Love Her Madly (20 page)

9

When I got back to DC, my director was all abeam. “Poppy,” he said, “your instincts run deep.”

Then he went off on an ecstatic riff as if he were practicing for a news conference. “Because of you we end up with a legitimate presence in an investigation of even greater magnitude than the last Texas prison break. Don't have to barge through any doors insisting that the escapee must have crossed state lines.”

I started to say that I was glad to be of help, so to speak. He wasn't hearing.

“Poppy, we're the ones who defined the direction this case should take because we had an agent right there. We had an agent who predicted that testing the syringe and IV line would certainly show the traces of the three chemicals used to execute a condemned prisoner.”

“Actually, it was—”

“Even before that was
confirmed
we saved the Texas authorities a lot of time by eliminating tampering. Gave them a sharper focus. We've got a huge state police force who have had to come crawling to us for once.”

I hated to burst his bubble. Drawing attention to the success of his agency was one of his jobs, the all-important political one. But he tended to get carried away when his personal security was enmeshed. “Sir, the only person we've eliminated was the UPS man who delivered the chemicals.”

He said, “Please tell me the drugs were not delivered by UPS.”

“Sorry.”

He stopped his lion's walk back and forth in front of the giant window overlooking his kingdom. He stood behind his chair and leaned down on the back of it. “But the key is, they have the ambulance, and our guys found it before theirs did. So don't go making this out to be even more complicated than it is. You know as well as I do that people don't drop off the face of the earth. We'll find her.”

“I think if we can—”

“She's on an island yet to be charted. Can't be a very big one because the borders were sealed so fast. We've got that chaplain, we've got good IDs on the guys in the ambulance, we're learning everything there is to know about Harley Shank. Also, three people lugged concrete blocks onto an overpass above a very busy highway. Someone will come up with something on them sooner or later.”

I got directly into his face. “Sir, someone's received her and we have no idea who.”

“Okay, so we've got our work cut out for us. Nothing new there. But we're all around her.”

*   *   *

Three days later, our work still remained cut out. No trace of Rona Leigh or the conspirators. But it was important that we'd found the ambulance. The fake ambulance.

Our dredgers located it at the bottom of the Leon River, three miles from where the river emptied into Belton Lake. At the lake itself, the Rangers found the remains of a campsite, an elaborate campsite several witnesses had noticed during the week leading up to the execution. Couple of guys with what they said was a boat under a blue tarp. Supposed to be working on the boat, but they decided to fish from the banks instead—feeling too lazy to try to get the boat in working order despite offers of help. They were generous with their beer supply and fellow fishermen enjoyed their company before heading along to their own favorite fishing spots.

The two men fished and fished, waited and waited, while their fake ambulance sat primed under the tarp and ready to go.

Most of the ambulances in Texas are old Cadillacs. This old Cadillac had been purchased on the Internet via a money order. In the investigation business, one of the most dreaded terms is
money order.

The search of the campsite area was not unlike an archaeological dig. Under layers of dirt and leaves the Texas Rangers found hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, drills, sanding devices, protractors, paintbrushes. They found more sophisticated items: a welding unit, a soldering machine, a drill press, and a compressor. And, obviously, a generator. Building an ambulance out of an old Cadillac is strikingly not a simple thing.

The ambulance was driven into the Leon River and sunk to its silty bottom eight minutes after I'd watched its taillights go out. The clock on Scraggs's dashboard had stopped exactly eight minutes before the one on the ambulance dashboard had done the same. The tracks through the swampy ground from where it left the road had been easy to find and follow. The ambulance never stopped until its front wheels were in the water, whereupon the occupants got out and transferred to another vehicle. Then the ambulance was pushed the rest of the way into the river.

The tire tracks leading back out of the swamp were left by standard-issue police van tires. Witnesses said they'd seen a police van in the area earlier. Yet another fake vehicle. Which left us with one really big clue: The conspirators were incredibly industrious and not short on funds.

The police that night had checked every car, truck, RV, motorcycle, bicycle, scooter, in-line pair of skates, baby carriage—anything on wheels. But they didn't check each other. Rona Leigh's private police van had clear sailing through the roadblocks while the entire highway patrol force, the Rangers, and a million good-time Charlies with rifles went hunting for an ambulance. All over the state that night, people being rushed to hospitals suffered setbacks.

The director asked me a question over and over just for something to ask: “How far a drive from Gatesville to the Mexican border?”

“Seven hours to Laredo, I know that for a fact. That would be direct, too. But even though it's a damn long border, all the crossing points were closed down way before seven hours post escape. More like seven minutes. Besides, sir, you can take a bath in the Rio Grande and no one bothers you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Rona Leigh is not in Mexico. If she's alive, she's got to be in some major medical center with a couple of brilliant doctors who were in on the escape. And we know that can't be. Sir, she was in bad, bad shape. So I don't know what to think. Whether she's dead or alive, the very clever people who sprung her have found as ingenious a place to hide her as their manner of saving her. We have to devote ourselves to figuring out the motivation for getting her out. Figure out the motivation, find your perp. Follow the money and all that. Last year, it took me two entire weeks to find out who was stealing the cardinal's money because his motivation was so unanticipated.”

“Poppy, can there be any truth to the theory that she was spirited away? That she played no part in the escape?”

“No. She acted the part set forth for her. Rona Leigh would have done anything to stay alive, just like every other convict on death row. Even if it meant allowing herself to come within an inch of death. She'd risk possible death to avoid certain death.”

He began pacing again. “With each day that passes, more and more people are using the word
miracle
to explain her escape.”

“I know.” The
People
photographer and Frank, the reporter, had chronicled the miracle. “Sir, I heard Dan Rather, straight-face, discuss the role of angels in her disappearance. He didn't say escape, he said disappearance.”

My director sighed. “Switch to Brokaw. Rather lost his marbles years ago. Poppy…”

“Yes, sir?”

“How the fuck was this possible?”

“If I had her blood, I'd know.”

Suddenly, he needed a little denial for comfort. “The blood was lost.”

“No, sir, the blood was poured down the drain. But we have to stop worrying about how. We've got to concentrate on why. Then we'll get to who. After that, how.”

“I know where our concentration lies. I thought we'd have a route when the ransom note arrived. I can't believe we don't have one.”

“None of us can.”

Offers to pay any ransom had come in from all over the world. Came from people who thought they'd be saving the life of an angel, not an ax murderer.

I stood up. I put my weight on my ankle. It felt like my dentist was drilling the bone. I needed the practice, though. I smiled. “Permission to return to Texas and find Rona Leigh Glueck. Ten days, max.”

Another sigh. “The second the goddamned press conference ends, go.”

He hated press conferences. I loved them. Sometimes an astute reporter's question is one no one's asked yet. Another profession where you can do something intelligent even though you flunked chemistry.

But no such luck. Once our representative gave the findings on the syringe and the tubing—that Rona Leigh had received enough poison to kill an elephant—there wasn't a question from them that we hadn't asked ourselves. The reporters' incredulity matched our own. As in, “Her blood samples are
missing?
”

I spent a few hours with Joe before I went back to Texas. We had dinner at my favorite restaurant. His apartment. He re-created a Texas barbecue with Stubbs barbecue sauce. Spike the cat finally became my friend because he discovered how much he loved brisket.

Post-sex talk is about equal to press conference questions when it comes to unforeseen illumination. Right after Joe stretched and settled into his pillow, he said, “Poppy, what didn't jibe?”

“None of it jibed.”

“Think of the physical details. Rona Leigh walks into the death chamber. From there, take each step she took. Watch and listen.”

I brought up images of each step she took, manacled steps, then each step the others took once she was through taking steps.

“Holy shit.” I'd already thought of something not jibing as it had been happening.

Joe said, “Oh, boy. What?”

“The nurse swabbed Rona Leigh's arm with alcohol.”

I sat up and leaned on Joe so I could see his clock. Four-ten
A.M
. Two o'clock Scraggs's time.

I scrambled out of bed, located my purse, and found his card with his home phone.

A woman answered. “I need to speak with Max Scraggs.”

She said, “You and everyone else, honey.”

There was the smallest bit of fumbling, then: “Scraggs.”

I didn't think to identify myself. “Max, I need to talk to the nurse.”

“This you, Poppy?”

“Yes.”

“You mean the nurse who would only kill Rona Leigh the once?”

“The very one.”

“She's somewhere havin' a nervous breakdown is the last I heard. Talk to her about what? Let me do this, Poppy. Give me something. What do you want from her?”

“Ask her why she swabbed Rona Leigh's arm with alcohol before she stuck her.”

“She swabbed her arm with alcohol?”

“That's what I said.”

“You saw her?”

“Yes. And it has just now reentered my mind.”

“But what dunce would do that?”

“A dunce following orders.”

Before he could follow up the pause, I followed it up for him. “I know. Fuck me.”

“Where the hell you callin' from?”

“A friend's. I'll be at the Holiday Inn in Gatesville tomorrow.”

“You'll be at the Best Western, and you don't want anyone to find you easy, right?”

“Right.”

“Man, I'm glad you're comin' back, Agent. We are at each other's throats here. Any voice of reason has flown out the window, so I surely would welcome yours.”

“I'll call you when I get there.”

I hung up. Joe said, “Who was that?”

I said, “Nobody.”

He snorted.

*   *   *

I checked in with Delby before I got on the plane. I said, “I need you to call the police in Houston again.”

“They're sure goin' to be sick of hearin' from me.”

“There's a guy named Chuck who hangs out at the AstroBar. See if he's in any trouble. Tell them you need to know what anybody's got on him. Tell them you need that information immediately.”

“They'll love that.”

“Use Max Scraggs's name.”

“Speakin' of same, I just talked to him. Wanted you. Told him you'd already left. Wanted to meet you at the airport. Told him he didn't need to, you had a car lined up. Insisted he had to drive you. Something urgent, he didn't say what. Told him, Okay. Okay?”

“That's fine.”

“What the hell exactly is a Texas Ranger anyway?”

“State police. Elite section. It's what they call their homicide investigators, Delby.”

“Know what they call state homicide investigators in my neighborhood?”

“Yeah, cops. Texans have the need to be noticed.”

“How's your head?”

“Fine.”

“Ankle?”

“Fine.”

“Right. Take care, boss. I'll be manning the phone. Call me at home after eight if you need to.”

Her kids were asleep by eight. But she'd never made the offer before.

“I appreciate that.”

She'd already hung up.

The plane was late. Scraggs was hyperventilating. The first thing he said was, “We're questioning the warden this afternoon. He thinks it's just a visit to rehash the shit we've already rehashed ten times over. We wanted you to be there. Shake him up as much as possible. Scare the shit out of him so we can get to the bottom of this.”

“The nurse was forthcoming, then?”

“She was. I want you there when we tell him what she told us.”

When we walked into the warden's living room he was able to shake our hands and give us a friendly welcome, but his palm was wet. His wife sat squashed into one end of the sofa. He introduced us to her. Her eyes were red and she started crying again. She said, “My husband is going to lose his job, isn't he?”

Scraggs was not sympathetic. “We all of us surely deserve to lose our jobs, ma'am, and that's the least of our problems far as I can see. Agent Rice is here because we've decided we have to work together in the short time we got left till the governor fires us.

“We are here to talk about the nurse who injected Rona Leigh Glueck with the chemicals. What about her, warden?”