Gideon (37 page)

“I surely am glad you’re not with those people,” Cissy confided, lowering her voice discreetly. “Not that I like to be critical or judgmental about my fellow man. We’re all God’s creatures, after all. But, between us, them folks are just plain
weird
.”

* * *

There was a gravel driveway a few hundred yards down Miller’s Creek Road. It was where the Closer had chosen to sit behind the wheel of the Suburban and wait, shielded from the road by the dense brush and the darkness.

The Closer did not like this place. There were too many churches. Too much quiet. And the air was way too sticky and warm, especially with the windbreaker on.

They were inside the small brick house for nearly an hour. Not one car passed by the entire time. When they came back out and got in the Subaru, they turned around and headed back the way they had come—toward Hohenwald. The Closer watched them go. Waited precisely ten minutes. Eased the Suburban over onto the shoulder in front of the house, got out, walked up to the front door and knocked.

The door was answered by a grotesquely fat old woman done up like a bobby-soxer. She was positively ghastly to lay eyes on. Behind her was an old man with Grecian Formula black hair who was trying to look like a fifties schoolyard tough. If one didn’t know better, it would be easy to jump to the conclusion that they were on their way to a costume party at the local senior center.

The Closer knew better. “I’m sorry to bother you folks, but I was supposed to meet my friends here.” The Closer described Carl Granville and Amanda Mays. “We’re on kind of an Elvis pilgrimage. Only I went the wrong way when I got off the Natchez Trace. I’ve been driving around in circles for the past hour and I was wondering if—”

“Dear, dear,” the old lady clucked. “You just missed them.”

“Oh, no,” the Closer said.

“They left maybe ten minutes ago,” the husband said.

“Such a lovely young couple,” the fat Sandra Dee said. “Come in, come in, or the bugs will chew you to kingdom come.”

“Well, maybe just for a second.” It was very stuffy in the house, which reeked of cheap perfume. An old Elvis song, “Baby Let’s Play House,” was on the record player. “I don’t suppose you have any idea which way they might be heading?”

“I’d say Corinth, if I had to guess,” the old man replied, tugging at one of his long sideburns. “We gave ’em a few possible leads on her mama’s hometown, but Corinth’s the closest. Not more than an hour from here. Just over the line in Mississippi. If it were me, I’d start there.”

Now the fat woman rattled off the names of two other towns they had given them—one of them a name that the Closer did not want to hear. Not in the least.

“You know, I was thinking,” the old man added. “Y’all might go looking for a catfish farm.”

“She was asking if we knew of any factories around there,” the fat woman translated.

“And what I forgot to mention,” the old man said, “Is that they’re starting to raise catfish down there. Big commercial operations. Of course, they don’t taste the same as the real thing. Your catfish is a true bottom feeder—that’s what gives him his unique flavor. You can call a farm-raised catfish a catfish, but he isn’t really a catfish—you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I think I see what you mean.”

“Corinth,” the old man said once more. “They’ll probably find themselves a nice, clean motel down there tonight. Have a good look around in the morning. If you step on it, you just might catch up to them.”

“You know, I think that’s exactly what I’ll do,” the Closer said, pausing only to reach into the windbreaker and yank out the German-made SIG-Sauer 9 mm semiautomatic pistol.

The Closer pumped two shots directly into the old woman’s face from point-blank range. She was dead several seconds before her body crumpled to the floor—slowly, like a big, bloated marionette.

Now the Closer took aim at the old man, who stood there wide-eyed and frozen, his hands up before him in an instinctive defensive posture. The first shot shattered his left hand and sent pieces of his fingers flying across the living room. The second shot went through his Adam’s apple. He went down, gagging, an unpleasant sucking noise coming from the gaping hole in his throat. The noise got fainter and the old man’s hand went up to his cheek. Almost imperceptibly, he tugged one last time at his sideburn. Standing directly over him now, the Closer fired once more, directly between his eyes. The tugging stopped.

Now all was quiet, except for the music that was coming from the record player. The Closer went over and shot the record.

The Closer had never been a big Elvis fan.

There was a black plastic garbage bag in the pocket of the windbreaker. Also a pair of disposable latex gloves. The Closer put these on. There was tidying up to do. Carl Granville could not,
must
not, be linked to this particular job. That was why the Closer had used the clean SIG-Sauer rather than the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum that tied Granville to the murders of the FBI agent in D.C. and the blonde in New York. And that was why the Closer now had to remove any trace that Granville had ever been here.

There were four glasses on the kitchen counter, an empty plate with crumbs on it, and a wooden tray. The Closer dumped these things into the garbage bag. There was a dish towel hanging beside the kitchen sink. Humming cheerfully, the Closer used this to wipe any fingerprints off the kitchen faucet and the kitchen table and chairs. The Closer was thorough. Methodical. There were some photos of Elvis on the living room mantel. These went into the bag. So did the candy dish and ashtray that were on the coffee table, which were first wiped down with the dish towel. The Closer went back outside to the Suburban—stepping carefully around the bodies and puddled blood en route to the front door—and returned with a small, efficient Dirt Devil vacuum. This was put to good use on the upholstered sofa and armchair as well as the rug in front of them.

The Closer left the remains of the old man’s fingers where they lay.

There was one bathroom. Granville might have used it. The Closer wiped down the surface of the door inside and out, both doorknobs, the toilet seat and handle, and the faucet controls. The Closer vacuumed the rim of the toilet bowl and the floor under and around it for any stray pubic hairs. There was a chance that Granville had opened the medicine chest in search of an aspirin, in search of whatever. So the Closer wiped the mirrored door clean and dumped the entire contents of the medicine chest into the trash bag, along with all the hairbrushes and toothbrushes. There was just no telling what people did in other people’s bathrooms when the door was closed. And no point in taking chances.

The Closer had not gotten this far by taking chances.

It was hot, thirsty work. The Closer went back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was buttermilk and a six-pack of Coca-Cola. The Closer popped one of the cans open and drank it down, convinced as always that they used a sweeter formula down here than they did in the North. The empty can went into the trash bag.

Stepping carefully once again around the bodies, the Closer wiped off the front door, the doorknobs, the jamb, the doorbell, and the knocker. Shut every window in the house and locked the back door. Stuffed the dish towel in the trash bag, tied the bag shut, turned out the lights, and closed the front door, making certain that it too was locked. It was vary dark outside. The Closer placed the trash bag and the Dirt Devil in the back of the Suburban and got in, pausing to remove the gloves and put them in the glove compartment along with the SIG-Sauer.

Satisfied, the Closer drove off into the night without looking back.

“It’s a lovely street. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely lovely.”

“And the location …”

“It seems perfect.”

“Easily accessible to Capitol Hill and Georgetown. Wonderful shopping nearby. It
is
perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Marsha Chernoff’s crayony red lips curled into a smile. She smelled a sale. Well, a rental, to be absolutely accurate. But an excellent rental. The property was overpriced and unfurnished, not the best of combinations. Nonetheless, she was fairly certain she had this slightly out-of-their-element couple hooked and was now getting ready to reel them in.

Marsha worked for D.C. Realtors. Her specialty was finding suburban homes for government workers who’d be spending at least three months in the Washington area. The Hershes were the most easygoing clients she’d had in a long time. Marsha thought it was a combination of nerves and lack of sophistication. Also, D.C. could be a tad overwhelming to outsiders, and Mr. Leonard Hersh was as outside as an outsider could be.

Leonard Hersh was a lawyer, brought in from someplace in New Hampshire, coming to town to be part of the special prosecutor’s attack-dog team investigating the latest senatorial scandal. This one had it all: sexual harassment, bribery, and obstruction of justice. Bad for the county, Marsha thought, good for the realty profession. In the old days, men like Leonard Hersh were in and out of the capital in two to three weeks. That was hotel time. Now they could be around for two or three years. That was unfurnished three-bedroom ranch house time. Marsha’s motto, which she had needlepointed on a pillow on her office couch, was “Thank You, God, for Giving Politicians Soft Brains, Fast Hands, Stiff Pricks, and Taxpayers’ Money.”

Donna Hersh, Leonard’s wife, wasn’t in the business. She was an elementary-school teacher. Marsha could see the entire scenario without being told a word: Donna wouldn’t be working for at least a year, she’d get bored or frustrated, and presto, by Christmas she’d be preggers, ready to unleash yet another lawyer on the world. If this investigation lasted long enough, eventually she could populate her own school.

The house she was showing them had just been vacated. It was very curious: The previous tenant had disappeared without a word, forfeiting his security deposit and advance rent. But the property was in excellent shape. No damage. Clean as a whistle. Nothing stolen.

This was the third house she had taken the Hershes to, and Marsha could tell that Donna was anxious to find something she liked. She wanted to make a decision. This was a woman who needed roots.

“I know that the last tenant was wild about his neighbors,” Marsha lied. She didn’t know the last tenant from Adam. “It seems to be a real community here.”

She let them in the front door and watched as Donna Hersh swept her eyes over the expanse of the house, ran her hand along the bland paper blue wallpaper of the entry hall, and said, “I like it. It
feels
right.”

They went through each room, and Marsha could tell that with every passing minute they were talking themselves into renting a new home. In each of the two bedrooms they discussed which pieces of furniture they were shipping from New Hampshire and exactly what they would fit where. They both frowned at the size of the bathroom. They both nodded, pleased, at the half bath. She liked that half dining room: he thought the den would be perfect for a TV room and office.

By the time they got to the kitchen, they’d been inside for almost an hour. Donna swept her finger over the kitchen countertop, smiled at Marsha, and said, “We’ll take it.”

Marsha gave a brief glance to the heavens. Never one to press her luck, she thanked whoever might be up there. Then she started explaining a few necessities to the Hershes—the two months’ advance rent, one month’s security deposit, a minimum six-month guarantee … She looked up and Donna Hersh was frowning. Staring at the corner of the kitchen.

“Something wrong?” Marsha asked.

“In the brochure, I’m sure that it said a refrigerator was included. It specifically said a Sub-Zero refrigerator. I know because I wanted one back home and—”

“Of course. That’s exactly what it says. A superb Sub-Zero. It’s right over … right …” Marsha turned and frowned to herself. No refrigerator. “That’s odd,” she said.

“The appliances come with the house. That’s in any rental contract,” Leonard Hersh added.

“Absolutely,” Marsha said slowly, still trying to figure out where the stainless-steel Sub-Zero had disappeared to. “And I guarantee you that when you move in, that same appliance or its exact equivalent will be here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

Donna Hersh smiled broadly. “Well, then, as I said, we’ll take it.”

Marsha Chernoff finished explaining exactly what needed to be done before the Hershes could move in. She did not do her usual flawless job, forgetting to tell them about the utility payments, even forgetting to tell them about the three months’ notice required when they eventually decided to leave the house. Her mind was elsewhere.

She was thinking:
Now who would come in here and steal a refrigerator?

Sapientia. Pax. Deus.

The Latin words were carved into the dark mahogany archway over the door leading to the simple, rustic chapel.

Wisdom. Peace. God.

Father Patrick Jennings stared up at those three simple words and prayed with all his heart that one day he might work his way back to an understanding of what they truly meant. When his prayer ended, he raised his eyes high to stare up at the cloudy sky. He smiled ruefully at one wisp of cloud and thought,
Hell, right now I’ll settle for one out of three
.

For a moment he turned his back on the chapel to look out over the luscious, wooded grounds of the Retreat of St. Catherine of Genoa, twenty-four acres cut into the Black Mountains of Yancey County, North Carolina. Father Patrick had been there once before. When he was offered the chance to go to Washington, he had packed up all his belongings into the back of his car, left Marquette, driven down south, and spent a week sleeping on a hard single bed in one of the sanctuary’s three primitive dormitories, strolling the property, chopping wood, thinking, praying. He had walked miles and miles that week. Through old Cherokee burial grounds that had survived from the late 1700s. Into the town of Asheville to see Tomas Wolfe’s grave. Halfway up Mt. Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Mississippi. It had been a glorious climb, but the footing was treacherous and he’d stumbled and sprained his ankle. He had sworn to himself that he’d return and get to the very top someday, where he would swim in the icy stream and spend hours listening to the rush of the legendary waterfall.