Among the Missing (19 page)

"So you're just going to . . . run away?"

"That's about the size of it."

"Can't you . . . do away with them?"

Merton shook his head. "Hell, yeah. I could kill their asses. Only problem is, I've already given it a try. They'd be ready for me next time. So there ain't gonna be a next time. Just isn't worth the risk. I'll have to pull a disappearing act."

"For how long?"

"Just till the twelfth," Merton said, and grinned.

"The twelfth of September?"

"The twelfth of never."

"You . . . how can you joke about it?" Walter threw his arms around Merton and wept. "You can't leave me. You can't."

"Afraid I've got to. I'll get in touch with you when I can."

"When you can?" Walter's voice was suddenly bitter. "When you can?"

"Yeah, when I can."

Walter stepped back. "Isn't that wonderful. Isn't that just ducky?"

"Take it easy."

"Easy? Take it easy? You dirty shit!"

"Hey."

"You treat me like shit! You always have, Merton! What've you ever done for me? Always, 'I want this, I want that, let me use your car, wash my clothes.' But what have you ever done for me? Would you move in with me after prison? No no no, you've got to have your freedom. Did you ever once ask me over to your place? No no no, only when you wanted something from me. It's always on your terms. It's always what you want. You never give a thought to how much you're hurting me. All you do is use me. I'm nothing more than a convenience for you. And you can't even be faithful! Is that asking too much? Always have to be going out in that obscene van of yours, picking up everything in pants. How do you think that makes me feel? I have feelings, Merton! I can be hurt. And now you're planning to just leave? I won't have it!"

Merton smirked. "Sure, you will."

"I won't!" Walter stomped his foot on the floor.

"Oh, knock it off. You're an old woman. Always have been."

"Old woman!" Walter shrieked and lunged at Merton, fingers spread like claws.

Merton's fist caught him in the belly.

He folded at the waist and dropped to his knees.

"An ugly, whiny old woman," Merton said. "You disgust me." Shaking his head, he left.

"Hello? Is this the Sheriff's Department? My name is Walter Fern. I'm calling in regard to the dead woman they found this morning at the river. The one without any head? Well, I know exactly who killed her."

Chapter Thirty-nine

Sweet Meadow

Merton steered his van over the rutted dirt road and came to the Sweet Meadow roadhead. He parked in the same spot as the night before, killed his lights, and climbed into the back of the van.

Sitting on the bed, he sank deeply into its soft cushion of water. The water rolled under him as he pulled off his shoes.

Then he lay back.

The water slowly settled, rocking him gently.

Soon, he fell asleep.

Chapter Forty

Tattletale

Rusty knocked on the door of Walter Fern's house. The pale man who opened it wore a grey, pinstriped suit, a white shirt and a black bow tie. His short hair was wet and neatly combed. A white tuft of shaving cream hung below his left ear lobe.

"Mr. Fern?" Rusty asked.

"Yes, I am."

"I'm Sheriff Hodges."

"Yes. Please come in." Mr. Fern offered his hand. Rusty shook it. The hand was cold. "May I get you some coffee, Sheriff?"

"That sounds real good," Rusty said.

"Have a seat, please. Do you take cream or sugar?"

"Just black, thanks."

"I'll only be a sec. Please make yourself at home."

Rusty sat on an easy chair next to the couch. Though he'd never met Walter Fern before, he'd made up his mind that he didn't like the man. Fern was something pale that might be found crawling in the moist dirt if you suddenly rolled aside a heavy rock. Probably not dangerous, but vaguely repulsive and sinister.

Rusty realized he was tense. He made an effort to relax his shoulder muscles.

"Voilà!" Walter said, entering with a serving tray. The white porcelain cups clinked on their saucers as he lowered the tray in front of Rusty.

"Thank you." Rusty felt clumsy lifting the delicate cup and saucer. He was used to drinking coffee from mugs or cups of heavy china. This dainty thing looked tiny in his big hand. But he managed to take a drink and gently return the cup to its saucer without a mishap.

Walter sat on the couch. He sipped his coffee and said, "Well. I imagine you must wonder why I've decided to, shall we say, 'Blow the whistle'?"

Rusty nodded.

"The man who murdered this Alison Parkington woman is a friend of mine. A very dear friend. I'm afraid for his life, Sheriff. Can you understand that?"

"I think so. You'd like to see him taken into custody without any violence?"

"Exactly." He smiled quickly in appreciation. "This is a very difficult task for me, as you may well understand." He sighed and sipped his coffee. "I hope I'm doing what's best for him."

"Who is your friend?"

"Merton LeRoy."

"Whoa! Merton LeRoy?"

It hardly seemed likely.

But you never know, he told himself.

"I believe you're the man who sent him to prison," Walter said.

"A jury did that. But I'm the guy who arrested him. What makes you think he was involved in the killing of Alison Parkington?"

"He told me so. He came to me this morning. I even washed his clothes for him."

"What kind of clothes?"

"Oh, let me think. There was a pair of blue jeans, quite old and faded and filthy, with frayed cuffs. In their state, they should have been incinerated, but Merton would never have forgiven me."

"Bloody?"

"Who could tell? Really, they were such a disgrace."

"What else?"

"No underwear, of course. Merton never wears underwear. Rather primitive of him, in my opinion. He says they inhibit his freedom of movement."

They slow you down when you're raping kids, Rusty thought. But he kept the opinion to himself and said, "What about his shirt?"

"Plaid flannel. I'd given it to him myself, just last Christmas. It was tres bloody this morning, but I got most of the stains out. Spray 'n Wash absolutely works marvels."

Nodding, Rusty said, "The clothes do fit our description pretty well."

"Certainly they do. Merton was there. He did it. He's the one those two people saw this morning."

"But they said the man was bald," Rusty explained.

"You haven't seen Merton lately?"

"It's been a few years."

"He started shaving his head while he was in prison."

And his mug shot shows him with a full head of hair. No wonder Bass and Faye couldn't pick him out.

"I keep telling him to let his hair grow out, but he won't hear of it. I'm afraid he equates a hairless scalp with virility. I, personally, think it's utter nonsense."

"What kind of car does Merton drive?"

"A blue Volkswagen van."

"Do you know the tag number?"

"The tag?"

"The license?"

"Why would I know that?"

"It would be helpful, that's all."

"Well, I haven't a clue."

"Is there anything unusual about the van?"

"In what way?"

"What about its interior?"

"Oh! Well, it certainly does have something a bit odd, there. For one thing, Merton has a water bed. I'm sure you don't find water beds in vans every day of the week."

"Probably not."

"He also has an enormous mirror attached to the ceiling above the bed so he can watch . . . himself, I suppose. And whatever creature he happens to be stumphing. He's such a degenerate."

"Did he tell you why he killed Alison Parkington?"

"Oh, certainly. He told me everything, absolutely everything."

"What did he say about his motive?"

"He's been having a thing with her husband, of course."

"A thing?"

"An affaire de coeur."

"A what?"

"An affair of the heart. A love affair. Merton, of course, is gay. He makes no secret of that. After all, how could he after all the publicity about his seamy school-yard seductions and rapes? So. He's having an affair with the good professor, and made up his mind to eliminate the man's wife."

"Did he tell you what prompted him to cut off her head?"

"Oh, yes. Certainly. This morning, Merton offered it as a gift to Professor Parkington."

"Jesus," Rusty muttered.

"I know. Shocking. Disgusting. Might I get you some more coffee?"

Rusty nodded. As Walter poured more steaming coffee into his cup, he asked, "Was the professor in on the murder?"

"I really shouldn't say. After all, I only know what Merton told me. I wouldn't want to slander the man."

"He won't care."

"But of course he will. He might even sue me if I should make any accusations against him. Everybody wants to sue."

"Not Professor Parkington. He's dead."

"Dead?"

Rusty demonstrated by pointing toward his own open mouth, then bringing down his thumb like a pistol hammer.

"Oh, my heavens!"

"He's in no position to sue you or anyone else. So tell me. According to Merton, was the professor involved in the murder of his wife?"

"Why yes, he was."

"In what way?"

"He helped with the planning, among other things."

"Which other things?"

"Well, it was the professor's job to see that his wife drank quite a lot of liquor last night. In other words, he was to get her drunk. That way, she wouldn't be able to put up much fuss when Merton came for her."

"He came for her?"

"Certainly. First, he drove over to the professor's house. Then the two of them grabbed the woman and forced her into the car. The professor drove her to the river, and Merton followed in his van. Afterward, they both came back together. Merton and the professor, that is. In the van."

"With Alison's head?"

"Oh, no. Merton cut her head off later."

"When?"

"Much later. First, they went back to the professor's house and had a few drinks to celebrate. Then . . ." Walter scowled down at the floor. "He was such an unfaithful bitch."

"Who?"

"Merton, of course. He made love with the professor that night -- while the wife's body was lying down there in the cold sand by the river." He shook his head furiously as if to dislodge the thought. "Only after he'd finished satiating his lust with the professor did he return to her body."

"Did he say why he went back?"

"For her head, of course."

"Why didn't he take it in the first place?"

"It was an afterthought," Walter explained. "You see, while he was at the professor's house, they danced. Merton is such a fine, graceful dancer. Well, somehow one of them brought up John the Baptist. And Salome? The Dance of the Seven Veils? Apparently, Merton danced his version of it for the professor. That's when he got the idea."

"And he just happened to have a hacksaw handy?"

"He found it in the professor's garage."

"I see. What did he do with the arms and legs he cut off?"

The lines of flesh between Walter's eyebrows deepened to dark grooves. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't Merton tell you about cutting off her arms and legs?"

Eyes narrowing, voice turning bitter, Walter said, "You're trying to trick me. Merton didn't cut off any arms or legs. You know he didn't. I know he didn't. Only those fools at the News think he dismembered her that way. You're trying to trick me, Sheriff, and personally I find it quite unnecessary and offensive."

"Sorry you feel that way."

"If you don't believe what I'm telling you, there's no point in wasting any more time. I'd appreciate it if you would simply leave."

"I'll be glad to leave," Rusty said, "as soon as you've told me the truth."

"I did tell the truth."

"You lied about Grant Parkington's involvement. He didn't drive his wife to the river."

"Of course he did."

"Afraid not. We know who drove her car there, and it wasn't her husband."

Looking slightly befuddled, Walter said, "I only know what Merton told me."

"Did he tell you about having intercourse with Alison Parkington?"

"Having what?"

"Sexual intercourse. With Alison Parkington."

"You're trying to trick me again."

"He did, you know."

"Impossible."

"What's so impossible about it? Just because he prefers men and boys doesn't rule out --"

"He wouldn't touch a woman. Impossible!"

"Someone did."

"Not Merton!" he snapped. "Merton wouldn't do such a thing." Walter shut his mouth tightly, pressed his trembling lips together and turned his face away.

"Tell me the truth, now," Rusty said. "What is Merton's involvement with the murder?"

"He killed her."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!"

"Then start talking. This time, give me the whole truth. If you try any more lies on me, I'll take you to the station and book you as an accessory."

Walter turned his face toward Rusty. His eyes were red, his cheeks shiny with tears. "Okay! If you're going to be that way. . . . I was lying about it all! I know nothing!" He sniffed. "Nothing at all. I made up all those lies to hurt Merton, the despicable unfaithful bitch!"

"Where'd you get your information?"

"From the news. And . . . I made up the rest." With a neatly folded white handkerchief, Walter wiped his face dry. "My imagination is quite fertile, Sheriff."

"I don't doubt it, but I said I wanted the truth this time."

"And the truth is what I've given you. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth . . ."

"Horse shit, Walter. You know the paper was wrong about the dismemberment. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you. . . ."

Chapter Forty-one

The Sale

A rapping sound woke Merton from a dream of changing tires in the rain. With his eyes still shut, he wondered where he was. He could tell that he was naked and in a hot place. Sweat was trickling down his skin, and the sheet felt sodden underneath his body.