Fever Dream (33 page)
“Now?”
“Sure. You could come by here—unless that’s too weird or against the rules or something. Or we could meet some place closer to you.”
“I’d like to, Treva, but the truth is, I’m out of town. In Harrisburg. I won’t be getting back till much later tonight.”
“Oh.”
The disappointment in her voice seemed genuine, which saddened me as well. This was the first time she’d even entertained the idea of letting me help her. Of starting the arduous psychological journey that lay ahead of her. And I was half a state away.
“I’m sorry, Treva. But let’s meet tomorrow. Anywhere you want. My office. Or some coffee shop.”
“Okay. But if we’re going to meet somewhere else, I’ll have to wear a disguise.”
“A disguise?”
“So I can sneak past those Victims’ Services people. They’ll probably be camped out downstairs in the lobby.”
I couldn’t tell whether her humor was a hopeful sign of a real connection between us—that she was indeed ready to work—or else just another attempt to slip back into denial. Into that disarming, distracting fog behind which the traumatized often disappear.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“And I’ll answer. Promise.”
I left the phone alcove, waved good-bye to the obviously relieved restaurant manager, and went out to the parking lot. Across the street was a Motel 6, neon sign bright and buzzing. Next door was a sporting goods outlet store. Good. I wouldn’t even have to move the car.
Ten minutes later I’d checked into a room, and was standing under a steaming shower. Afterwards, I sat on the bed and awkwardly wrapped the bandages I’d bought around my mid-section. It felt like Roarke had cracked a few ribs.
Then I stood at the bureau mirror and awkwardly applied a new bandage to the back of my skull. Another war wound from the day before, courtesy of Wheeler Roarke.
I picked up the room phone to check my messages, but changed my mind. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough.
I’d already thrown my torn, dirty clothes into the trash can, and dressed now in the new jeans and shirt I’d bought at the outlet place.
Then, checking the time, I sprawled on the still-made bed. Closed my eyes and breathed deeply, slowly. But I could only allow myself a few moments’ rest. I had to meet up with Sam at the US Air ticket counter by ten o’clock.
Back in the motel lobby, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the bubbling carafe near the front desk. Strong, bitter. Just what I needed.
I said good-bye to the kid behind the desk, but he didn’t even glance up from the latest
Maxim
magazine. I guess having a guy who looked like the Unabomber’s best friend book a room, change clothes, and then leave within an hour wasn’t that unusual an event around here.
Or else the
Maxim
was a particularly hot issue.
***
Sam and I sat next to each other near the rear of the US Air jet. We’d taxied out to the runway and were awaiting take-off. From my window seat, I could see the hills like rounded shoulders, hunched under the ink-black sky.
Been a helluva day.
Another
one.
Sam looked at his watch. “Eleven
PM
. Late flight, but it’s the best I could do.”
“Stop apologizing. You’re not responsible for what happened out at Stubbs’ place.”
“I know, but still…” He scratched his tousled black hair. “Hell, it was
my
story.
My
source. I shouldn’t have sent you out there alone.”
“Forget it, will you? Though I’m sorry about Stubbs.”
“Me, too. Now I just have to figure out how to verify his story. I mean, even without the CD, what he told you gives me lots of leads to follow. Confirms some of the stuff I’ve been thinking.”
“Best thing would be for the FBI to track down Ronny Baxter. And the CD.”
“If he still has it. He could’ve destroyed it by now. Or handed it over to whoever he and Roarke were working for.” Sam gave me a sidelong look. “And you still think the bank robbery was part of all this?”
“Had to be. Roarke and Baxter try to rob a bank, kill a number of hostages, and manage to escape. Wanted for multiple homicides. Hunted by the FBI. So where do they go? Another state? Out of the country? No, they go to Henry Stubbs’ farm in Harville, looking for some secret recording. With orders to kill Stubbs as well.”
Sam pursed his lips. “You got a point, Danny.”
The captain’s voice boomed then over the intercom, announcing that passengers and crew should prepare for takeoff. Which we did.
Once airborne, I kept my head tilted against the window. Watched the blurred night roaring by.
Sam poked me in the ribs. I winced.
“Shit, man, sorry.” He smiled sheepishly. “I forgot to tell you. We missed Sinclair’s press conference tonight, but I can boot up my laptop once we land and we can find a link to it. In case you want to watch.”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“Well, as a reporter covering the campaign,
I
have to. Besides, we both know what he said. That he refuses to be intimated by the likes of Jimmy Gordon. Implying that he’d be equally strong and capable if elected governor.”
“If he lives long enough to make the debate.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve been on the phone all day with my sources at headquarters. And the FBI. They’ve got every member of the Gordon family under wraps. Every known associate is being watched. Interviewed. Believe me, the good guys are on top of it.”
The plane leveled off at 30,000 feet and most of the night-flying passengers around us settled in for the short ride to Pittsburgh International.
I did so as well, leaning my head gratefully against the seat cushion. Every muscle in my body ached, and the throbbing at the back of my skull had begun again.
I felt myself drifting, awake and yet not awake. In this half-doze, images of Henry Stubbs hanging from that barn rafter floated up in my mind. Swaying. Feet dangling. Moving in and out of the shadows, like a figure in a nightmare. Haunting. Surreal.
Then, unbidden, it morphed into another image. Andrew Parker, the patient at Ten Oaks. Andy the Android. Suddenly I was seeing him, too. Or at least how I imagined he’d looked, hanging from a bicycle chain in the clinic’s tool shed…
With a violent start, I sat upright in my seat. Coming fully, vividly awake.
Because all of a sudden I saw how the pieces fit together. Or, rather,
didn’t
fit. That remark Noah had made, about how Andy had “deactivated” himself. What Nancy Mendors had told me about finding Andy once on the floor of the kitchen, having stabbed himself with a screwdriver. What I’d read in those files she’d sent me about Andy’s recent behavior.
As soon as we touched down, I’d call her to ask if the clinic’s cleaning crew had gone into Andy’s room yet. And, if not, tell her to make sure the room stayed untouched. And that I’d meet her at Ten Oaks in the morning.
Despite my fatigue, and the lingering effects of Roarke’s drug, my mind was clear. And while I didn’t know if I could prove it, I was sure I was right about what had happened to Andy the Android.
He’d hanged himself, yes. But it wasn’t suicide.
It was murder.
It was pretty damned crowded in Lt. Stu Biegler’s office, especially at two in the morning. I was giving my statement about the previous day’s and night’s events to the cops. In addition to Biegler, who looked more annoyed and distracted than usual, there was Harry Polk, Eleanor Lowrey, and—most surprising of all—Assistant District Attorney Dave Parnelli.
None of whom seemed very happy with me. Especially Parnelli, whose comb-over glistened with sweat under the hot lights.
It took about forty minutes to tell it all, which I did. Everything. Despite Eleanor’s earlier concerns that the Sinclair-McCloskey connection was mere allegation.
She wasn’t alone.
When I’d finished talking, I leaned back in the sole chair opposite Biegler’s desk and looked up expectantly. It was Parnelli who spoke up first.
“Are you seriously asking us to believe that this McCloskey guy—acting on behalf of some powerful corporate client—has his hooks in Lee Sinclair?”
“I told you, Stubbs seemed credible. At least it’s worth looking into, right?”
“Based on what? You said this alleged CD is gone.”
“Yes. Roarke’s partner in the bank job, Ronny Baxter, found it in Stubbs’ house. He got away with it, after torching the barn.”
I sat forward. “C’mon, you’ve gotta see that there’s some kind of connection between the robbery attempt and Stubbs’ murder. If Roarke and Baxter were just your run-of-the-mill bank robbers, they’d have skipped the country by now. Instead, with the cops and FBI on their trail, they decide on a day-trip to Harville, Pennsylvania, to kill a retired sheriff and retrieve some hidden recording. Evidence of a meeting between McCloskey and one of his clients, concerning Leland Sinclair.”
“
Alleged
meeting.” Parnelli sure liked that word.
Polk muttered something unintelligible, but Eleanor turned to the ADA. Her gaze frank, steady.
“There must be something to Dr. Rinaldi’s story, sir. If not, then why did Roarke and Baxter go after Stubbs?”
“How do
I
know? This whole case has been a fuck-up from the beginning. Maybe Rinaldi’s right. Or else maybe Stubbs was a wing-nut. Frankly, I’m not exactly bowled over by the unsubstantiated claims of an admitted blackmailer.” He whirled on Biegler. “What do
you
think, Lieutenant?”
Biegler glanced up, startled, as though jerked back from an unpleasant daydream.
“Eh? Oh, yeah…I mean, this Stubbs mook. We oughtta know a lot more about him before we give any credence to anything he says. Especially about the DA.”
Parnelli bobbed his head. “Agreed. Let’s table that angle for now, and just concentrate on Baxter. With the brains of the outfit dead, little Ronny oughtta be easier to round up. And if he
does
have some kinda CD on him…”
“If he hasn’t destroyed it by now,” I said. “
Or
turned it over to his boss. Whoever
that
is.”
“Those are always possibilities, too, Doctor. But from where I sit, you’ve already strayed way too far from your chosen field, in terms of this case.”
“
That’s
for goddam sure.” It was Polk’s first comment since I’d given my statement. He directed it at a spot on the wall over my shoulder, then cut his eyes at me.
“On the other hand,” Parnelli said to me, “you
did
manage to find Wheeler Roarke. And kill him, for which we’re all duly grateful…”
I climbed half out of my chair. “Wait a minute, that was self-defense—”
He gave me an indulgent smile. “Nobody here doubts that, Doctor. I, for one, am certainly unwilling to seek an indictment against you. Bottom line, there’s one less stone killer walking around, plus the state’s spared the expense of a long, drawn-out trial. It’s a win-win, as far as justice is concerned.”
Parnelli was laying the condescension on pretty thick, but I was too tired and sore to rise to the bait. By now, too, I figured I had his number. He had that abrasive, knowing sarcasm of a lot of high-echelon law enforcement types. Unlike cops—from rookie patrol officers to detectives first grade—guys like Parnelli and Sinclair saw themselves as standing above the messy personal dramas of ordinary citizens.
To them, it wasn’t about murder or robbery, arson or fraud. It wasn’t about perpetrators and victims. Trials were merely chess games to be won or loss. Convictions just stats on the ledger books, rungs on the ladder of upward mobility.
And in such a scenario, all that amateurs like me did was muck up the works.
After another twenty minutes of questioning, they released me. Biegler stayed behind, reaching into one of his desk drawers for a bottle of aspirin. Polk excused himself to visit the men’s room. Eleanor, clicking on her cell, drifted off toward a maintenance door at the end of the corridor.
Leaving me and Dave Parnelli to walk together to the bank of elevators at the opposite end.
Hands in his pockets while we waited for the elevator car, Parnelli spoke to me without making eye contact.
“You stay out of trouble from now on, okay, Doc? I hear you’re a valuable asset to the department. Be a damn shame if something happened to you.”
“You get no argument from me. But do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Depends.”
“I just wondered why you went to the hospital the other day to okay Treva Williams’ release. I mean, why you showed up personally.”
