Dead Even (30 page)

“I don't know. But it's clear they left in a hurry. The police scanner is still on. Isaac must have heard me talking to Markham. There's an AP out on the van, and officers are scouring the neighborhood.” He went over and put his arms around Audra. “We'll get him. I'm going back now to the station to interrogate Howard Simpson. Maybe he'll have some idea where his son might have gone. And I want you to go over and stay with Bess. You look like you're about to drop.”

“All right. But please keep us informed. We'll go crazy just sitting, waiting.” She hesitated a split second, then added softly. “And by the way—I love you, too.”

*   *   *

Isaac drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. The area was swarming with cops. The most dangerous part would be when he opened the garage door all the way up to back out. If a patrol car came by and noticed the van before he got the door back down.…

He could pick up I-70 again at the Toulon exit. He would just have to chance leaving by way of east Twenty-Seventh street. He was only two blocks away. It would be foolish to go all the way back to Vine Street for that exit. Were they stopping all cars? Probably not. The police would assume he was in the van.

They didn't know what he looked like. The only one who could have told them about the scars and the face mask was the woman, and she was probably lying in a pasture frozen to death by now.

No. He was okay if he just kept his head. He would drive slow—wave at the officers if he passed a patrol car. They weren't looking for the Studebaker.

He took a deep breath, got out of the car, and quickly raised the garage door.

*   *   *

Audra got back in Thomas Reivich's pickup and backed slowly out of the driveway, then headed north toward Twenty-Seventh street. Two blocks later, she slowed to make the four-way stop at the intersection. There was another vehicle coming from the west. An old yellow Studebaker. She waited, letting the other driver have the right-of-way.

As the car moved in front of her, the occupants were briefly illuminated by the well-lit corner. She saw the face mask, and then from the back seat, she locked eyes with a boy. “Jason!” she screamed.

There was no doubt that Jason had seen her, and recognized her. He craned his head around, trying to keep her in sight as the car sped by.

Audra twisted her head around, looking for a patrol car, trying to decide what to do. Should she turn around and go back to the house for help? So close! There were still dozens of officers at Simpson's house.

She could still see the taillights of the car. It would soon be out of the city. “Oh, God,” she sobbed. “I can't take a chance of losing him again!”

She turned right, and started after the Studebaker.

*   *   *

Isaac turned around to Jason, his face twisted in fury. “I told you to lie down on the seat! Why do you insist on disobeying me? Do it! Now!”

Jason quickly laid back down. “I'm sorry, Father. I—I just forgot.”
It was Miss Delaney. She saw me!

Isaac couldn't think anymore. He wasn't used to all these complications. How had they found out about him? It hadn't been from his father, or the Delaney woman. That officer who called from the patrol car had known.

His body rocked back and forth as he drove.
Think! You've got to think.

There was no way he could function without the safety net his father provided. How long would they keep him under surveillance? Would he ever be able to get back into his house?

“Father,” Jason said from the back seat. “Father, I'm thirsty. And I have to use the bathroom. Could we stop?”

Isaac's scream filled the small car, and Jason recoiled in terror. “No! Damn you, no! Quit interrupting me! You're going to spoil it all!” His voice broke into a sob. “I've got to think! Why won't you let me be? Don't you understand, I—have—got—to—
think!
”

He would only be safe for a few days at the church. The famous structure had a steady stream of visitors. He could hear their voices from the room. They would be able to hear him, also. How would he keep the boy quiet?

His plans had not been made to include anyone but himself. Alone, he could use the room for a hideaway indefinitely—maybe give his father a chance to move away—find a new location for them.

But what about the boy? Could he trust him?

No. It was getting too complicated with the boy. It was just like with Bobby. He had thought he could trust his friend, but at the last minute, Bobby had gone back in to save Isabelle. He had gone after him to stop him, and been caught when the house exploded.

He should have followed his instincts then. He had been noticing that Bobby looked at him differently after he told him about killing the Nevergall girl.
Rule one: Keep it simple, and don't trust anyone!

He was better off alone. He turned around in the seat, glancing at Jason. It was too bad, really. If he hadn't told the boy about the room, he could just drop him off beside the road. But now he didn't have a choice.

He smiled to himself, relaxing now that he had come up with a plan.

Don't worry, son. I'll make it quick. I won't make you suffer like the others!

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

Mike slammed the palm of his hand down on the table. “Listen to me, you bastard! Your son has a five-year-old boy with him. If that boy is harmed, I guarantee you will be prosecuted for murder! Now I want some answers, and I want them now!”

Howard Simpson shook his head. “My son is dead. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Give it up, man!” Butch said. “We've been to your house. We've seen the attic room.”

“Did you know your son kept scrapbooks filled with pictures and articles of his victims?” Mike asked. “As well as their clothing? A whole damn trunkful! Frilly little panties and bras, worn by innocent young college girls before he raped and murdered them!”

Butch picked up the computer run and began reading. “Diana Johnson, age eighteen, raped and strangled; Kimberly Asherton, nineteen, raped and stabbed repeatedly; Sheila Cartwright, seventeen, daughter of Congressman Griffith Cartwright, tortured, raped, and shot; Lisa Grimsley, eighteen, daughter of Harold Grimsley, a prominent plastic surgeon, brutally raped and stabbed to death.”

Simpson closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. “Stop! Please stop!”

Jerome White pushed back from the table. “Would you gentlemen let me have a few minutes with my client?” His voice was courteous, respectful.

Mike ran his hand through his hair. “
One
minute, no more. We have to find out where Isaac might have taken Jason.”

White nodded. “All right. Let me see what I can do.”

*   *   *

Philomena lay in bed, listening to the radio. It was her constant companion. She listened to the television once in a while, but for the most part, she relied on the area radio stations for her entertainment. She probably knew more of what went on in town than the mayor himself.

She wondered if they had located that woman and boy yet. She had a lot of faith in her prayers. Her fingers reached out in the darkness for her rosary. Hopefully, there would be an update before long.

As if in answer, the announcer's voice interrupted the music. “We are asking all citizens to be on the lookout for a 1996 dark blue van, license number TMY 643. The driver is identified as Isaac Simpson, age thirty-three. He has a badly scarred face, and may possibly be wearing a face mask. Simpson has a deep, course-sounding voice, and lives at 2422 Castlebury. He has taken a young boy hostage, and is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Do not, and I repeat, do
not
try and apprehend the man. Contact the police if you have any information or see the van. Simpson made his getaway minutes ago from his home, so all residents in the Castlebury area should make certain their doors are locked and not open their homes to any strangers.”

Philomena clutched her rosary tight.
Castlebury! That's only two blocks from me!
She thought of Ivan, and his raspy voice. The announcer had described the man's voice as deep, coarse-sounding.

No. It couldn't be Ivan. Still.…

Ivan—Isaac—they
were
similar. And of course she had never seen or felt Ivan's face—it
could
be scarred!

No. Ivan had said he wanted to leave his
car
in her garage—not a van. She was just being silly.

She threw back the covers. It was no use. She wouldn't rest easy until she checked. And she'd probably break her fool neck getting out to the garage, what with the snow and all! She silently cursed Jacob for not listening to her thirty years ago when they built the garage. She had wanted it attached to the house, but he wouldn't listen.

She slipped on her shoes and slapped the velcro into place. Best invention of the twentieth century, as far as she was concerned. She heaved herself off the bed and went to the closet for her coat and cane.

A blast of frigid air hit her when she opened the front door, and she was tempted to just forget about it. She reached in the pocket of her coat and pulled out her gloves. No. Once something started nagging at her like this, she wouldn't feel easy 'till she put it to rest.

She tapped her way down the walk, hoping she wouldn't hit any slick spots. Thank goodness the neighbor boys had cleared away the snow. That was something, anyway.

She found the front of the garage, and felt around for the handle. “Jacob,” she spoke her dead husband's name aloud. “I hope you're watching this! You wouldn't listen to me—oh, no! Same as the refrigerator. I wanted frost-free, but you wouldn't hear to it.” Philomena smiled to herself. She had been grousing at Jacob for ten years for leaving her. Occasionally, she nagged him about other things, too. Her hand finally closed over the handle and she pulled the door up as high as she could reach, ducked under, and entered the garage.

She moved slowly, tapping her cane. She rarely came to the garage, and its contents weren't as familiar to her. The cane hit something as she put her hands out.

She moved around the vehicle, her arms making sweeping motions. It wasn't a car! There was no question about it!

Philomena's heart was racing. She took several deep breaths to calm herself, then worked her way to the back of the van. She felt around for the license plate, found it, then squatted down, removing the glove from her right hand. Her fingers traced over the raised letters and numbers. TMY 643!

“Ach du lieber Gott!” She braced herself on the bumper of the van and stood back up.

*   *   *

Howard Simpson's voice was ragged. “I don't know where Isaac could have gone with the boy. I didn't even know about the—the room in the attic. You have to believe me. I didn't know he had killed all those girls.” His voice broke, and he sobbed, openly.

Mike was not feeling any sympathy for the man. “I can't believe that you didn't know, or at least suspect. We know of at least twenty-three deaths, and there are probably more. Surely, somewhere along the line, you heard about young girls who died in the city you were just in! You
had
to have at least
wondered!
”

Simpson put his head down in his hands. “Lucy was right. Oh, God help me, Lucy was right!”

“Lucy?” Mike asked. “Your first wife?”

“Yes. She always insisted there was something wrong with Isaac. Right from the start! Even as a baby. She—she said he had no conscience—couldn't tell right from wrong. If she spanked him, he would laugh at her.” Simpson wiped tears from his eyes. “I didn't believe her. She told me Isaac tried to kill her! A four year old! Of course I didn't believe her! Would you?” He looked up at Mike.

Mike shook his head slowly.

“I accused her of—of making the stab wounds herself. I—God help me, I thought
she
was the mad one! Then when she killed herself, it only convinced me more! I just never dreamed that she could be telling the truth!”

“And Isabelle?” Mike asked gently. “Your second wife? Didn't you believe her, either?”

“Oh, my God,” Simpson moaned. “She told me she suspected Isaac of killing a little fifteen-year-old girl! Raping and killing her! He—he was only twelve. Of course I didn't believe her! She said she had overheard Isaac telling the Kramer boy about it. But I thought surely—surely she had just misunderstood. We argued that morning. I told her I thought she was crazy. That Isaac
couldn't
have done the things she was saying! That—that was the last time I saw her alive.”

“And you really thought you were identifying Isaac's body that evening? You didn't realize it was Bobby Kramer?”

Simpson's hands were trembling. “I didn't know Isaac hadn't died in that fire until he came to my motel room, the day I got out of the hospital. He—he was in terrible pain. He had been burned horribly, especially his face. He told me he had been hiding out at my sister-in-law's house. Ivory—Ivory Dennison. She and her husband had been in Hawaii, so their house was empty. When they returned, Isaac hid in an abandoned house for two days, until I was released from the hospital.”

Mike remembered Ivory Dennison's words. “It was like I could smell her poor, burned flesh even at my own home.…”

“And what happened then?” Butch asked. “Surely you took him to a doctor? For his burns?”

“Of course I did!” Simpson spoke harshly. “I drove all night to the burn center in Houston. But there wasn't much they could do. It had been almost two weeks since the fire. And later, Isaac wouldn't agree to plastic surgery. He said he wouldn't go through the pain.”

“I don't understand one thing,” Mike said. “Why did you keep on pretending he had died? For the insurance money?”