Long Gone Man (13 page)

Thirty-one

“Don't know,” Singer answered without
taking her eyes off the house. She was exhausted and all she wanted was to lie down.

Lauren drove slowly around the circle again, stopping in front of the double front doors this time. The heavily carved wood displayed horrific images of strange beasts. The women studied the house in silence until Singer asked, “What are our choices?”

“I could go in and pick up Missy, and then we could head back down to the hotel for the night.”

“That's stupid. If we go in for the dog and someone is waiting, the worst has already happened.”

“I'm not leaving Missy alone overnight.”

“All right then,” Singer said, “let's go in.”

Lauren put out a hand to restrain Singer. “Maybe you should wait here while I go in. No one's trying to kill me.”

Singer thought about it for a moment. “No, I'm going with you. I'll be safe as long as you're with me.”

“How do you know?”

Singer leaned her head against the window. “I don't. I just want it to be true.”

Lauren came around to open the door and help Singer to the ground, supporting her with an arm under her shoulder. All the time they were doing this they watched the house.

At the flagstone step, they stopped, and Singer whispered, “If anything happens, anything bad, run like hell and don't look back.”

Lauren nodded.

“Don't wait for me,” Singer ordered. “Just get the hell out of here. Do you understand?”

Lauren nodded again. “I understand and you don't have to tell me twice. Anyone comes out that door . . . happy landing, 'cause I'm dropping you and bolting.”

Lauren turned the key and reached for the doorknob. She took a deep breath and let it out and then pushed the front door open with the tips of her fingers.

Bouncing and yapping, Missy rushed through the opening to greet Lauren before turning her attention to Singer.

“Get it away from me,” Singer screamed. “Get away.” The thought of little claws scraping over her cuts had her shuffling backwards.

Lauren let go of Singer and swept the dog up into her arms. “No, Missy.” Lauren pushed the door wide and stepped cautiously into the foyer. “It seems okay,” she said. She opened the door to the sitting room and shut Missy inside.

She stepped back outside to where Singer sagged against the doorframe. Lauren put Singer's left arm over her own shoulder and wrapped her right arm around Singer's waist, holding her up, and half carried Singer into the house. Singer moaned in pain.

“Let's get you to your room, then we'll get you in the shower.” Lauren ignored the tears washing Singer's face. “You can stay there while I get tweezers and extra towels. We have to clean up these cuts.”

“Nail cutters . . .” Singer puffed out the words. “Every nail . . . broken.”

“Sure.”

When they were in the bathroom, Lauren asked, “Do you need help getting undressed?”

Singer could only nod.

Singer stood under
the shower for a long time, and then she began to sob. She'd been so determined when she headed for the island, so sure of herself and her need for revenge.

The door to the bathroom opened. She held her breath.

“It's me. Extra towels,” Lauren called. Singer breathed again.

Lauren dried Singer
off and poured antiseptic over the cuts, letting the liquid pour down onto the towels on the floor. “Now let's get you into bed.”

With Singer stretched out on the bed, Lauren began removing gravel with tweezers, checking Singer's body for slivers and grit with a magnifying glass.

Lauren picked out a small stone. “My dad was a doctor, my mom a nurse. In a remote community with no vet, when they weren't treating humans they doctored everyone's pets. I helped.” She leaned closer. “My dad had magnifying goggles that he could put on. They had built-in lights with batteries. Very neat. I could use them now, but this will have to do.”

Singer's body jerked in pain.

“Sorry,” Lauren said. “I have to get every piece out or it will fester. Any seeping or swelling tomorrow and you're off to emergency, like it or not.”

The doorbell rang. Lauren raised her head to look at Singer.

Singer smiled. “I don't think killers ring the doorbell.”

Lauren nodded. “I'll go then.” She covered the wounds she was working on with a fresh towel and gently drew the covers up over Singer, lifting her arms and putting them on top of the coverlet.

Singer stopped Lauren at the door. “Turn off the overhead light, will you?”

Lauren flicked the light off. “Was it bothering your eyes?”

“Naw, just thought if we're having guests I'll look better in the dark.” There was no need for anyone else to know how weak she was.

“Wilmot,” Lauren said
when she came back. “I told him you were resting, but he's insisting.”

“Fine, bring him in, but leave the light off.”

Lauren sauntered to the bed, jutted a hip, and planted her fist. “You still trying to get your man?”

“Maybe I'll rest up for a day or two first.”

But the dim
light didn't hide her injuries. Wilmot asked, “What happened?”

“An accident.”

“Really?” Wilmot said. “Where did this accident happen?”

“Here.”

“In the home?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, in the home.”

“They say most accidents happen in the home.”

“Happens like this, it's time to move.”

He smiled and scanned the room. There was a straight-backed wooden chair in front of a desk. He went and brought it to the side of the bed and sat down. “Why don't you tell me about this . . .” He paused. “Accident.”

“An
SUV
came too close . . . moved over too far and dropped a wheel . . . got out . . . went for a long slide . . . not really the outdoors type.”

Wilmot sat forward. “Do you want to press charges against the other driver?”

She ignored the question. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

“Your fingerprints yielded some interesting facts.”

Singer closed her eyes.

He waited, wanting to see her eyes when he told her what he knew. She remained silent. Wilmot surrendered. “Alex Warren. That's you, isn't it?”

“That's me,” she answered without opening her eyes.

He waited for some explanation, the justification that would normally come from someone on the wrong side of the law. Nothing. “Why did you change your name?”

She laughed softly. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Thirty-two

With a great show, Wilmot
took a sheet of paper from his jacket and read from it. “Alex Warren, wanted for breaking into a government office and destroying records of draft dodgers in California, arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct in New Haven, and arrested for assaulting a police officer in Georgia.”

“He needed assaulting.”

“Colorful background.”

“Great art is always messy to create. My life is a work of art in progress.”

Wilmot leaned back and crossed his legs. “I can't help but wonder how many other incidents there are, how many more names you've had.”

With a faint laugh, Singer said, “Your job does offer challenges, doesn't it?”

“Aren't you going to ask if I'm sending you back to the
US
to answer these charges?”

“If you think I shot Johnny you want me right here where you can get at me, so you're not going to let me go anywhere.” Her eyes opened. “But not with the gun we gave you. It wasn't the murder weapon, was it?”

His lips were set in a stubborn line.

Singer added, “It doesn't take a genius. Why would you be out there searching the grounds if you had the weapon? I figure we had the wrong gun. Maybe Johnny had the gun we found, which would mean whoever was here was someone he had an issue with, someone he was threatened by, or maybe someone he was threatening. I don't know. The murderer had a second gun, shot Johnny, and took it away with him.”

“Playing detective?”

“Not too much else to think about up here, is there? Quietest place I've ever been. I'm used to bars and clubs, with loud music playing and glasses clanging. Not used to hearing my own thoughts. Damn boring.” She closed her eyes again. “I'm far less interesting than I thought I was.”

“It looks like your life hasn't been totally boring today.”

“No, that's true, I didn't lack amusement today. Now if you aren't going to arrest me or tell me anything interesting, I need to get my beauty sleep.” She didn't open her eyes to see how he took this.

After a few moments, her breathing changed, became slower and deeper. She'd fallen asleep.

Wilmot was amused and a little shocked. He laughed quietly to himself. He must be losing his touch; he'd never had a murder suspect fall asleep during an interview. He was used to deference and apprehension from the people he interviewed. His position stirred fear even in those who were guilty of nothing but breathing. But not this woman. She'd seen it all before and had a very good idea of how much power he had and how he'd use it.

He considered her. There was a thick towel under her head. Her wet, gray hair was spread over it to dry. The left side of her face was red and angry with abrasions, but under the scratches her skin was pasty. Both arms showed deep gouges on the insides of her forearms. Her hands, turned palm up, were covered in heavy gauze bandages. Her injuries seemed to be exactly what she said they were.

On the night table was a glass of water, a box of tissues, over-the-counter painkillers, ointment, bandages, and tweezers. Lauren Vibald was taking very good care of this woman she claimed to have known less than twenty-four hours.

He sat watching Singer, considering what part she played in John Vibald's death. She hadn't been particularly upset about him finding out her real name. None of the offenses would get her extradited and all of the charges were too old to be of much interest to any police force. They were just the beginning of a colorful life, nothing more. But what had she been doing since the early seventies? He knew there were probably more names that could be attributed to her, more crimes to add to the list. There was something her fingerprints hadn't yielded, a story the computers hadn't told. He'd just have to go back and dig harder.

In sleep her face relaxed and softened. There was so much to distract you when you first met her—the long hair and the crazy clothes. Now all he could see was her beauty.

Must have been something when she was young,
he thought. This was quickly followed by the thought that she was still something. The strong bones and halo of wild hair gave her an aura of power even in sleep. An image from a painting seen long ago came into his mind, a picture of a fierce female warrior, lashings of swords crossed over her breasts and hair blowing out behind her. He couldn't identify the painting and didn't need to, the image was enough.

A turbulent life for sure, the records showed that, but where were the signs of it on her personality? In his experience street people were most often furtive and nervous or downright crazy, living in worlds of their own. Not this woman. She was different. He wanted to know what made her different.

And he wanted to know what had brought her to Glenphiddie Island. Was it murder? He intended to know all her secrets.

He'd had only a couple of hours sleep himself and he was full of envy for her escape. Finally, telling himself he was wasting time, he got reluctantly to his feet, sorry to leave the peace he felt sitting there.

Thirty-three

Wilmot raised a finger as
if in afterthought. “By the way, which program was your husband on that said he lived on Glenphiddie?”

“What?” Lauren said.

“There was a
TV
program about your husband, one that said John Vibald lived on Glenphiddie Island.”

She shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“Strange, Ms. Brown said she saw him on television, on a program.”

Her eyes betrayed her. “Oh that,” she said. “Well that wasn't about John.” She smiled, pleased to find the right track. “It was about the island, and John was just mentioned in passing. I have no idea what the name of it was.”

“Maybe one of the others will remember.”

She frowned. “Lots of people were mentioned.”

“Do you know when it was shown?”

Her frown deepened and she shrugged.

“What channel was it on?”

“I'm not really interested in that kind of show. John would have known.” Her mouth turned down in a bitter twist. “He was interested in anything that mentioned him. He was the most interesting person he knew.”
Remember what Singer said
, Lauren thought. “It was part of being in the public eye.”

Wilmot asked, “How long have you known Ms. Brown?”

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “You mean how many hours?”

There was no doubt that this part of their story was true. But Wilmot knew there was some thread that bound the two women together tighter than the strangers they claimed to be, and Lauren Vibald was the woman who would tell him what it was. But not yet. He smiled at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Vibald.”

Wilmot went to
the police sedan parked in the drive. Corporal Duncan
was officially off duty but she'd worked through the
morning
, slept four hours, and come back on duty without complaining.

He opened the passenger door and leaned in. “I'll walk down to Steven David's. You wait here.” He looked back at the house. “It won't hurt Mrs. Vibald to see the car and worry, to feel our presence. After about forty-five minutes go down to the Pyes'; just remain outside and wait for me.”

He saw Duncan's mouth purse and knew she was biting back angry words. “Sorry for all the hanging about. I promise I'll make this up to you.” He tried to lighten the moment. “I shouldn't think you'll have to worry about them running out here to confess. But if they do, lock them in the back and take them to the station immediately.”

Duncan turned her head to gaze out the opposite window.

Wilmot cursed under his breath.

Sgt. Wilmot wanted
to see for himself just how easy it was to get from one house to another through the woods, and he wanted time to think over the interviews to come. He checked his watch: 6:10.

Lauren Vibald would likely call the other band members and tell them he was coming, so they'd be expecting him. Were they like some kind of cult up here? If so, John Vibald had definitely been the leader, but just how strong a hold had he had over them?

Only a short way into the trees he hesitated. The woods seemed eerily silent, as if all nature had paused to watch this stranger who intruded in their midst.

Wilmot lifted his head, listening and trying to capture every trembling suggestion of sound. He didn't feel right here. He forgot to think of murder.