Darkness peering (4 page)

and crico id cartilage. Four foot eight, ninety-six pounds.
Fairskinned, dark-haired. Eyes, green. Eyelids oblique in the manner
of most Mongoloids. Stumpy, pudgy hands and feet. Ears small and
rounded with a badly developed lobule ..."

On and on it went. When Archie took swabs from the girl's vagina and
anus, Nalen felt a sharp sympathetic pinch in his groin like a stuck
zipper. An X-ray film of the victim's skull was attached to a light
box on the wall, the cranium cracked like an egg.

"Cause of death was occlusion of the blood vessels supplying blood to
the brain," Archie told Nalen. "Most people mistakenly think it's the
lack of air that kills you, but it's really due to the lack of blood
going to the brain." He spoke into the mike. "There's bruising on the
middle fingernail of her left hand. X rays indicate an old injury to
the right arm, a fracture that's long since healed."

"So she didn't fight back?"

"I don't think she saw it coming. He hit her on the back of the
skull... perhaps with a large rock. Possibly a tire iron." He pried
the jaws apart and, using tongs, pulled out the extra-long tongue. "She
has a high-saddle palate and irregular, malformed teeth. Probably
sucked on her tongue, a habit that encourages fissuring and swelling of
the papillae. See here?"

Nalen glanced at the tongue, then looked away.

"Those bite marks are severe."

"So it's your opinion she was strangled to death?"

"You see the fingernail marks on both sides of the neck? Two hands
were used and the victim was strangled from the front. Erythematous
marks, here and here, are posterior to the sternocleidomastoid muscles.
But then he shifted his thumbs around to the front, see here? The two
thumbs were used to apply pressure to the larynx and trachea, which
results in erythematous markings on the anterior aspect of the neck."

"Would the perp have scratch marks on him?"

"Depends." Archie ruminated. "Remember that strangulation

case a few years back with the two fellows outside the Peaked Hills
Bar and Grille? Even though the victim struggled, the assailant didn't
have a single scratch on him."

"If he does have injuries," Nalen said, "they'd most likely be on the
backs of the hands and arms."

"Maybe the face."

"What about rape?"

"As far as I can tell, no. We'll get the lab results in a week or so
and we'll know more then."

"Okay," Nalen said, whipping off his surgical mask and tossing it in
the trash. "Call me if there's anything else."

"I'll keep you posted, Chief."

Nalen found Billy over at Gillian Dumont's and drove the boy back to
the station, where they sat together in his office. There were
citations on the wall, photographs of Nalen with the mayor, his
master's degree in criminal justice, and a montage of crime scene
photos from unsolved cases. His desk was piled high with interview
forms, evidence vouchers and unfiled autopsy reports.

"Billy," Nalen began, "what do you know about this?" He handed Billy
the cat bell and the boy blanched.

"I dunno." He handed it back.

"You've never seen it before?"

"Looks like a cat bell or something."

"I know what it is, Billy." Nalen stared at him over steepled fingers.
"I want you to tell me the truth."

Billy was a tall drink of water, a string bean who'd shot up three
inches in the past year alone. Faye couldn't keep up with his
adolescent appetite, always driving to the store for more food and
doubling the milkman's order. Nalen could feel his son's agitation in
the way he scratched his elbows and legs. His slender nose was
slightly crooked (he'd broken it falling out of an apple

tree at age seven) and he'd bitten his nails to the quick. Now he
kept tugging anxiously on his red sweatshirt, the one with Aerosmith
stenciled on the front.

"You know something," Nalen said firmly, thinking he could scare the
truth out of him, "so you'd better come out with it."

"Maybe it belongs to one of those cats?" Billy said innocently
enough.

"The cats you boys killed?"

"I don't know ... probably ... maybe." He shrugged, emptying his face
of all emotion. Nalen hated that face. It went all the way back to
Billy's childhood, back to his infancy, practically, to when Nalen used
to drink. Before Faye had given him her ultimatum.

"I thought you said they were strays, those cats?" Nalen asked.

"They were."

"So how could a stray have a cat bell?"

"I dunno."

"You don't know?" Nalen leaned back, leather chair squeaking. "Was
one of those cats you killed wearing a collar?"

"One of 'em might Ve been."

"Answer the question, Billy. Yes or no."

"I don't remember."

"So this bell--"

"I said I don't remember!" Billy wiped under his eyes and tapped his
fingers nervously on the arms of his chair. "Jeez, Dad, what're you
dragging all this stuff up again for?"

"Why do you think I'm bringing it up?"

"I don't know." His pupils contracted. "I'm not a mind reader."

"Billy ..." Nalen rubbed his eyes. "The girl who disappeared
yesterday ... she's dead."

Billy grew very still and wouldn't meet his father's gaze.

"If you know something," Nalen said, "if you goddamn know anything,
Billy, you'd better tell me right now. Right here. In this room.
Between the two of us."

Billy sat with his head bowed, eyes downcast, and didn't speak for a
long time.

"Billy," Nalen said, tension burrowing into his windpipe, and Billy
jumped. "Do you know anything about Melissa D'Agostino?"

His forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Just that ... you know ... what
somebody told me afterward ... that it was her cat."

Hairs pricked the scruff of Nalen's neck. "So this cat bell belonged
to Melissa D'Agostino's cat?"

"I told you a million times, it wasn't me. It was Ozzie and Neal.
They're the ones who shot those cats."

"And you know for a fact that one of the cats belonged to Melissa
D'Agostino?"

"It's just something I heard."

"All right." He ran his fingers through his hair and noticed he was
trembling. "Let me ask you this. Were any of those cats wearing a
collar?"

"I don't remember."

"Think, Billy."

The boy shrugged. "Yeah, maybe."

"But when Detective Boudreau and I got to the scene, there weren't any
collars on any of the cats."

Billy crossed his arms and stared sullenly at the floor.

"So I can assume that, between the time you boys shot those cats and
the time Detective Boudreau and I got to the scene, somebody stole that
cat collar. Am I right?"

Billy didn't answer. All Nalen could see was the tip of his nose and
the crown of his head with its soft brown hair, and for an instant, he
had an urge to pat his son's head, to stir that soft hair and tell him
everything was going to be okay. Only it wasn't going to be okay. Far
from it.

"Billy, did one of the boys take the cat collar? Did you take the cat
collar?"

"No," he said defensively. "I just wanted to get the hell out of
there."

"So Ozzie and Neal ... they took turns shooting the cats, and Boomer
Boomer was letting the cats out of the sack one by one ... and you were
sort of corralling the cats so that Ozzie and Neal could get a good
shot. Is that right?"

He winced. "That's about right."

"And afterward, when all the cats were dead, somebody took the cat
collar as a sort of souvenir?"

"No," he said, voice cracking. "We were pretty fucked up, Dad. I know
it's a disgusting thing to do, shooting innocent creatures and all--"

"Billy, let's nail this down."

He looked at his father with pudding-colored eyes. "I wouldn't hurt
anyone, Dad."

Nalen exhaled in frustration.

"D'you believe me?"

"Yes."

"You believe I wouldn't hurt anyone? I mean, just because I did
something stupid like, over six months ago ... 'cause I mean, you don't
hate me or anything, do you?"

"No, son, I don't hate you."

"But you think less of me."

"I don't think less of you." Nalen shifted in his chair and the
leather squeaked, advertising his discomfort. He'd always been
uncomfortable around Billy. Always. All Billy had to do was look at
him sideways, and Nalen would inwardly cringe as if he were on trial.

Abuse, Faye had called it. But Nalen was merely imitating his own dad,
a Boston cop, a hard-drinking, hardworking hard-liner who loved his
family even as he beat them. Early in his marriage, Nalen had followed
in the old man's footsteps, getting drunk with the boys after work at
the Blue Wall, beer and shots and boilermakers, and he'd almost lost
Faye and Billy due to his own stupidity. Almost lost his family. She
had threatened to leave him, but then he'd done the impossible, quit
cold turkey, no

twelve-step program for Nalen Storrow, thank you very much. And yet..
and yet maybe he had lost them, after all?

"You keep looking at me funny," Billy was saying now, and Nalen glanced
away.

"I guess I'm trying to figure you out."

"So maybe I did something really stupid just to be part of something ..
that doesn't mean I'd hurt anyone, does it?"

"You tell me."

"I mean ... jeesh. She was retarded and everything."

Nalen could hear the beating of his own heart. Leaning forward, he
held Billy's eye. "Roll up your sleeves."

Billy's voice rose half an octave. "You think I killed her?"

"Tell me, son," he said, "tell me you don't know anything about Melissa
D'Agostino's death. Tell me that right now."

Indignant and scared, Billy rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and
displayed his bare arms. They were the arms of a scrawny teenager,
abrasion-free.

"Okay." Nalen sat back, inwardly relieved.

"Jesus, is she really dead?"

"She was killed yesterday."

"Wow." He briefly met Nalen's gaze. "What happened?"

"That's all you need to know for now."

"Jeez, Dad." His eyes welled with tears and he slumped in his seat.
"I'd never hurt anyone ..."

"I know you wouldn't," Nalen said, but he knew, he just knew Billy was
holding something back.

That night, Ozzie Rudd's father brought Ozzie into the station for
questioning, and they didn't get much out of him, either. They also
questioned Boomer Blazo and Neal Fliss. Nobody knew anything about any
cat bell, and nobody had seen Melissa D'Agostino since the day she
disappeared; not since lunch that

day at school, not since they'd done their usual messing around with
the kids at the Geek Table. All the retards ate lunch together at one
big table, and Ozzie and Boomer and Neal liked to tease them a little
bit. Just a little, and that was the last anybody'd seen of Melissa
D'Agostino.

Around 10:00 P.M." Hughie Boudreau, drenched with sweat and
exhaustion, pulled Nalen aside and said in an urgent whisper, "Chief,
we gotta talk."

"What is it, Hughie?"

"Earlier at the morgue ... ?" He balled his fingers into a fist as if
he were trying to summon the courage to put into words what had been
bothering him all day long.

"I'm listening."

"I was walking around the gurney, you know? And the strangest thing
happened." He lowered his voice. "I could've sworn she was watching
me."

Nalen sighed, muscles bunching. "It's a common experience, Hughie.
Don't worry about it." He patted Hughie's arm, but Hughie wouldn't let
the matter drop.

"She followed me with her eyes, it seems like, no matter where I was
standing in the room."

"That's a common illusion, Hughie. Don't let it Spock you."

"You're the only one I can confide in," Hughie said, pallid and
frail-looking. "I don't know what came over me, but the next thing I
knew ... I was sticking my tongue out at her."

"You were what?"

"I had to push her away, you know?" His face was crimson. '"Stop
looking at me' kind of thing. I realize now she wasn't looking at me.
I know that, Chief. Dead people don't look at you. I know what's real
and what's not."

"Are you sure you can handle all the ramifications of this case,
Hughie?" Nalen asked as gently as he could.

"Sure, Chief. I mean, it's not like I'm crazy or anything."

"No, you're not crazy, Hughie."

"Please don't take me off the case, Chief. I'm really ashamed of
myself."

Nalen was concerned. Hughie hadn't joined the search party the
previous afternoon because he'd driven off by himself after a bad fight
with his wife. He'd gone all the way to the New York state line, his
fury slowly draining at the wheel, and hadn't reported to work until
around eight o'clock that evening. He'd been gone all afternoon, and
this fact hadn't rung any bells with Nalen until now.

"Look," Nalen said, "we're all under enormous strain. Let's just
forget about it, okay?"

"Okay."

"Go home, Hughie."

"I'll sneak downstairs and take a nap."

"Go home. You're exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"You're gonna make a mistake. You're not alert."

"All right." Hughie hung his head.

"And remember, my door's always open."

Nalen watched him shuffle off, thinking you could implode so subtly,
nobody would even notice.

AROUND THREE IN THE MORNING, NALEN PARKED HIS DODGE

Challenger in the driveway and crossed the front yard under a full moon
that lit the toolshed and lawn chairs and made deep night seem like the
dusty moments before dawn. All the lights in the house were oft and
the door was locked. He fumbled for his keys, let himself in.

Upstairs everybody was asleep. He crossed the moonlit hall

into Rachel's room, leaned over her bed and inhaled her sweet scent.
Her lips parted with a bubble.