Piercing the Darkness (11 page)

Arrow Number One. Bardine could feel the question go right through him. “Yes, sir.”

“And what about the name Alicia Von Bauer?”

That felt like several arrows. “Yes, sir.”

“Would it be true to say, Mr. Bardine, that you are
extremely
familiar with the name of Ms. Von Bauer?”

“Well . . . I’m not sure what you mean by that . . .”

“We’ll get to that later.” Santinelli set that paper aside and perused the next sheet. “I’m sure you are aware by now that Ms. Von Bauer is dead?”

“Mr. Mahoney advised me of that this morning, sir.”

Santinelli adjusted his reading glasses and studied the paper in front of him. “Sally Beth Roe . . . How interesting that she should pop up again, and in Bacon’s Corner, of all places!” Santinelli looked at the men on either side of him. “Strange how things like this happen so often. You’d think there was an intelligent mind behind it, the hand of whatever god you may wish to imagine . . .”

It was no joke, and no one laughed.

“At any rate,” Santinelli continued, “we have just recently learned that a plan was launched to have Sally Roe murdered, and, of course, to make it look like a suicide. Just whose idea was that?”

Mahoney spoke quickly and clearly. “Mr. Bardine’s, sir.”

Bardine looked at his superior in horror.

Santinelli asked, “You seem to be having a problem with his answer, Mr. Bardine.”

Bardine’s voice cracked as he said, “Uh, well, yes . . .”

“We’ll get to that later,” said Santinelli, looking at the paper again. “To continue my recounting—and please correct any flaws as you catch them—Alicia Von Bauer, a member of a Satanist organization called Broken Birch, was hired to perform this murder, and paid . . .” Santinelli bristled as he read the amount. “. . . ten thousand dollars as a retainer, with another ten thousand promised upon successful completion of her assignment. Am I correct so far?”

Mahoney just looked at Bardine. Bardine looked back at him. Neither man answered.

Santinelli continued, but watched both of them. “Apparently Ms. Von Bauer made her attempt on Tuesday night of this week, but found Ms. Roe to be more than her match. Ms. Roe was able to overcome her assailant and escape, leaving the dead body of her assassin behind, where, theoretically, she herself would have been found had the plan succeeded.” He set the paper down flat in front of him, folded his hands on top of it, and looked at Mahoney and Bardine over the top of his reading glasses. “In other words, this ambitious, overly imaginative plot was a pitiful failure.”

Mahoney looked at Bardine again. Bardine glared back at him.

Santinelli slid that paper aside and picked up the next one. “To further complicate matters, the, uh, planners of this scheme widened the circle of confidence beyond the key players and brought in a local peace officer named . . . uh . . . Mulligan, as well as the local medical examiner—the assumption being made, I suppose, that these two parties are steadfastly loyal to our cause, seeing that they were actually told in advance that there would be a suicide at the Potter farm and to handle it as quickly and quietly as possible.”

Santinelli dropped the paper to the table and leaned back, removing his glasses. “Which, much to their credit, they are doing, or at least are trying to do, despite the fact that the deceased who is supposed to have killed herself is dead from an obvious act of violence and is, of course, the wrong person to begin with. By your silence I take it my account is accurate so far?”

Santinelli didn’t need the answer he didn’t get. He just replaced
his reading glasses and went to the next sheet of paper. “Now for the complications—the
real
complications. First of all, the most obvious: Sally Beth Roe is alive . . . somewhere. She is living, breathing, walking about, and I’m sure totally cognizant that there was a ruthless attempt on her life. If she doesn’t know who was responsible, I’m sure she has a very good idea. And how am I so sure? Let me tell you the next complication.

“According to a reliable source who shall remain nameless, Alicia Von Bauer was wearing a ring when she committed—excuse me, tried to commit—the murder. At our request, the medical examiner checked the body for that ring, and found that it had been removed from the third finger of the right hand with the help of cooking oil . . . uh, traces of the oil were still on the finger. We sent some people to check the murder site and the house, and the peace officer and medical examiner doublechecked the personal effects of the assassin. The ring is gone.

“And then there is the matter of the ten thousand dollars. That is also gone, without a trace. Von Bauer may have placed it in a secret account somewhere, but that is unlikely, knowing the delicate nature of her mission.”

“Uh, sir?” said Bardine.

Santinelli lifted his eyebrows just enough to give Bardine the floor.

“The . . . uh . . . ten thousand dollars
was
laundered. It can’t be traced to us.”

The eyebrows went up again. “To
us
, Mr. Bardine?”

Bardine stumbled a bit. “Uh, to uh, the . . . to, uh, well, to us . . . myself, and . . . and uh . . .”

“It
is
gone, is it not?”

“Gone, sir?”

“Unless you can make a call or take a drive—just go and get it?”

“Oh . . .” Bardine stalled, but finally answered, “Yes, sir, I would say that the money is out of our reach now, irretrievable.”

“But . . . laundered.”

“Oh yes, sir.”

Santinelli continued, referring to his notes. “The third complication embodies the first two: We have every reason to presume that Sally Roe has both the ring and the money. As such, she presents the greatest possible threat to us and to our plans.” Santinelli paused for
emphasis. “A greater threat, gentlemen, than she ever could have been had she been left alone.”

Santinelli put his notes aside, removed his glasses, and looked squarely at Mahoney and Bardine. “Now, Mr. Mahoney and Mr. Bardine . . . let’s return to an earlier question: Just whose idea was this assassination plot?”

Mahoney spoke first. “Mr. Santinelli, I’ll have to claim some responsibility. When we heard that Sally Roe was in Bacon’s Corner, we knew it could be a serious deterrence. We weighed many options, and I guess it became too high a priority in our minds. When Mr. Bardine presented the idea of an assassination to me, I guess I just wasn’t firm enough in discouraging it. But by no means did I authorize the action, sir.”

Santinelli could see that Bardine was quite agitated. “Do you have anything to add to that?”

Bardine looked from Mahoney to Santinelli and back again. “Sir . . . I . . . well, I understood that this undertaking had been authorized from the top down. I believed I was carrying out the plan with the full endorsement and authorization of my superiors.” Bardine could feel the cold, icy wind blowing his way from Mahoney’s countenance. He found himself at a loss for words—appropriate words, anyway. “The . . . uh . . . concept of a suicide, sir. This was not to be a murder, you understand, but a suicide, for all practical purposes. Done correctly, it would never be interpreted as anything else. Sally Roe was already a lonely and wasted individual with a terrible past and nothing ahead of her. Suicide seemed credible.”

“I did not authorize it, sir!” said Mahoney. “He acted without my direct orders!”

Santinelli made no attempt to hide the smirk on his face. “We’ll get to that later. Mr. Bardine, I do have some questions about the involvement of the deceased, Ms. Von Bauer. How was she brought into this?”

“Uh . . . she . . .” Bardine felt like a badgered witness on the witness stand. “I, uh, was talking to her about this particular problem, and she . . . well, she proposed the arrangement.”

“She proposed killing Sally Roe?”

“Yes, sir, for the price of twenty thousand dollars.” Bardine quickly added, “As you know, this sort of thing
is
done now and then.”

Santinelli’s eyes narrowed. He was moving in for the kill. “You say you were talking to her about this particular problem?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Mr. Bardine, do you always discuss such highly sensitive subjects with such questionable characters?”

“No, sir, of course not!”

“You freely discussed top-level concerns with a
Satanist
?”

“Not a Satanist, sir—at least, not in a derogatory sense. She belongs to Broken Birch, yes, but they command much respect, even among our own ranks—”

“And just where did this discussion take place?”

“Well, I suppose . . .”

“Wasn’t it in your home, Mr. Bardine? More specifically, in your bedroom?”

Bardine was silent. He was stunned.

Santinelli explained briefly, “We do keep up on things, Mr. Bardine.” Then he started attacking again. “You were romantically involved with Alicia Von Bauer, weren’t you?”

Bardine was trying to formulate an answer.

Santinelli hit him again. “You’d already had many clandestine trysts with Von Bauer even before this; you’d already revealed several of our secrets to her, and now, at the peak of your infatuation, when she had your complete confidence, you told her about this problem, and the two of you made a pact together, isn’t that correct?”

Bardine decided to try honesty. “I . . . I thought it would be safe. I mean, she was involved in a bizarre group, she already had a criminal record . . . I thought that if something went wrong, we could always dissociate ourselves from her, claim no knowledge of her actions. She was . . . she was a disposable entity, purely utilitarian. I was sure it would work.”

Santinelli placed both hands squarely on the table, as if bracing himself right before exploding. “I suppose, Mr. Bardine, you never considered what it could do to the reputation of not only yourself but this organization for you to be intimately associated with a convicted criminal?”

“Sir . . .” Bardine tried to lighten things up. “Our people are seen in the company of this kind of people all the time . . .”

“Not this kind, Mr. Bardine! Not Satanists! We do not wish to associate with them because we do not wish to
be
associated with them by the public, do you understand? This relationship of yours with Von Bauer was most imprudent!” Santinelli stopped, not satisfied with the word. “
Imprudent
? Mr. Bardine, it was
reprehensible!
”

Bardine could only sit there, silent and shot to pieces.

But Santinelli wasn’t through. “Did it never occur to you that she could be a spy? Did it never once dawn on you that all the inside talk you were sharing with her—no doubt to impress her—would be immediately afterward shared with her cohorts in Broken Birch? Haven’t you learned anything about the politics of power? Have you any idea how vulnerable you have made us to those despicable leeches?”

Santinelli was hot and rolling; there was no stopping him. “They want power, Mr. Bardine, just as we all do! They are no exception in this game! We all want it, and we all have our own little machinations and tricks to get it. But be sure of this, Mr. Bardine: power, real power, belongs to the select few, and
we
are that select few—do you understand?” He didn’t give Bardine time to answer. “All the others, be they rich, be they royalty, be they gutter rats like these Satanists, will just have to get used to that fact and live by it. We will not allow any more petty power-grabbers to vie for leverage against us, and”—he leaned into this phrase—“we will not allow any more of our people to
give it to them
!”

Bardine’s voice was barely audible. “I understand, sir.”

Santinelli ignored the reply. “The ring taken from Alicia Von Bauer’s finger . . . it was yours, wasn’t it?”

Bardine tried to explain. “She . . . she stole it, sir! I did not give it to her! She had to have stolen it from the top of my dresser!”

“And this was, of course, after you had made your pact with her?”

“I . . . I suppose.”

“So she took your ring, with your personal inscription on it, and placed it on her own finger, just in case—” Santinelli took a moment to breathe and cut some holes through Bardine with his eyes. “—just in case something went wrong, and we tried to dissociate ourselves from her and claim no knowledge of her actions and treat her like a disposable entity. With your personalized ring, don’t you see, she would have some recourse against us, some proof that it was one of our own top-level
attorneys who hired her and paid her that ten thousand dollars!”

Bardine looked down at the tabletop.

Santinelli had vented most of his anger. Now his voice softened. “Mr. Bardine, it is not my responsibility to think all these things through for you; it is your responsibility to do that, and to always keep the best interests of this organization foremost in your mind.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“It’s too late for that. The damage is done, and by another romantic entanglement! I hope you’ve learned—and it has been in the hardest way—how dangerous they can be.”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“You’re a good man, Bardine. I like your record of accomplishments. We’re going to keep this quiet, and I expect you to keep it quiet, for your sake and ours too.”

“Yes, sir. You have my word, sir.”

“We will grant you a leave of absence to . . . pursue some further studies—and please come up with something convincing. In the meantime, we’ll just have to see what we can do to straighten this mess out.”

By this time, such a sentence was good news. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your kind considerations . . .”

Santinelli began to gather his papers together. “In the future, Mr. Bardine, you will show by your example how such actions as we’ve discussed are never a good idea for any man in your sensitive position.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bardine. “I will, sir!”