An Ice Cold Grave (23 page)

Tolliver dropped me off while he went to gas up the car. I strode through the hospital like I worked there, and I got to Manfred's room to find he was by himself. Trying not to look too relieved—Rain was probably a nice woman but she was a lot of work—I went directly to his bedside and touched his hand. Manfred's eyes sprang open, and for a second I thought he was going to yell.

“Oh, thank God it's you,” he said when he'd grasped who I was. “What did you find out?”

“Your grandmother died of natural causes,” I said. “Ah—do you remember standing in the doorway to her room and looking at her for any length of time?”

“No. I always went right in and sat in the chair right by her bed. Why?”

“At the moment she died, someone was standing in the doorway watching her.”

“Did they frighten her?”

“Not necessarily. Surprised her. But that didn't cause her death. She was in the process of dying.”

“You're sure.” Manfred didn't know what to do about this random piece of information. Neither did I.

“Yes, I am. She died a natural death.”

“That's great,” he said, much relieved. “Thanks so much, Harper.” He took my hand, folded it in his warm one. “You did that for me and it had to be awful. But now we don't need an autopsy, she can rest in peace.”

Xylda's resting in peace had nothing to do with whether or not she had an autopsy, but I decided it was best to let the subject die a natural death, as natural as Xylda's.

“Listen to me,” I said. His face hardened at my tone, which was serious.

“I'm listening,” he said.

“Don't be alone here,” I said. “Don't be alone in Doraville.”

“But the guy was arrested,” Manfred said. “It's done.”

“No,” I said. “No, I don't think it is. I don't think anyone would actually snatch you from the hospital, but if they let you out, you stick right by your mom all the time.”

He could see I was dead serious. He nodded—reluctantly, but he nodded.

And then Manfred's nurse came in the room, and she said it was time for him to get up and walk, aided by her, and I had to go stand out front to wait for Tolliver.

Barney Simpson was on his way to the front of the hospital with a sheaf of papers, and I happened to fall into step beside him.

“I would have thought an administrator would be chained to a desk,” I said. “You're all around the hospital.”

“If my secretary were well, I would be in my office almost nonstop,” Simpson agreed. “But she's off. One of the missing boys was a grandson of hers. And though it's going to be a long time before they get to bury the boy, it just seemed right to let her have a day or two off to be with her daughter.”

“I'm real sorry for all the families.”

“Well, at least there's one happy family. The folks of that boy that was under the stall should sure be having a good day today.”

He gave a nod and veered off into a smaller hall lined with offices. Everyone in Doraville was affected by these crimes, though I guess the severity of the affection was lessened with your emotional distance from ground zero—the killing field above the town.

I felt a little foolish, now that I thought about it. It was nuts, warning Manfred. He was older. But he was small, and attractive, and right now he was vulnerable. He was a stranger, too, and wouldn't be missed as quickly as one of the local boys. It was nuts because if you looked at it logically, there was no way the remaining killer—a killer only I seemed to be worried about—would take another boy. Everyone was watching, everyone was wary, everyone was suspicious. At least, they had been. Now it was another story. The boogeyman was in jail, his tormented son was dead, the last victim was safe in the hospital and going to live. A happy ending for just about everyone. The people I heard talking about it were even not too unhappy about poor Chuck, because he would have been so messed up anyway by his father's death, and all the people assumed he'd had to help his father with the boys and the guilt of it had driven him to sacrifice himself. He'd redeemed himself, maybe.

I thought only part of that was the truth.

But if Chuck were alive, I wouldn't have given a nickel for his life. Because his dad's partner would suspect that Chuck knew his identity, even if the boy hadn't. So someone really was happy Chuck had died, and had good reason for being so.

I thought of all the good things I'd seen in Doraville, and all the nice people I'd met. There was a snake in the grass in this pleasant mountain village, and it was a pretty huge snake. Doraville didn't deserve to be singled out for such horror.

When Tolliver pulled up by me, I got into the car and without saying a word, he drove me up to Davey's old farm, the site of so many cold graves.

Klavin and Stuart were up there, and for once I wasn't displeased to see them. They were measuring the area and making some more pictures of the orientation of the buildings to the road, the surrounding terrain, and whatever else took their fancy. We got out and watched in silence for a few minutes.

They were busy, and disinclined to talk to us. Each couple tried to pretend the other one wasn't there. The wind was blowing up here, and it was chilly, though the beautiful sun took the edge off. I had discarded my heavy coat and put on a blue hoodie, and I pulled the hood up around my face and tucked my hands in my pockets. Tolliver put his arm around me and kissed my cheek.

As if that had been a signal, the two SBI men approached us.

“Have you given your statement at the police station about yesterday?” Klavin said.

“No. We'll do that before we leave town. We just wanted to ask a question, see if you'd answer it,” I said. “I suppose it'll be a long time before all the tests are finished on those poor boys.”

Stuart nodded. “What were you wanting to know?” he asked. “I figure you're entitled to an answer or two, since you found them.”

That was a refreshing point of view, and one with which Klavin didn't necessarily agree.

“I want to know if they were fed and cared for after they were taken,” I said. “Or maybe they were sedated. I want to know if their lives were extended.”

Both the agents froze. Klavin had been messing with a tiny digital camera, and Stuart had been loading some small machine into the back of their rented SUV. “Why?” Stuart asked, after they'd resumed moving. “Why do you want to know that, Ms. Connelly?”

“I wonder if there was more than one person involved in torturing these boys,” I said. “Because I really suspect that Tom Almand wasn't working alone, that he had a killing buddy who helped subdue the poor boys. Some of them were big boys, you know. Tom Almand was a little man. So, did he have some story that made them trust him enough to put themselves into a situation they couldn't get out of? Or did he have a strong right arm that would be sure they got that way?”

The two men looked at each other, and that was enough.

“You gotta tell people,” I said. “They all think they're safe, and they're not.”

“Look, Ms. Connelly,” Stuart said, “we got half the team in jail. We got their killing floor. We got their dump site. We got their survivor, safe and guarded. We even got their backup place for stashing victims, for whatever reason they had it: maybe they prepared it in case they heard this place was being sold, maybe they realized the road up here might become difficult in the winter. Then they'd use the place in the Almand barn. We figure this because there aren't as many bloodstains at the barn. There isn't all the paraphernalia we found in there.” He nodded toward the old shed to the left of the Davey house.

“We want to catch this other bastard real bad, Harper,” said Klavin. “You don't know how bad. But we don't figure he's going to be grabbing anyone anytime soon. You see what we're saying?”

No, I was too dumb to understand. “Yes,” I said, “I see. And to a certain extent, I agree. It would be crazy for him to grab anyone else. But you see what
I'm
saying? He
is
crazy.”

“But so far, he's managed to maintain a perfect façade,” Stuart said. “He's clever enough, got enough sense of self-preservation, to keep on doing that.”

“Are you sure about that? Sure enough to risk some boy's life?”

“Listen, the fact is, you don't have anything else to do with this investigation,” Klavin said. He'd reached the end of his patience.

“I know I'm not a cop,” I said. “I know I usually just come in to a town, do a job, and leave. And I like it that way. If I have to stick around, worse stuff happens. And then we have to stay longer. We want to drive out of Doraville. But we don't want anyone else to die. And until you catch this other killer, there's that possibility.”

“But what can you do to stop it?” Klavin asked reasonably. “So far as we're concerned, after you give your statement about yesterday, you and your brother can leave. We have your cell phone number, and we know your home address.”

“He's not my brother,” I said. If Tolliver could tell people, I could, too.

“Whatever,” Klavin said. “Hey, Lang, did you know your dad was in jail in Arizona?”

“No,” Tolliver said. “I had heard he got out of jail in Texas, though.” If they'd been trying to upset Tolliver, they had gone about it the wrong way.

“You two really got shanked in the parent department,” Klavin said.

“No doubt about it,” I said. He couldn't make me angry like that, either.

He looked a little surprised, maybe a little abashed.

“I can't figure you out,” I said. “You can be decent when you want to be. But this shit about our parents, you think we haven't heard all this before? You think we don't remember what it was like?”

He hadn't expected me to clear the decks. Klavin clearly had issues.

“You two go on,” he said, while Stuart watched him, a certain guarded look on his face. “Go back to town. Get your statements entered. Then leave. This case has too much cluttering it up. The psychic. You. Now that you've seen Tom Almand swing a shovel, I guess you know who attacked you. You gonna file charges?”

Oddly enough, I hadn't even thought about it. So much had happened since I'd been attacked that it had been low on my list of mysteries to solve. I took a moment to think about it. Theoretically, I was all in favor of Tom paying for the attack on me. But thinking realistically, how could we prove it was Tom? The only evidence against him was that he'd been known to hit someone else with a shovel, and he'd had reason to want to hit me—if you count the fact that I'd found his victims a reason, and I reckoned it was. I'd stopped his fun. At least, I'd thought so, until the trapdoor had swung open. I saw those boys' faces every time I thought about the trapdoor: the one face covered with blood and lifeless, and the other just as bloody and full of fear and a terrible knowledge.

I'd have to come back here to testify, and there really wasn't any more concrete evidence than there had been.

“No,” I said. “Is Almand talking?”

“He's not saying one damn word,” Klavin said. “He was actually pretty shocked about his son, I think, but he kind of shook it off and said the boy had always been weak.”

“That's someone else's influence,” I said. “Someone else's words.”

“I think so, too,” Stuart told us. He turned his back to us to look out over the acre of land that had yielded such a strange crop. “He's not going to talk in case he might trip up and expose his fuck buddy.”

I was a little startled at Stuart going crude on us. But if I'd looked at those bodies and examined the inside of that shack as often as Stuart had, I might be pretty deeply upset…well, even more upset than I was already.

I wasn't sure why I was here. There were no ghosts, there were no souls, there was nothing left of the bones of the eight young men who had been put in the ground here. There was only the cold air, the gusting wind, and the two angry men who'd spent too much time observing too closely what horrors people could wreak on each other.

“What will you do with the shack?” I asked. Tolliver turned to look at it, along with Stuart.

“We'll have to dismantle it completely and remove it,” Klavin said. “Otherwise, souvenir hunters will rip it to shreds. You can see the lab techs have removed the most heavily bloodstained areas for the lab's use. And all the instruments that were in there—the manacles, the branding iron, the pincers, the sex toys—they've gone to the lab, too. We brought a bunch of people up here.”

Tolliver's mouth twisted in disgust. “How could he look in the mirror?” Tolliver said. It was rare for Tolliver to speak when we were in a professional situation like this. But men are less used to the idea of being raped than women are, and it strikes them with a fresh horror. With women, that horror comes right along with the female genitals.

“Because he was enjoying himself,” I said. “It's easy to look in the mirror when life is fun.”