Boneyard (31 page)

“You think maybe someone really did take Morgan?” Monica asked, brow crinkling as they trotted down the front steps, headed toward the garage. Night had descended, and the heat of the day was dissipating under a cool wind that carried undertones of jasmine and dew.

“I think it’s pretty doubtful.”

“So, what? Sam Morgan is one of our killers? I’ve spent hours with the guy—he’s as straight and narrow as they come. You saw in there, he’s a family man.”

Kelly shrugged. “So he defies the stereotype. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“And what does that make him, our amateur killer or the pro?”

“Hard to say. Call Colin back at the office, have him start digging up everything he can find on Sam Morgan. I want to know how long he’s lived here, when he got married, everything, down to parking tickets. Tell him to get people out of bed if he has to. I want phone records, too. With a cop found on his property, that shouldn’t be too hard to get.”

“Yeah, I’m betting we’ll suddenly find the Berkshire State PD ready to bend over backward for us,” Monica snorted. She held up her radio and was patched through to Peters at base. Even through the radio the fatigue in his voice was apparent. He perked up at the news that Doyle had been located unharmed, and promised to get to work immediately on Sam Morgan’s background.

They were coming up on the garage. An ambulance was parked kitty-corner by the open door. “So what’s going on here? Killer A kidnapped Doyle and put in him Killer B’s bomb shelter?” Monica asked, puzzled. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” Kelly said. “But both of them are still out there.”

Zach came to with a start. He was seated propped against a wall. It was pitch-black. He strained his eyes to see, but there weren’t even the fragments of light that snuck in under doors and around the edges of window shades. His hands were clasped behind him, stuck together with something, and his feet were similarly bound. He reached back with his hands and felt around—tile, cold tile, like he was in a bathroom somewhere. It smelled horrible, too, like a toilet had backed up. He gagged at the stench, eyes watering.

There was a noise off to his right. He froze, stopped breathing for a moment, his blood running cold with fear. There it was again, something between a growl and a moan, like an injured animal. He flashed back on when their cat had been hit by a car and they found her hours later, curled under the porch, broken and bloody and dying. She’d made a similar sound. Mom had taken her out back, finished her off with her service revolver. He’d cried and refused to speak to her for a week afterward.

Where the hell was he, and what was in there with him? He edged away from the sound, but hit a point where his arms wouldn’t follow, they were attached to something solid. He yanked at it, panicked, but couldn’t budge. He was trapped, and with something horrible.

He tried to remember how he got here. That guy had shown up at the house looking for his mom. He seemed nice enough, and even looked familiar. Zach let him wait in the living room, said she was still at work, told him to make himself at home. Part of him had half hoped it might be a new boyfriend, the guy sure as hell looked more normal than Dr. Nimrod. Not that that meant anything, obviously, Zach thought, angry at himself. He’d been getting the guy a glass of water in the kitchen when he sensed someone behind him. He’d turned around quickly, and the guy was right there, holding up a syringe. Zach had dodged him, made it across the living room and almost to the front door, but for an old guy he was quick. The last thing he remembered was staring up at their ceiling, darkness creeping around the periphery of his vision, the room narrowing until it faded to a dot of black.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Zach winced as a blinding light filled the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw that the guy had entered carrying a fluorescent camping lantern and a small bag. Zach jerked his head to the side to see what was issuing those terrible groans. It was an old woman, completely naked, skin hanging in pouches from her frame. She was filthy, covered with marks and welts and lying in a puddle that explained the overpowering smell of piss and shit. As he watched, she raised her head slightly and issued that awful sound again, a stream of dribble trailing out her mouth. She gazed at him, eyes pleading for help. He’d never had anyone look at him that way before. It was like he could see inside her, to a terrible place full of desperation and pain. In a way it was more revealing than her nakedness. He shuddered and turned away, taking in the rest of the space. They were in a bathroom. Their side of the room was lined with showerheads; a large open arch lead to the next room, where he could see a few sinks.

“Please…” the woman croaked, her voice barely human.

“What’s wrong with you, man?” Zach asked angrily, concern for the woman making him forget his own dire situation.

The man was busy rooting through the bag for something. He looked up at the woman. “Looks bad, I know,” he acknowledged thoughtfully. “But it wasn’t me that got her involved in all this.”

“She’s an old lady.”

“That’s true. But then again, is that really a reason not to hurt her? Does merely being old excuse you from punishment? I never understand that, when they release people from prison early because they’re old, or sick. If they did something wrong, shouldn’t they fulfill the terms of their punishment?” he said earnestly.

The guy was obviously nuts, but in spite of himself Zach felt lulled by his voice. He sounded so reasonable, like a teacher or something, like he really knew what he was talking about. “I’ll scream,” Zach said.

The guy shrugged. “Go ahead. She’s been screaming for days, it didn’t help her.”

“What did you do to her?”

“Ah!” The guy held up his index finger appreciatively. “I’m so glad you asked. I tell you in some ways it’s a relief, finally having someone to explain things to. With the others, you see, I had to stay silent. Cutting off all human contact was an important element. But you now, you’re different.”

“Different how?” Zach asked. His teeth had started chattering, from the cold and from fear.

“Oh gosh, lots of reasons. You’re an upstanding member of society. According to your mom you play soccer, might even have a shot at a scholarship. Even got a girlfriend, right?”

Zach sat bolt upright. “You didn’t hurt Gina, did you?”

“No, of course not.” The guy scoffed as if he’d said something ridiculous. “Please, I’m not an animal. Traditionally I’m very selective in who I choose. The two of you—” he gestured between them “—are obviously the exception to the rule.” He let out a harsh laugh. “Otherwise I probably would have been caught a long time ago.”

“You’re the one that killed all those boys,” Zach said, realization dawning.

The man nodded curtly. “I did them a favor. If they’d continued on that path, their torments in hell would have been far worse. Leviticus 20:13 says that if a man lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death.”

“What are you, like, a religious nut?” Zach asked.

The guy cocked his head to the side and said cheerily, “Nope. Sounds good though, doesn’t it? A Bible quote really brings it home, could even get a few of the jurors teary-eyed.” He started to speak in a singsong way that made Zach’s skin crawl. “Or maybe my mommy was a drunk who beat me and locked me in the cellar. Or was she a whore who touched me in my naughty places, or was it an uncle who did that? I can never remember. Or maybe I just can’t help myself, I was born this way. Or my daddy left, and I had no one to look up to. You know a little something about that, don’t you? About daddies leaving?” He leaned in as he said this, uncomfortably close. His eyes gleamed white, reflecting the light from the lanterns. Zach shrank away from him. Seemingly satisfied, the guy squatted back on his haunches and observed him for a long moment. His voice was flat, devoid of all emotion when he said, “Or maybe I do it because it’s fun. Hard to say, really.”

He watched Zach for a moment longer, as if ascertaining whether or not he was paying attention, then straightened and crossed the room, back to the pile of bags he’d dropped by the archway.

With his back to them, Zach regained some of his courage. “So why us?” Zach jerked his head sideways toward the crumpled figure on the floor.

“I’m using her to send a message to someone else. Regrettable, but necessary.” The man was drawing a series of what looked like tent poles out of the bags, twisting to tighten them together. At last he stood, brandishing a six-foot-long stick about an inch in diameter made of black metal. “And as for you, well, let’s just say I need a little insurance for a trip I’m about to take. Figure if I have the son of a cop with me, I’m guaranteed safe passage. It’s nothing personal. Behave yourself, I might even let you live.”

Zach thought back on what his mother had told him about the cases. She hadn’t said much, and her eyes clouded over when he brought it up. He’d never seen her so upset about work before. But she’d told him a little. “So if it’s not a religious thing, why’d you kill those kids?”

“I’m a pragmatist. The boys aren’t missed. I don’t discriminate, illegal immigrants would suit me just fine, but they’re tough to find around here. Plus some of them do actually have a family network, and it’s hard to separate out which are which.” The man tapped the tip of the rod against the palm of his hand contemplatively as he said, “No, a couple of fags turning tricks were just the ticket. Hell, they were practically begging to get in my car, I didn’t even have to catch them. And if it came right down to it, nine out of ten people would thank me.” He pointed the stick at Zach. “Most people around here didn’t go to see Brokeback Mountain.”

“Seems like the boys are missed now,” Zach pointed out.

“Through no fault of my own,” the man muttered, face darkening with rage. “And that’s why she’s here.”

“So why don’t you just kill her?” Zach asked. In spite of himself, part of him wished the guy would just finish her off. At the sight of the stick, the noises she was making were becoming almost unbearable, accelerating gasps and moans as she scrabbled at the edge of her chains.

The man’s voice shifted again, back to the conversational tone. “Because she hasn’t completed the stations, we’re only on stage five thanks to some…interruptions. Have you ever heard of bastinado?”

Zach shook his head, mesmerized by the slow swings the man was making with the stick as he advanced on the woman next to him.

“Bastinado is the Spanish word for caning, used throughout the world, but predominantly in the Middle East. It involves beating the soles of the bare feet with a cane. Very effective, due to the clustering of nerve endings there. From what I understand Uday Hussein used it to punish athletes who made mistakes during games.” Without any warning he brought the cane back and whipped it forward. It hit the bottom of the woman’s feet with a hard crack. She howled in pain, frantically drawing her feet underneath her. He chided her. “Now, Nancy, we’ve discussed this. If you take them away, I’ll just have to strap them to a board, and it will only be worse for you. You know the rules.”

Nancy cringed at his words. Hesitantly, she lengthened her legs back out toward him, trembling. The expression of resignation on her face was terrible to behold, and Zach started screaming as the man drew the cane back again. “Jesus Christ, stop! Please just stop!”

The man didn’t answer. His movements sped up. In a frenzy he drew back the cane again and again, the sound of the pole pelting her feet and her howls reverberating off the walls until Zach was certain he was already in hell.

Thirty-Two

“So you never came down here?”

“Not before today.” Sylvia turned in a slow circle. She’d slung a thin cashmere cardigan over her shoulders, top button done to hold it in place. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest as if she was warding something off. “These marks weren’t there then. That man must have drawn them. What are you doing to find Sam?”

The three of them were standing inside the bomb shelter. Kelly could hear the crime-scene unit shuffling around at the top of the ladder, itching to get started before it got any later. They’d have to wait a little longer. Kelly wanted to confront Sylvia with what was inside, gauge her reaction to see if she was telling the truth, or if she’d known what her husband had been up to all these years. Sylvia Morgan was good at controlling her facial expressions, clearly she’d had some practice. Good, but not good enough; Kelly detected the underlying shock in her eyes.

“And Sam didn’t know about this either?” Monica asked.

Sylvia shook her head. “He was as surprised as I was.” She waved a hand around dismissively. “I mean, look at the place. No one’s used it in decades.”

Kelly shook her head. “I doubt that. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Don’t you find that odd?”

Sylvia shrugged. “It must be well sealed.”

“Not just sealed, but soundproofed.” Kelly pointed out the padding on the bottom of the hatch.

Monica held up a can of beans. “And these don’t expire for two more years. I’m pretty sure beans don’t last that long.”

Sylvia stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” Kelly said. “The hooks in the wall, and the rivets and drain in the floor; none of those belong in a standard bomb shelter. We checked with the previous owner, and he had no knowledge of it. I think if we ask around we’ll be able to determine who built this for your husband, and when.”

“Sam’s a good man…” Sylvia said, but this time her voice betrayed doubt.

“Mrs. Morgan, we really need to find your husband so we can clear up some of these questions. Is there anywhere he might have gone? Friends, relatives?”

Sylvia shook her head. “Sam’s mother abandoned him, he grew up in foster homes. He never discussed that part of his life, I don’t think he liked to remember it. As far as friends…he has a lot of acquaintances, here and in Manhattan, but I can’t think of anyone special he’d turn to for help.”

Kelly had already asked the NYPD to stake out the Morgans’ Manhattan apartment on the off-chance Sam showed up there. So far there was no sign of him.