Webster turned to the whiteboard and
wrote: "The Crime: Murder."
When he turned back he found his eyes drawn to a girl in the second row, a pleasant, even face, blue eyes
under a casual fall of light brown hair. She stared back and fixed him with a worried gaze as if she feared he had discovered her
secret and was about to reveal it to the world.
"Before we go any further, I guess we should get a seating chart so I can start to
learn your names." A few moments later he glanced at the rows of boxes and noticed a neatly printed name at her position: Jennifer
Simms. Webster gave her another quick glance and then turned back to the class.
"My first month in Major Case my partner, Mike McGarry,
and I were sent to an apartment near
* * *
Webster
took the lead up the steps. The apartment was on the third floor in a building on
"Crowbar," McGarry said, pointing
at the crush marks.
Both men slipped on rubber gloves and paper booties then signed in with the uniformed officer guarding the entrance.
A hallway led straight back to the kitchen with a small living room to the left and a bedroom and a bath to the right. A two hundred
dollar electronic scale supporting a plastic bin half-full of white powder sat on the kitchen table.
"Speed, coke or dope?" McGarry
asked the Crime Scene tech photographing a set of bloody footprints on the tile floor.
"Speed," the tech answered without looking up.
The flashed popped and then whined as it re-charged.
A young blonde woman with a long narrow face, thin arms and large breasts under
a dirty olive-green t-shirt occupied the chair on the right side of the table. Her head was thrown back, blood and brains dripping
from a hole in the back of her skull. Across from her was a male Caucasian in his early twenties wearing a sleeveless white undershirt.
He had close-cut brown hair and a tattoo of barbed wire encircling each arm. From one strand hung a green-ink medallion showing an
eagle clutching the Crooked Cross.
"Prison tats," McGarry said unnecessarily. Webster ignored him. Making verbal comments was instinctive
to McGarry. He couldn't help himself. Webster had soon learned to ignore his partner's constant remarks.
The male's head lay flat on
the metal table, his hands sprawled at his sides. A bloody channel about four inches long lay across the center of his skull.
"Crowbar-sized,"
McGarry muttered then glanced at the floor. A handful of small Ziploc bags were scattered around the body.
"Be sure to get me close-ups
of those bags," Webster told the tech. Squatting, he lifted one of them. It was half stuck to the floor and he left it where it was.
"Let's look around," he said, standing.
The apartment was relatively clean for a dope dealer. They found no crowbar, no guns and no
other contraband. There was one towel in the bathroom and no obvious blood in the sink. When they returned to the living room the
tech was taking a 360 set of pictures.
"Check the sinks and the shower for blood," McGarry told him. "And check all the trash."
"Yeah,
I would've never thought of that on my own," the tech mumbled and popped the strobe in McGarry's face. "I'll send you a print for
your Christmas card," he called over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later the coroner's deputy carted
off the second body and the CS tech went back to the kitchen.
"We've got ourselves a real whodunit," McGarry said as they followed
the body out the front door.
* * *
"All right, that's the scene as initially
presented to the investigating officers. I want each of you to outline your investigative plan for this crime. I want a concise list.
Bullet points. What needs to be done? Who needs to do it? What leads need to be checked and in what order? Who needs to be interviewed?
What questions need to be asked? What technical issues do you want Crime Scene to investigate? What technical reports do you need
and be sure to list them in order of decreasing importance. I've given you several important clues. What are they? Ask yourself, 'What
doesn't fit?' 'What's out of place?' and then ask yourself, 'What areas of investigation do those anomalies lead me to?' I want your
papers in my box by five on Wednesday. I'll review them, grade them, then we will discuss them on Friday.
"Now, let's go over the major
components of every felony investigation." Webster scanned the class and picked his first victim. "You, Mr. Thurman," he called, checking
the seating chart, "where do we begin?"
* * *
Jennifer Simms studied Webster
in quick jerks and peeks between jotting precise notes on a yellow pad. She had no laptop. Every dollar she possessed was scheduled
and allocated to a vital purpose - food, rent, books, soap. She typed her papers on her roommate's computer when she could and
on one of the library terminals when she couldn't.
Like most of the students, Jennifer had heard about Webster, about how his wife
had been killed by a hit-and-run driver and that there were no suspects. Maybe that was why he seemed so stiff, as if his arms and
legs were bound by an invisible rubber sheath. Other than that he looked more or less normal, about six feet tall, medium brown hair,
hazel eyes, not bad looking for a man who had to be nearing fifty. Like most girls her age, Jennifer thought that fifty was one short
step from the oatmeal-droolers in a retirement home. Last term an assistant professor in Psyche 200 had invited her out for coffee
'to discuss her paper' and it was all she could do to keep from groaning 'eeeeeeeeeeeh'. The guy had to be at least thirty-five!
But
there was something appealing about Mr. Webster, in a non-sexual sort of way. If pressed she might have used the word 'honorable'
and she suspected that he was also brave, dependable and trustworthy. Like a boy scout or the family dog, she chided herself. But
then she thought, No, like a cop is supposed to be. Like a father is supposed to be and then she dipped her head and stared blindly
at her pad.
* * *
"So!" Webster said, slapping his hand on his desk, "now
that I have your full attention, does everyone understand the assignment? Any questions?" Greg scanned the students staring back at
him. That girl, Jennifer something, was she all right? Her face seemed pale and vaguely bleak. He didn't understand kids. He knew
that. He and Care had tried but it hadn't happened.
"It's okay," Care had said. "I've got a whole shelter full of kids who need me."
Was that why he hated the pimps, for what they did to kids like Janet and all the rest? Maybe if he and Carolyn had tried harder,
if they had seen a better doctor. . . . no, no use going down that dead-end, what-if road now.
Jennifer stared fixedly at her notes.
It was probably nothing, he decided, a problem with some boy, a long distance argument with her parents. It was like Al Cimino used
to tell him: 'You're not a social worker.'
"All right then. I'll see all of you back here on Wednesday." Webster gathered up his notes
and turned back to the white board as the class filed out.
"Professor?" a voice called from behind.
"I'm not a professor," Webster began
as he turned around. It was the dark-skinned African-American student. "I'm just a teacher. No more titles. . . . I'm sorry. I don't
know your name. Give me a couple of days."
"Wesley Hickman. Wesley was my grandfather's name. He was a police officer in
Hickman stood about six feet two on a well-muscled frame. His head was shaved almost smooth, showing only the shadow
of where his hair might have been. Webster noticed a writhing black scar beginning just above Hickman's right ear and extending to
the back of his skull. He forced himself to look away.
Hickman paused for an awkward moment then continued.
"I wanted to talk to you
about your case."
Webster frowned.
"I can't discuss it. It wouldn't be fair to the other students."
"No, it's not that. I need to tell
you that I know about that case."
"Really? How is that?"
"When I signed up for this class I researched you. NYPD Detective magazine
ran a story about it, about how you noticed that the baggies were on top of the blood instead of under it and that told you that the
killer had staged the crime scene. It was a great case."
"I'm glad you liked it. Why are you telling me this?"
"Because it would be
cheating for me to write that paper, knowing all the answers already."
Webster stared hard at Hickman, trying to figure out if the
kid was polishing his apple or just criminally honest.
"There's no way I could ever have known that, Mr. Hickman. Why tell me?"
"Prof--,
Mr. Webster, I'm here to learn how to be a good cop. Cheating isn't going to help me do that. I would only be cheating myself. That's
about as dumb as you can get, cheating yourself."
"And?"
"So, I was hoping you would give me a different assignment so that I could
earn a fair grade."
Well, Webster thought, all those books on teaching techniques hadn't prepared him for this.
"Okay, Mr. Hickman,
do the resource allocation part of the paper and skip anything dealing with the clues. I'll give your grade half weight for the paper
and pick up the rest on your next assignment."
"Thank you, sir."
"You don't have to 'sir' me."
"Yes, si--, yes Mr. Webster."
Greg took
a second look at the puckered line of flesh along the side of Hickman's head.
"You noticed the scar."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
"It's
okay. I'm just lucky the guy was a lousy shot."
"
"Yes, sir."
"Semper Fi?"
"Were you in the Corp, sir?"
"NYPD, my whole
life."
"Hell of an organization, Mr. Webster."
"Oorah, Mr. Hickman."
"Oorah, sir," Hickman said and headed for the door.
The last week in January ended with a blinding storm that blew in from
Inside the city limits municipal
plows kept Highway 50 four-wheel drive passable. Beyond that navigation was left to people wearing snowshoes and cross-country skis.
Three miles northwest of town on Beaumont Road The Watcher was huddled in his hideaway with his memories and his souvenirs. Not that
he minded. A gas powered Honda generator provided enough electricity for a lamp, a hot plate, a microwave, a VCR and a TV, though
not all at the same time. The lamp and hot plate sufficed for dinner and then the TV and VCR provided the evening's entertainment.
For
the hundredth time he cursed himself for not transferring his special videotapes onto DVDs. He had burned some especially exciting
scenes into ordinary CD-ROMs but they couldn't hold anything like a full cassette. He vowed that when the storm was over that job
was going to the top of his list. The Sears in
The first Big Job cassette was
labeled May, almost four years ago, that stuck-up car dealer's wife. The damn bitch. He shoved in the tape and pressed Play. The screen
swirled with muddy color and stabilized with a telephoto image of the bitch, Margaret Finley, coming out of her front door. The Watcher
paused the tape and critically examined the frame. It was more blurry than he had remembered, the colors were muted and dull. He needed
one of those High Def plasma TVs, the big ones, and a better camera too. They had some good ones now that recorded a high def image
directly onto a hard disk. He definitely had to get one of them before he finished his next project. He hit Play again.
The tape stuttered
forward displaying a series of still images, the bitch getting into her car, the bitch entering her shyster husband's truck and farm
machinery dealership, the bitch standing outside Landry's Restaurant and staring directly at the camera as if she sensed his presence,
which, of course, she was too stupid to have done. The still pictures disappeared and the tape gave a little shudder before it turned
into live-action, or at least as live as the bitch was likely to get after a good slug of Ketamine, or was it Rohypnol? He couldn't
remember which one he had used on her.
There she was, lying in the back of the van. Black slacks, green satin blouse, gold jewelry,
shiny black leather flats. Didn't women wear skirts anymore? Weren't there any women in this hick town who still owned a pair of high-heeled
shoes? Still, she looked good, sprawled and helpless on the floor. For a second The Watcher paused the tape and loosened his belt,
then he hit Play again.
For another moment the screen showed the woman in the van, then, suddenly the picture changed. The transition
was jarring. Another reason he needed to transfer everything to DVDs. Maybe he should get one of those Apple computers that came with
video editing software. Then he could put in some captions and transitions and really make a professional production out of it. That
would be a fun project. Okay, now, she was starting to wake up. First off she noticed the towels wrapped around her wrists and ankles,
the ends tied down tight. A black sheet covered her body. She made little muughhhh! muughhhh! noises through the rubber-ball gag strapped
into her mouth.
The Watcher slid his jeans down to his ankles. On the TV screen his hand entered the frame and pulled the sheet away.
Originally he had taped the sequence where he removed her clothes but it had lessened the impact of the final revelation of her naked
form. Eventually, he had edited the sequence to jump directly from her trussed-up body to the 'unveiling'. The camera was now on a
tripod, running on automatic.
Naked except for a black hood, The Watcher entered the frame. When she saw him the bitch really
began to try to scream, but only muffled groans came out. The Watcher began to massage himself with his left hand. The tape kept on
rolling. Half an hour later The Watcher finally allowed himself to finish, then he turned off the tape and made himself a cup of strong
coffee. He had his choice of three-day-old apple pie or chocolate ice cream. He chose the ice cream. Half an hour later he was ready
to go again.
He hadn't bothered putting on his pants. He started up the tape and fast forwarded to the part where he released the
restraints and told her to get dressed.
"You enjoyed it, didn't you?" he asked and she nodded 'Yes.' Then she mumbled something through
the gag. He didn't know exactly what it was. 'Are you going to let me go?' 'Please don't hurt me' 'I won't tell anyone.' It didn't
matter. His answer to all such questions was always the same. "Don't worry. Since you can't identify me, I'm going to let you go out
in the middle of nowhere. By the time you get to a phone I'll be long gone."
Of course, that was a lie, but he wanted to keep her quiet
and cooperative. No sense dressing and carrying an unconscious body when she could dress and walk herself.
A few moments later the
TV showed her clothed and back in the van. "Drink this," his hooded form told her. "I don't want you waking up and identifying me."
Gentle hands removed the ball-gag. Nervously, she took the glass and downed the contents, mostly lemonade, because the flavor was
strong enough to cover the taste of the drug. He didn't want her gagging or throwing up. That would screw up the dosage. The tape
skipped over him waiting for the drug to take hold. When he saw her head begin to weave he called her name. Glassy-eyed, her face
snapped up. With a dramatic flair, he removed his hood and laughed at the look of horror when she realized that he was going to kill
her after all. She tried to escape but the van's doors slammed closed. The tape jumped. The next picture was of the doors opening
with the bitch's unconscious body sprawled on the steel bed. The image wavered then went black.
A second later a new scene appeared.
A darkened field, a thick line of trees on the far side of a railway embankment. The bitch's Explorer was parked in the shadows on
the near side of the tracks. The Watcher's van was nowhere to be seen. The camera panned down the rails and paused. The bitch was
sprawled across the tracks, her neck resting on the far rail, her knees on the near one. The camera zoomed in for a close-up. The
Watcher's left hand got busy again at the faint hooting of a distant train whistle. A low buzzing grew into a rumble as three diesel
locomotives thundered across the prairie at seventy miles an hour. The camera panned from the woman down the tracks toward the train's
rotating headlamp. The engineer wouldn't see her until he was less than fifty feet away, if he saw her at all.
The camera alternated
between the onrushing locomotive and the unconscious woman right up until the eighty-car freight rumbled past with as much hesitation
as a bullet penetrating a paper napkin. The Watcher closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the exquisite pleasure of his perfect
plan.
He figured the cops would know something was wrong but would have no leads. But they never suspected a thing. How could they
not test the corpse for hypnotics? But they didn't. They just wrote 'suicide' on the file and that was the end of it. Morons!
His last
Big Job was the cop's wife in late October. All that effort and they never even looked for him. They never even suspected foul play.
What was the point of being the best if no one knew it? What was the point of outplaying the moronic cops if they were so clueless
that they didn't even know they were in a contest? For a moment he considered sending a letter to the newspaper or maybe to one of
those TV shows like America's Most Wanted or Forty-Eight Hours.
Maybe he would give them a clue about what he was doing just before
his next job, when it was too late for them to do anything except bury the body. That would be sweet. It was already late January.
He didn't want to have to operate in the snow. It created too many chances for unexpected complications. April would be good. Spring
time. Tax day. April 15th. The Watcher was excited. It was time to begin planning his next Job. First step, pick the target. He always
liked that part the best, next, of course, to the Big Job itself.
Chapter Six
Terry Singleton waved
vaguely down the darkened street and ordered Webster to take the next right. Last week's massive snowfall had not so much been
cleared as shoved aside and Webster cautiously ground his Honda CRV forward in four-wheel drive.
"Can you go any slower?" Terry asked
as if suffering a terrible burden.
"We're doing fine."
"Not even a Soccer Mom would drive a toy like this. Have you ever considered
getting a real
"Such as?"
"A Hummer. The big one. Arnold-sized. Don't let anybody kid you. Size does matter."
"So why
don't you have one?"
"I compensate for my Expedition's deficiencies in other ways. . . . Hold it. There it is across the street." Singleton
pointed to a flicking scarlet sign: The Cherry Bowl. "I can't believe you've lived here for over a year and never tried this place."
Webster
slammed the driver's door and the headlights flashed twice when the locks engaged. The snow ground against a layer of glare ice with
a noise halfway between a crunch and squeak.
"Carolyn usually planned our social life," Greg said. "Since she's been gone I haven't
felt much like going clubbing."
"A deficiency easily remedied," Singleton said crunching through the slush-coated snow bank guarding
the Cherry Bowl's front door. A cloud of blue smoke smelling of beef fat and tobacco poured into the night. To the left and right
a forest of angled pegs supported wool hats and rumpled overcoats mostly olive, tan, brown, and black but with an occasional
red or blue ski parka thrown in. Webster wasn't fooled. None of these
The Cherry Bowl was rectangular, deep and narrow with a low stage at
the far end and tables jammed in every which-way. A random mix of farm kids and scholarship students worked the floor carrying schooners
of beer and buckets of fries. Webster studied the crowd.
"Aren't we a little old for this place?" he asked, half shouting over the
babble of conversation and the garage-band music rattling from the speakers above the bar.
"It has hidden virtues," Singleton said
in a conspiratorial tone. About six-one with green eyes and thick black hair Terry delighted in playing the freewheeling womanizer.
Webster stared at his friend for a moment then surrendered with a shrug.
"I'll get us some beer."
"The devil you will," Singleton snapped.
"Left to your own devices you'll order some watered-down draft half a notch below Budweiser."
"What's wrong with--"
"We are college
professors," Singleton said in an airy tone. "And I am a medical doctor to boot even if my specialization is the study of the criminally
insane."
"Fine, but I'm only a--"
"You are an Assistant Professor at the world-famous
"What's so special about that table?"
"I will explain
when I return with the beer." Singleton headed for the bar. A minute later he placed a large plastic pitcher and two mugs on the lopsided
table which wobbled first left then right under the weight of the beer.
"What do you think?" Terry asked after pouring two glasses.
Greg
took a swallow then shrugged. "It tastes like beer."
"It tastes like beer! Does filet taste like beef? Does silk feel like rayon? Does
Tony Bennett sound like Michael Bolton? Why not just consume whatever dented cans they have on sale at the Wal-Mart and be done with
it?" Singleton waved his arms and a mad gleam filled his eyes. During his excitable periods they glittered like cracked glass above
his long, narrow face. Is it his manic energy that single women seem to find so alluring? Greg wondered then lifted the mug and took
a long pull.
"My mistake. It's wonderful," he proclaimed a moment later. "Terrific. The best beer I've ever had. Just great."
"Well,
all right then," Terry said gazing happily around the room. "Excellent. I see a couple of candidates already."
"Candidates? For what?"
"My
dear fellow. What would you do without me?"
Webster repeated his question but Singleton only slyly rubbed his nose and plunged off
on another tack.
"What you need, Greg, is a hobby. Something to perk up your interest, so to speak."
Webster glanced at the frosted
glass in the front door.
"What would you recommend? Ice fishing. Ice carving? Cross Country skiing?"
"I can see that you're not the
athletic type. How about bird watching?"
"In the middle of winter?"
"I was referring to the two-legged variety that congregates in places
like this. For example, I see an eminently watchable specimen over there." Singleton pointed to a dark-haired woman at a corner table.
"Terry,
I--"
"Consider her qualifications. Too old to be an undergraduate, that sort of thing will get you fired. No, I'd say at least a graduate
student, possibly a clerical employee. You're on safe ground there as long as they're not in your department. And since I know every
available woman of legal age in the
"Terry,
it's too soon. I'm not interesting in dating."
"Of course you're not. Who said anything about dating? What I'm talking about here is
screwing."
"Terry--"
"Look at her. Sensitive, repressed, lonely. These
"My God, Greg, look at that smile," Terry muttered from the side of his mouth as he flagged down
a waitress. "My dear, please give that lady in the white sweater another of whatever it is she's drinking with my compliments." Terry
dropped a five on the tray and gave the woman in the white sweater a cheery wave.
"It's too soon," Greg said slowly and firmly, each
word spoken with the finality of a stone falling into a pond.
Singleton gave him a long stare, then shrugged.
"Well, should you change
your mind, I'll be happy--"
"You'll be the first person I call."
Ta Da! A fanfare blared from the speakers.
"Oh, good, the show's
starting."
"What show?"
"Did you ever arrest any pickpockets?"
"A few. Why?"
"Just watch. Maybe your experience will prove instructive."
Singleton turned his chair toward the stage.
The house lights dimmed and a balding man with thinning black, slicked-back hair strode
to the center of the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Earl Meadows, the owner of the Cherry Bowl and it's my pleasure to present
the Amazing Jim."
Applauding, Meadows hurried off-stage. A moment later a forty-something man dressed in rumpled brown corduroy pants
and a baggy tweed coat and carrying a collapsed ironing board wandered to the center of the stage. His features were ordinary, his
skin Kansas Winter White. His mousey brown hair was slightly matted on the right side and almost matched the color of his full mustache
except for the encroaching gray at the tips.
"Hi," he said, fiddling with the mike, "I'm the Amazing Jim."
Greg thought he had never
seen a less amazing person in his entire life.
"Who is--?"
"Shhh!" Terry hissed.
With a clatter Jim set up the ironing board.
"This
is my lovely assistant, Charlene," Jim said with a wave and got the expected nervous laugh. Jim removed a folded brown paper bag and
a deck of cards from his pocket. The paper rattled as Jim turned the bag inside out and then set it upright on the far end of Charlene.
He paused and peered into the shadowed audience. "I will need a lovely volunteer."
Instantly, Singleton was on his feet. Jim gave
him a double take and then smiled.
"Yes, you sir. I can see that you're positively radiant tonight."
"I'm wearing my lucky shirt," Terry
called out and gave the girl in the white sweater a big smile.
"Shit!" Greg whispered under his breath when he saw the poor woman smiling
back.
Jim pointed to the deck.
"Now, sir, if you would be so kind as to pick a card, any card, and write your name and today's date
on it."
Terry carefully removed the second card from the bottom but pushed away Jim's Sharpie.
"I'll use my own pen, if you don't mind."
Terry scribbled for a moment then, hiding the deck from Jim, replaced the card.
"Sir, I'm sensing that you don't trust me." Jim gave
Terry a huge smile. "Do you think I might try to trick you?" The audience laughed and Terry held out the deck. "In light of your suspicious
nature -- excuse me, what is your name?
"Terry."
"Well, Terry, in light of your suspicious nature, perhaps it would be best if you put
the deck on Charlene's other end." Another nervous laugh. Terry carefully positioned the cards about three feet away from the open-topped
paper bag.
"Very good. Now for my first trick I am going to conjure a vicious cobra into the paper bag." Jim gave the audience a wary
glance. "Perhaps for safety's sake, Terry, you should roll the top of the bag closed." After taking a quick peek inside the still
empty bag, Terry tightly folded the paper three times. "Excellent," Jim exclaimed. "That should hold him. But, just in case, perhaps
you should resume your seat."
"I'll take my chances," Terry said with a smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a courageous man. Very well, sir,
but don't say I didn't warn you. And now I pronounce the magic words, 'Abracadabra!"
Jim flung his outstretched arm at the bag, his
fingers extended as if casting a spell. Everyone held their breath. Nothing.
"Hmmmm," Jim mumbled, apparently dismayed. "Strange.
It usually works. Terry, would you mind giving the bag a tap, just in case he's asleep?"
"Sure."
"Be careful!" Jim warned.
Terry smiled
and tapped his finger hollowly against the bag. There was no response. Jim shrugged. Emboldened, Terry gave the bag two more hard
raps. For a heartbeat there wasn't a sound, then, just as the audience had begun to exhale, the bag rattled and bounced an inch up
into the air. Terry jumped back and little screams and stifled cries filled the air.
"Just as I thought, Bruno was just taking a nap.
I know what you're thinking, Terry. You're asking, 'Where's my card?'" Jim stared at the audience and let the suspense build. "It's
in Bruno's mouth, of course. Terry, why don't you put your hand inside and drag him out." The bag rattled like a sack of angry bees.
"No? Well, I guess he'll just have to get out on his own. On the count of three, Bruno will leap out of the bag with your card in
his mouth. Staaaaand back! . . . .One. . . .Two."
The bag snapped and gyrated as if about to explode. ". . . Three!"
A flapping, red-mouthed
cloth snake sewn around a three foot long spring tore through the top of the bag and landed at the edge of the stage. A heavy-set
girl at a front table screamed and tipped over her beer. Around the room other glasses and a few chairs toppled as well.
"Sorry, folks,"
Jim said, holding up his hands, "but Earl Meadows insists I start with this trick because it makes people order lots of drinks. Terry,"
he continued, turning to Singleton, now frozen behind the ironing board, "Would you please retrieve the card from Bruno's mouth."
Terry
bent over and freed a five of clubs from the snake's cloth mouth. Across the front, written in a peculiar shade of purple-gel ink,
was Terry's name and the date.
"Please hold it up. Terry, is that your card?"
"Yes," Terry admitted, shaking his head in dismay as the
audience, applauding and cheering, rose to its feet. Defeated, Terry wandered back to the table.
"Now for my next trick. . . ." Jim
began.
"Were you in on that?" Greg whispered. Terry shook his head.
"That's why I wanted this table. I've seen this guy before and I
wanted to watch him up close, for all the good it did me."
"He never went near the bag," Greg said. "If you had told me about this
in advance I would have said it was impossible."
"So, you never learned anything from those pickpockets that could explain this?"
"There's
got to be an explanation," Webster said and gave him a sour laugh.
"I'll tell you a secret, Greg," Terry whispered, bending close.
"Life isn't what you cops think it is, all rules and clues and procedures. We psychiatrists have a better insight into things. We
see human perversity and irrationality every day. It's our bread and butter. At its heart, Greg, life is . . . . mysterious."
Webster
opened his mouth but Terry waved him into silence.
"That's the real reason I brought you here. To teach you that each minute is precious
and should be savored. Forget your napkins and your rules of etiquette. Bite hard into the moist fruit of life and let the juice run
down your chin. Live!"
Terry drained his mug in three long swallows and feeling the pressure of her eyes turned to the woman in the
white sweater and waved. Grinning, he pushed back from the table.
"Don't worry about me," he whispered in Greg's ear. "I'll find my
own way home."
Across the room the woman in the white sweater offered Terry an empty chair. In the background Greg heard Jim caution
the audience, "Never doubt the power of magic."
Chapter Seven
Jennifer Simms angrily pulled off
her wet sneakers and socks then skinned out of her jeans. I should be used to snow by now, she thought. It should be second nature
to me, like water to a duck or hollyhocks to hummingbirds. For the hundredth time she promised herself that once she got her degree
she was going to find a job in some snow-free place like
"Jen, don't you have
a class?"
Molly was blond-haired and blue-eyed and rounded in all the places
"My damned hat blew off and I had to wade through the damn snow bank to get it and I got all wet!"
Molly's full
lips pressed into a line. Having accepted Jesus as her personal savior Molly frowned on cursing. But Jesus preached forgiveness and
tolerance so she took a deep breath and swallowed her complaint. A kind word turneth away wrath, she reminded herself.
"Any messages?"
Molly asked instead.
"Your mom sent me an email. One of those 'Will you please tell my daughter' things.'" Jen pointed to a printout
on Molly's desk. Molly scanned the page then dropped it into the trash. Jen concentrated on drying her shoes.
"You read that, right?"
Molly asked. Jen just shrugged. "I don't know why she just can't. . . ." Molly forced her mouth shut and counted to five. Jen knew
that Molly's family could have rented her a nice apartment off campus but Molly had refused her mother's orders one time too many
and now she was sharing a dorm room with one of the poor kids.
"If I had a daughter, I wouldn't try to run every aspect of her life,"
Molly said. "You're so lucky you don't. . . . sorry." Molly's cheeks flushed and she busied herself with her laptop.
"It's okay," Jen
answered in a soft voice. "My mom is dead," Jen had told Molly the first time the topic of mothers had come up but Molly apparently
found it difficult to grasp the concept of a dead mother. Jen grabbed her left shoe and concentrated on drying it, trying not to think
about her mother, but the old memories intruded anyway.
* * *
Jen heard
the sound of crockery shattering on the dining room floor. Was it a plate or a glass? If it was a plate, mom would get blamed for
sure. If it was a glass, dad might have knocked it over himself in which case mom's chances were fifty-fifty. Jen held her breath
and heard only the muted tinkle of her mother picking up the pieces. Five seconds passed, then ten. The shards clattered as they fell
into the trash. Jen let herself hope, then she heard her father's voice.
"Anything else you want to break?" he asked in the
calm, quiet voice he used when he wanted to work himself up to a serious fight.
"I'm sorry, Jerry," her mother said meekly.
"I guess
you think you're real smart, putting my glass at the edge of the table like that, figuring you could blame me for knocking it over.
What is it this time? I don't give you enough money? I'm not nice enough to you? Is that how you think you're going to get even with
me? Break the dishes so I'll have to give you more money? Well, let me tell you something. That game don't play with me. . . . Well?"
"Yes,
Jerry."
"So you admit it? You did that deliberately."
"No, Jerry, it was an accident."
"Don't lie to me. I won't have you lying to me."
Jen
tried to cover her ears. She had to think. Should she call the police now? If they showed up and nothing had happened . . . . Jen
didn't want to think about what her father would do to both of them if that happened. But if she didn't call. . . . The last time
dad had used that voice he had fractured one of mom's ribs. 'I fell off a stool,' she had told the doctor. Two years before, when
she was twelve, Jen had started keeping a journal of her mother's excuses. She wasn't sure why. Her mother used the stool excuse three
times in a row until the doctor said something about her getting rid of that particular stool, so she didn't use it any more.
"I'm
sorry, Jerry," Jen heard the whimper in her mother's voice and cringed. That whimper always set dad off.
"I don't know how much more
of this I can take. You play these stupid games and then you lie about it and then you tell me you're sorry. That glass cost money,
good money that I worked hard for while you were laying around doing nothing. How did I get stuck with a worthless bitch like you?"
Dad's voice was louder and the nasty edge was taking hold. Jen took a deep breath and crept to the phone in the main bedroom.
"911
operator. What is the nature of your emergency?"
"My dad's going to hit my mom," Jen whispered.
"Is he hitting her now?" the woman asked
in a testy voice.
"He's working his way up to it. He'll start hitting her any minute now."
"So they're just arguing?"
"Dad's telling
her how she wastes his money. She's just listening."
"We can't do anything unless there's an actual emergency," the woman said. Jen
thought she sounded pleased. The voices from the dining room were hollow, muted, a blur of angry tones.
"The last time he broke her
nose," Jen said in a rush. "If you send the police now they can stop him before he really hurts her."
"Miss," the way the woman said
it sounded like an accusation, "we cannot send out a police car every time someone thinks somebody might do something. There has to
be an actual emergency."
"This is an emergency!"
"If he starts hitting her, call us back," the woman ordered. "Until then, there's nothing
we can do." The line clicked and went dead. Jen stared at the receiver then hurried back to her room. She sat on the floor, her back
pressed against the closed door. She put her hands over her ears, but she couldn't block out her father's shrill voice.
"You listen
to me, you worthless bitch. Are you listening?"
"Yes, Jerry."
"I'm not going to take this anymore. You've got to stop provoking me or
I'm not going to be responsible for what happens. Do you understand me?"
Instead of answering, Elaine Simms began to cry. Oh, God,
mom, don't cry. Crying always set dad off.
"You think that's going to work on me? C Answer me!"
"Please, Jerry, don't hit me!" Elaine
sobbed.
"Don't hit you? Don't hit you?"
"Please, Jerry, no!"
"Do you think you can give me orders?"
"It's not my fault. It was an accident.
Don't hit me!"
"An accident you fucking bitch? I'll teach you to lie to me."
Jen heard the slap, then a thump as her mother's head bounced
against the wall. Slipping the door open, Jen scuttled back down the hallway and grabbed the phone.
"911 operator. What is the nature
of your emergency?"
"He's hitting her," Jen hissed in a breathless voice.
"Are you making this up?"
"No, he's hitting her right now!
Oh, God, hurry, please!"
"All right," the woman said after a long pause. "I'll send a car as soon as one's available. You'd better
not be lying, young lady."
"I'm not," Jen said but the line was already dead. From the dining room she heard a muffled scream.
* * *
"Isn't it dry yet?"
"What?" Jen said, blinking the memory away.
"Doesn't your class start in about
two minutes?"
Jen glanced at the clock. "Oh, God." She shoved her feet into her shoes. In ten seconds she was out the door.
Molly frowned
and wished that Jennifer had a better appreciation of the sinfulness of taking the Lord's name in vain.
