Blood Rites (40 page)

No, he hadn’t seen anything, he told the first officers assigned to the investigation. He’d been working, Bowen had joined him. Someone must have broken in and attacked them. Bowen had probably died while defending himself, most likely from the original murderer. No, he wasn’t sure who hit him. But who else would want the victim’s body and take the time when they were done to wash the room clean of evidence?

Through his alibi, Corey was constantly aware of the passing of time, constantly praying that Stephen would recover completely and find Dick before Carrera killed him.

After the doctors examined him and a nurse taped the cut on his head, after he’d given a statement to the press, Corey was sent home. Instead of going there, he stopped at a sporting goods store and bought a black knit turtleneck and slacks in slim extra-long. He suspected that Stephen would need them, and though he couldn’t be certain, Corey thought he had a good idea where Stephen had gone.

II

St. John’s Church with its healing family windows had just discharged the handful of faithful from its evening Mass when Corey arrived. He waited near the back doors until the voices inside died away, then climbed the narrow winding stairs to the choir loft.

Stephen lay on the floor behind the top benches, bathed in the waning light of the rose window, hidden from anyone but those who would know where to look. He heard Corey coming and sat up slowly as Corey slipped into the top pew and sat a few feet from him. Corey thought the missing corpse seemed a bit dazed and decided the healing might not be quite complete. Stephen still wore his own ripped and bloody pants covered with a white lab coat he’d stolen from the morgue. Corey laid the clothes between them.

Corey expected Stephen to ask questions about his presence here and downtown this afternoon but Stephen only asked, “Patrick and Alan, where have they been taken?” Again Corey was struck by how still Stephen sat, how when he talked only his lips moved.

“I sent my musses to pick them up. I hear that Patrick was a real stoic down at the police station. No matter what they asked, he kept his mouth shut. When Judy phoned me this afternoon, she said she and Elizabeth were on their way. They’ll probably take the kids to Dick’s place.”

“That’s good,” Stephen said softly.

“What about Dick?”

Stephen tersely explained what they’d done, concluding sadly, “Since I came here, I’ve tried to reach him but I can’t. Now that the tie is broken, I can only wait for them to begin the execution. Then I will feel his pain and follow it to him.”

“How do you know that they won’t just shoot him and be done with it?”

“You made the statement to the news, yes? When Carrera hears of it, he’ll know I am hunting him. He will want to learn everything he can about me. He has no one to ask but Richard and Richard will not cooperate.”

“Damn you. You should have let them kill him. It would be quicker and cleaner than what he’s facing.”

“No! I will not allow him to die without a fight. His fight. Mine.”

“That isn’t your decision to make.”

“It became our decision when he agreed to share my blood. Besides his family is not safe until Carrera is dead, yes?”

Corey’s silence gave a reluctant agreement and Stephen commented, “I can’t be certain but I believe that Richard is being held in the flats somewhere. They intend to kill him tonight. Carrera will be present. I made sure of this the day we met. How many others do you think there will be?”

“This isn’t a time for Domie to get cocky. Two or three. He won’t let any more in on what he’s doing.”

“An easy fight.”

“You don’t sound confident.”

“I’m confident I can kill those men. My only fear is that I will not get to Richard in time.”

“Let me help. I’ve got a station wagon parked outside, an old Chevy that’ll fit in real well around the warehouses down there. You can stretch out in the back and give me directions and when we find Dick, we’ve got a way to get him to a hospital if he needs one.”

“Thank you, Dr. Corey. If there’s anything you think you need, why don’t you get it now? Pick me up at the side door in an hour.”

He hadn’t moved so much as a finger since Corey had arrived. Corey wasn’t even sure if he had blinked and his voice, so flat, so tired. “Listen, if there’s anything you want, just ask.”

“Rest. Blood . . . no, the hunger gives me an edge, Dr. Corey. At the moment I’m fighting to stay away from you. Don’t worry, the windows themselves are a form of nourishment.”

“An hour,” Corey repeated, suddenly anxious to leave.

Corey arrived at exactly the agreed-to time, bringing a cage containing three very large rabbits. Stephen eyed them with a hint of amusement, then stretched out in the back and pulled the heavy cover over his head to shield himself from the setting sun.

Corey headed down the hill from Baltic Avenue, driving the narrow road across the low drawbridges to the warehouses by the river. To avoid any suspicion, Corey kept to the main roads, stopping sometimes on side streets so Stephen could stretch his mind farther, calling and getting no answer.

An hour passed. Two. Corey heard Stephen mumbling in the back. Given the situation he was probably swearing from frustration but the odd combination of inflection, guttural consonants, and occasional sibilant hiss made the words sound like some primitive incantation. He shared Stephen’s concern and forced himself to drive slowly so as not to cross an area too often. Only the rabbits relaxed, curling together in the corner of their cage, their noses buried under soft paws.

The sun set. The cars all went home and Corey pulled into a dark alley. “Why have we stopped?” Stephen asked.

“Carrera’s no fool. There’ll be men watching the roads. They’re sure to notice us if we keep moving. Better to stay still. Besides, if you look ahead you’ll see the main road from town to the flats and the bridge that leads to this side of the river. You close enough to reach the drivers?”

Stephen looked over Corey’s shoulder. “I am.”

“Then we sit tight and see who shows.”

Stephen moved the rabbits into the back so he could sit beside Corey. “You know Richard better than I do, Dr. Corey. What is he thinking now?”

“He’s scared. But he knows he can’t allow it to break his concentration so he seals it up.”

“I showed him what he must do. He has to let the emotions loose to call me.”

“Old habits die hard.”

“I considered those.” Stephen rested his head on the dashboard and continued the call.

I

After the shooting, Volpe had dropped off Wells and two guards then went back to the real estate office to tell Carrera what Russ had done.

Carrera might have listened to Russ’s excuse, might have even thought of a way out of the mess Russ had created if Russ had faced him after the shooting. Now, with barely a moment’s thought, Carrera decided on his last use for Lowell. No matter what the legality of the act, even the rumor that he had been responsible for Lowell’s execution would make him the country’s man of the hour, a phenomenal change from his lowly status a week ago.

Certain that he would be safer with Austra dead, Carrera called Bowen from a pay phone and ordered him to assure it, then concentrated on finding Russ. After they arrived at the real estate office, he sent Volpe to get dinner from the kosher deli on the next block then set to work making calls on a phone he assumed to be tapped, trying to track Russ down. Enough time passed that he and Volpe were still in the office for the evening news broadcast, headlining the story of Corey’s attack, Bowen’s death and the theft of the sniper victim’s body.

Carrera snapped when he heard the news. With a bellow of rage, he picked up his beer bottle and threw it across the room at the Wells painting. A tear ripped through the landscape like a twisting fault line and the painting fell onto the table below it. Accustomed to Carrera’s outbursts, Volpe gripped the arms of his chair and said nothing as he waited for the tirade to end. When it did, Carrera pulled two document-sized envelopes from his desk and addressed them. “Come on,” he said. “After we make a couple of stops, we’ll go have a talk with Dick Wells.”

Volpe knew Wells wouldn’t talk. Carrera knew this as well but now he had an excuse to let things get bloody. Wells would die without saying a word. Afterward, he and Carrera would get rid of the body together, telling no one where it had been taken. There were wild places in the parks where no one would find it. Or maybe they’d weight Wells down and dump him in the river to rot at the bottom with a dozen other corpses.
They ought to stick alligators in the Cuyahoga River
, Volpe thought,
alligators to get fat on all of Domie’s victims
.

He didn’t want to go with Domie now but if could think of an excuse to stay behind, he’d call the police and tell them what he knew. Domie would guess it was him who informed and his life would be over, a single whispered order an exchange for all his years of loyalty. No, like it or not, Volpe had to see this final killing through. Resigned, he grabbed his jacket and followed Carrera to the car. Carrera stopped at a house his real estate firm was listing and Volpe stood guard at the front door, smoking a cigarette while Carrera took the Austra reports from a bedroom wall safe and stuck the documents in one addressed envelope. After he sealed it, he slid the package into the second before joining Volpe at the door.

On the drive across town, Volpe tried to justify what would happen tonight but all he saw was the expression on Wells’s face when he’d touched his kid on the shoulder. The guy had balls. He shouldn’t have to die for killing scum like Peter Carrera. Hell, if Peter was anyone but his own son, Domie would have ordered Peter hit years ago.

Besides, Peter was dead. Why couldn’t Domie see that revenge was pointless?

“Three shots in the head,” Domie was mumbling as he wove the car through the evening traffic. “Three goddamn shots and Austra’s still alive.”

You can’t stop a thing like that, Domie. That day in the restaurant, I looked into its eyes and I knew that no one could
. Volpe would have said all of this but it would be admitting too much so he concentrated instead on saying nothing at all.

Downtown, Carrera parked in front of the main post office and handed the envelope to Volpe. “Go get some stamps and drop this in the mail.”

As soon as he was inside the building where Carrera could not see him, Volpe noted the envelope was addressed to an aid of Senator McCoy’s. The word “personal” written in the corner meant that when the reports showed up in a day or two, the aide would hold the envelope until Carrera himself requested it be delivered. If Carrera died, the envelope would most likely be forwarded to the senator and the revenge would go on and on. While Volpe waited in line behind two other late-night customers, he tried to think of some way to save himself. By the time he reached the counter, one came to him, one that was so easy after all.

During the rest of the drive to the building where Wells was held, Volpe fingered the thin length of wire coiled in his pocket. Dominic would ask him to do the killing. Carrera would kill Wells himself but the pleasure of being the actual murderer could never equal that of standing in front of his victim and watching his face for all the time it took him to die. Domie always said that Volpe was so perfect at balancing pain and death. Maybe he was but tonight, Volpe vowed, his hand would slip or his feet would lose their traction on the blood-soaked floor and Wells would die instantly. Volpe owed his conscience at least that much.

No, he wouldn’t play Carrera’s vicious waiting game—not anymore.

II

The calm descended as it always did in times of danger, wrapping Dick’s mind in icy bonds stronger than the ropes that held him now. They’d begun to form on the drive and, “by the time the car had pulled into a covered loading dock, his fear had vanished replaced by a detached resolve as if someone else’s life, not his own, depended on him tonight.

Even so, he had not been able to stop his heart from beating so hard and fast that it muffled the voices around him.
Could they hear it? Could they see it, pounding through the veins on his temples?
he had wondered as two men pulled him out of the car. He hoped not. He did not want to give them any kind of satisfaction.

The men led him through a building stacked high with empty fruit crates and grocery boxes, down a flight of open metal stairs so narrow they traveled single file into a basement smelling faintly of rancid fat and refrigerator gas. A metal door to an unused walk-in cooler hung open and the man in front of him moved forward to drag a chair into it.

Dick grabbed the slim chance. Swinging his body, he hit the man behind him hard in the stomach with his shoulder. The man fell backward onto the stairs and Dick kicked him in the groin then tried to run past him. The man spun, grabbing Dick’s ankle, yanking it out from beneath him, dragging him down the stairs to the basement floor. The second guard slammed the side of Dick’s head with the butt of a gun until Dick wisely stopped fighting, forcing himself to barely move as they tied him to the chair.

His body ached but the pain meant little to him. Only the questions he had asked were important. “What happened to my son? To Patrick?” He had not inquired about Stephen’s fate. He’d felt a bullet blast through Stephen’s brain, sharing an agony that had brought tears to his eyes. Now somewhere something had died so Stephen could survive.

But was Stephen asleep and healing or already stalking his prey? Dick had no way of knowing. Their psychic bond had vanished with the shots.

The two men guarding him told him nothing before they left. The cooler door clicked shut behind them and the bare bulb above him went out leaving him in complete darkness. For hours he sat alone, one more piece of baggage, ignored as the crates and boxes surrounding him. In the outside room, a radio switched on and Elvis Presley crooned, “Love me tender, love me sweet. . .” through the thick insulated door. Dick didn’t try to pull himself loose. Even if he managed to free himself from the chair, the cuffs would still hold him. So he sat, conserving his strength for the final fight, mentally calling to Stephen as he waited for the evening news.