All the Dead Fathers (18 page)

“I
told
you … I know the goddamn alphabet. The only
T
is this guy Truczik.” He shook his head. “Christ.”

“You don't have to tell anyone you actually buy what I'm saying. But it has to be brought to someone's attention, and at least they'll
listen
to you.”

“I gotta check with my boss before I say anything beyond him.”

“I guess I'm not going to get any medicals, huh? Or autopsy reports?” He shook his head, and she said, “Was Regan sliced up, too?”

“Yeah.”

“While he was … alive?”

He nodded. “Pretty bad.”

“And that happened late Monday or early Tuesday, Stieboldt was taken Wednesday evening, and today is Friday. So you can't waste a lot of time thinking about what I—”

“Hey!” Wardell glared at her. “I don't need you to tell me my fucking job. Got it?”

“I'm just saying…” She shrugged. “Meanwhile, I'll cover Truczik. It's what, four o'clock?” She checked her watch. “He's safe for now … in the middle of a round of golf at a course right there at the seminary. I'll get there before he's—”

“Golf?” Wardell pointed toward the windows behind her and she turned and was shocked at how dark it was getting outside. “You oughta leave your radio on,” he said. “A big thunderstorm coming out of the northwest. High winds, heavy rains, maybe some hail. Lightning, for sure. The seminary's in Mundelein, right?”

“Right.” She was already on her feet. “About due north of here.”

“Better hurry. That golf game's gonna be called off before you get there.”

31.

No route would be a fast one at this time of day, but Kirsten chose local roads rather than face the tangled expressways. Before long, rain was pelting her windshield. Why had she wasted time meeting Wardell? She should have gone straight to the seminary. Gotten to Truczik before the storm forced the golfers off the course. Warned him. Stayed with him. Not that she'd ever care a whole lot about a guy who Michael's notes said had been accused of fondling young teenagers. Four boys in three incidents over twenty years ago, all of which he denied. Assuming the charges were true, it was hard to give a damn whether the creep lived or died. But dammit, she still didn't like the idea of
anyone
—no matter what hateful things they'd done—being skinned alive. Not on
her
watch, anyway.

If she'd been paying attention she'd have known about the storm. Besides, now that she thought about it, storm or not, what was so safe about letting a man wander around a golf course, even a busy one? He could have been picked off by someone hiding in the woods with a rifle and a halfway decent scope. Which wasn't at all the way this killer worked, and she knew she was just beating herself up, not being rational. Still, she should have gone straight to Truczik.

It was past five-thirty when she reached the seminary and found the golf course, called Pine Meadows. Although sundown was still over an hour away, it was very dark. Rain poured down and the sky grumbled almost nonstop with low, rolling thunder, broken periodically by fierce lightning and sharper crashes.

She sat in the car in the parking lot, with her windows fogging up, and called Michael. Again there were lots of rings before he said, “Hello?” in a stage whisper. “I'm watching the movie. Just a minute.” She heard breathing and mumbling, and pictured him crawling over people to get out. “Okay,” he finally said. “I'm out in the lobby. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” she said. “Everything's fine. I'm at the golf course, looking for Aloysius Truczik. But it's raining like crazy and obviously nobody's still playing. Is he likely to be in the bar?”

“Usually not. Unless someone else is buying. Al's got money, but—”

“I don't recall meeting him by name when I was there. What does he look like?”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Didn't I just say everything's fine? I need to ask him something, that's all.”

“If he's there you can hardly miss him. At the meeting Al was the big heavy guy with the sort of irritating voice, who kept—”

“I got it. Thanks, and don't worry. If I don't find him here I can talk to him later, or tomorrow or something.”
At least I hope so,
she thought.

“Should we come back? I mean, the movie's a loser and—”

“Michael, please. Everything's okay.”

She ended the call and tried Cuffs Radovich. She got his voice mail. She knew he didn't check it often, but she stated where she was and that she'd try again.

She couldn't find the umbrella which should have been under her front seat. She shoved her purse under there instead and got out of the car and made a run for it, holding her jacket up over her head and splashing through deep puddles. Inside, the bar was crowded, but she didn't see Truczik. She asked for help from a woman serving drinks, and was told there was a “starter” who kept track of all the golfers and Kirsten could find him in the pro shop.

*   *   *

The starter was a young, cheerful Matt Damon look-alike, but in a larger size, wearing crisp blue slacks and—what else?—a golf shirt, pale yellow. “Oh yeah,” he said, “Father Truczik. I was lucky today. I was able to put him with three guys who didn't already know him. He's a decent golfer for a guy his weight, but he's usually by himself looking for a foursome, and there's a lot of people who won't … you know…”

“You mean he talks too much,” she said.

He grinned. “You got it.”

“Anyway, he's not out—” A sharp clap of thunder startled her, and the lights went out, and then back on. “No one's out on the course, I take it.”

“No way. All that lightning? A person could get killed out there.”

“I was to meet him here,” she said, “but I don't see him anywhere. Do you think he might … I don't know … be taking a shower or something?”

“Nah, he usually heads—” He snapped his fingers. “You know, there was a message for him to call someone and I gave it to him. I remember I wrote it on the back of …
something
.” He rummaged around on the cluttered counter in front of him. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “he took it with him. 'Cause it had the number on it.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “It was a woman on the phone. It wasn't
you,
was it?”

“No. But didn't she give a name?”

“Yeah, but I don't remember. Christie? Kristen? Something like that.”

“Was it … Kirsten?”

“Kirsten! That's it! Said she had an urgent message for Father Truczik. That's the word she used, ‘urgent.'”

The starter's eyes brightened happily, and just then a deep roll of thunder shook the room. The lights went out … and this time they stayed out.

32.

In the dim emergency lighting the starter tapped randomly on the computer keyboard in front of him, apparently to verify that the power loss was real. “Guess this means I'll get off early,” he said. “Better lock up.” He turned away.

“Wait!” Kirsten said. “What about Truczik?”

He turned back. “What about him?”

“What did he do after you gave him the message?”

“Well … let's see. I made change for him so he could call. I remember thinking, ‘How many people can there
be
who don't have a cell phone?' Not many, do you think?” He looked like he expected an answer.

“No, not many.” Her mind was racing. “What was the phone number?”

His face went blank. “Jeez. I
think
it was this area code, y'know? But I got no idea what the number was. I was so darn—”

“I understand,” she said. “How long ago was this?”

“Jeez. An hour and a half ago? Maybe a little more. I know he came back and asked could he borrow one of the complimentary umbrellas. You know, we have these big blue-and-white-striped umbrellas for—”

“Right,” she said. “
Then
what?”

“Well, then he left. That's it. Look, I gotta—” He stopped. “It
was
kinda funny, though, because … he went out that way.” He pointed to his right, toward a sliding glass door that was open and led out to a covered walkway. Beyond that, rain poured down on grass and distant trees.

“Why was that funny?” she asked.

“I mean, I was busy with a million other things at the time, so I didn't really think about it. But that's the way to the course, you know? He'd have to go all the way around the building to get to the parking lot. Why would he wanna walk all that way?”

“I don't know,” Kirsten said. “Maybe he took a golf cart.”

“That doesn't—” He stopped. “Anyway, he didn't. The cart jockey already took all the keys.” He was obviously wishing she'd leave. “I better lock up.”

“Okay. But hey, think I could borrow one of those umbrellas? I know you're closing up, but I'll return it, really.” She smiled and made a cross-my-heart gesture.

“Uh, sure.” He took a long, slim, tightly wrapped umbrella from a box near the door. “You look honest.” Anything to get rid of her.

“Thanks.” She took it and peered out the open door. It was still raining. “I'll just go this way. Thanks again.”

“No problem,” he said, and slid the door closed behind her.

She stood in the covered walkway and stared out at the golf course. The wind and rain seemed to be letting up a little, and the thunder and lightning were definitely moving eastward. Someone had dropped a used scorecard on one of the wooden benches that lined the walkway and she picked it up. An unhappy golfer had penciled “SHIT” across the scores in large dark letters. On the reverse side was a stylized map of the course, showing the holes and the yardage for each one, and indicating where there were sand traps and bridges and rain shelters.

The longer she waited, the darker it was going to get. She unsnapped the little tab and swirled the umbrella around to open it, then stepped out into the rain.

*   *   *

She knew it made no sense for one person to try to comb an entire golf course in the light of day, much less in the rain with night falling. Plus, this course seemed to have more wooded areas than the ones she'd seen on TV. But what else could she do? Call someone? Even if they thought she made sense, which they wouldn't, there was no way they'd organize a search tonight.

It seemed strange that Truczik would have gone out in the rain just because “Kirsten” told him to. But then she remembered that in the meeting in Michael's room, although he'd been negative to begin with, he was the first one to suggest to the others that she might be of help to them. He'd seemed to
want
to believe in her. “We have to trust
someone,
” he'd said.

Even so, if he actually
did
go out to meet this other “Kirsten,” where would they meet? He wouldn't have agreed to go very far, not in that storm. She consulted the map and decided to check out at least the one shelter closest to the clubhouse before it was truly dark.

She left the first tee and headed down the fairway. If she turned right when she got about halfway to the green, and cut through some trees and what looked to be deep grass, she would end up on the fifteenth fairway. On the other side of that, although she couldn't see it from where she was, there should be a shelter. The wind was down to almost nothing now, and the umbrella kept her pretty dry. From the knees down, though, her white cotton pants were soaked, and her shoes would probably never be wearable again.

About a hundred and fifty yards out she turned to head through the rough, which turned out to be more than simply deep grass, but weeds and undergrowth beneath the trees, hiding a shallow ravine. She went down, across a narrow creek of flowing rain water and up the other side, and then headed across the fifteenth fairway toward the shelter.

It was raining just softly now and, surprisingly, a few stray shafts of low-lying sunlight were streaming from the west, behind her. Up ahead the shelter looked like a rustic lean-to, with the open side away from her, facing east—the least likely direction for wind and rain to come from.

She was twenty yards away when a dog suddenly trotted out from behind the little building. It stopped, rain streaming down its matted gray flanks, and turned its head and stared at her. In the slanting sunlight its eyes shone bright yellow, and Kirsten stood perfectly still and stared back. The animal was slope-shouldered and its head hung low to the ground; it was too wild-looking to be somebody's pet. It wasn't large, and it made no move toward her, but its wildness alone held a menace that frightened her. In response she took a firm step forward. The animal jerked its head and turned aside. It was joined by a clone of itself and the two of them moved quickly away, trotting side by side, and melted like gray ghosts into the woods. Coyotes, she decided, although she'd never seen one before.

She let out her breath and moved forward again. According to the scorecard map the fifteenth hole ran along the edge of the golf course property, with a strip of woods between the fairway and a boundary fence. What was beyond that the map didn't say.

She would check out the shelter—there couldn't be anyone there or the coyotes wouldn't have gone near it—then go back and circle around the clubhouse to the parking lot, and drive to Villa St. George. Truczik was probably back there right now, drinking somebody else's liquor and looking forward to supper.

She went around to the open side of the shelter, yelling, “Hey, hey, hey!” in case she was wrong and there were more canines hiding out from the rain. She stepped inside onto a dry concrete slab and pulled the umbrella closed. It was a little darker in here under the roof, but light enough to see that the shelter was empty.