Ride the Lightning (17 page)

When he reached the door he stood motionless in the hall and listened for a moment. The only noise from inside the apartment was a soft and rhythmic sighing sound.

His stomach growled and told him to move one direc
tion or the other. He was in or he was out.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Immediately his gaze fixed on the body. It had been mutilated horribly, beaten, twisted. One of the limbs had been wrenched off by terrible force and lay on the floor near the corner of the sofa.

On the other corner sat Edna Fine. The sound Nudger had heard was her soft and regular sobbing. She held Artemas close to her with almost maternal protection, refusing to look again at the abused corpse of Matilda. Artemas turned his feline head and stared obliquely at Nudger, as if
bored by the carnage around him, untouched by Matilda’s death. Matilda’s yellowish fur was all over the room. A small tuft of it was snagged in the side of Edna Fine’s hair, near her ear. Nudger decided not to tell her about it.

What he said was, “Excuse me,” and found his way to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet bowl.

After a few minutes he straightened, flushed the toilet, then stood at the washbasin and ran cold water over his wrists. Then he rinsed out his mouth, washed his pallid face, and returned to the living room.

He swallowed several times and tried to ignore the unique and unmistakable odor of fresh blood. He wished he could open a window, but he remembered that they were sealed shut. Breathing shallowly but regularly, he waited for his stomach to adjust and be still.

Edna Fine hadn’t moved.

“I was only down in the laundry room about fifteen minutes,” she said. “When I came back upstairs, I found... this.” She looked at the walls, the ceiling, out the window, anywhere but at the mutilated body of her pet on the floor.

“Was your door locked?”

“Yes. I mean, I’m not sure. I think so.”

Nudger walked over and examined the door. There were faint scratches on the doorjamb around the latch, as if the lock might have been slipped by plastic or a thin strip of metal. It wouldn’t have taken much effort or expertise to get past the apartment’s mass-produced and ineffectual lock.

He returned to Edna Fine and rested a hand on her bony shoulder. Was she trembling, or was the unsteadiness in his hand? Nudger always felt helpless, awkward, in the presence of grief. And the intensity of this grief was almost like that of a mother who had lost a child.

“Can I do anything?” he asked. “Get you anything?”

Edna Fine shook her head no. She was sitting motion
less now, still hugging Artemas the survivor between her scrawny breasts. Artemas lay coiled in her grip patiently, putting aside feline restlessness for a while, as if sensing that she needed him and granting her a reluctant favor.

“I’ll phone the Humane Society,” Nudger said.

Edna Fine nodded.

She sat with her eyes closed as Nudger called the Humane Society and arranged for them to drive out and pick up Matilda’s remains. When he explained the situation, the woman on the phone said they would have someone there immediately. Animal lovers understood the depth of this grief.

“The Humane Society cremates dead animals,” Edna Fine said quietly.

Nudger nodded. “It’s the best way.”

“Perhaps.”

A pet could be a vital factor in the life of a woman like Edna Fine. She was becoming emotionless now, going into mild shock so she could accommodate the vision of what had been waiting for her when she’d walked back into her apartment with her laundry. It would be a long time before the vivid color and savagery of that scene ceased to bedevil her. Sometimes nightmares turn out to be real and irrepressible no matter how much the mind denies them. Somebody had torn apart Matilda in a way that suggested he’d enjoyed it.

“Do you want me to wait here with you?” Nudger asked.

“No. Thanks for offering, though.” Still the flat, emotionless voice. She peered myopically at Nudger with her small, reddened eyes. “This is a warning, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“I think so. But we could never prove it.”

She delicately dabbed at her nose with a knuckle. “I suppose not. That’s the way society seems to work these days. People do things to other people who can’t prove it. It’s like a game the victims don’t realize they’re playing until it’s too late.”

“Do you want me to phone the police?”

Now she did look at what was left of her affectionate and trusting Matilda. Edna Fine’s long body quaked as if a cold wind had passed over it.

“No,” she said, and Nudger knew he’d lost her.

“Has Randy Gantner been here to talk to you?” he asked.

“Yesterday,” she said. “He told me you were talking to the witnesses, trying to get them to change their stories. He wanted to know what I’d told you, if I was still sure about what I’d seen.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I was sure. But after he left I began thinking about that night, what I saw from the window.”

“Did he borrow your phone?”

Edna Fine looked sharply up at him, startled; Nudger the psychic. “Yes, he did. He said he had to make an important call that couldn’t wait. He suggested it was private, so I went into the other room while he talked.”

Nudger went to the phone and unscrewed the mouthpiece. He found the bug immediately and removed it, dropped it in his pocket.

“What’s that?” Edna Fine asked.

“An electronic device that transmits your telephone conversations. Someone had your phone tapped and knew you called me.”

“Randy Gantner?”

“Probably him and others,” Nudger said.

“But, why? . . .”

“Somebody—it seems like everybody—wants to be sure Curtis Colt dies Saturday.”

“Then Gantner did this to Matilda?”

“Maybe,” Nudger said. Or maybe it was the work of the big man who liked to break things, especially if they were alive.

“A warning . . .” Edna Fine repeated, as if finally accepting the reality, a constant terror she must incorporate into her day-to-day living. It was a debilitating apprehension shared by victims of brutality, and by the witnesses and indirect casualties of violence.

“You were going to tell me something about the liquor-store murder,” Nudger said, still hoping.

She sat motionless, as if she hadn’t heard.

“Edna? . . .”

“I can’t, Mr. Nudger.” She clutched Artemas to her. “Not now. I really can’t.” Artemas began to squirm.

Nudger knew Edna Fine would never talk now. Whatever opportunity had existed was gone.

He told her he understood. And he did understand. He knew about the crippling effect of fear that fed on love destroyed. And the monster that had killed and torn Matilda knew about it, too. Had used it to silence Edna Fine.

Nudger didn’t say anything else, but he stayed with her until the Humane Society attendant arrived. Then he left as quickly as possible. The presence of violent death, human or animal, sickened and frightened him.

Down on the sidewalk, he forced himself to chew and swallow two antacid tablets. He didn’t feel like eating them, but he might be glad later that he had.

He knew that Edna Fine was right. The grotesque thing left on the carpet upstairs was a warning. And one meant not just for her.

XX
I

udger picked up Candy Ann at the Right Steer when she got off work that evening, then drove with her through rush-hour traffic to Siberling’s Elbert and Stein office in Clayton. He circled the block before finding a parking space on Central, then he fed the meter a quarter and listened to its metallic gurgle as it gulped down the coin like the greedy little civil servant it was.

Clayton was a fashionable near-suburb of St. Louis; Candy Ann, still in her yellow-and-brown waitress outfit, drew stares as Nudger walked with her into the spiffy pale stone building where Elbert and Stein had their offices.

It was still hot outside. The lobby was surprisingly cool, and Candy Ann glanced over at Nudger and managed a ten
tative smile, as if maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He hoped she was right. The news media would have hold of her when her deposition was made public. That had been explained to her, but still she was willing to do this for Curtis Colt. In fact, once her mind had been made up about giving Siberling a statement, she’d become eager to get it
done, get it behind her. Like a trip to a dentist who’d never heard of Novocain.

When the elevator had disgorged a dozen executive types into the lobby, Nudger and Candy Ann stepped inside and sent it zooming back up to the twelfth floor.

The Elbert and Stein offices were plush, carpeted in royal blue with matching ceiling-to-floor draperies. The fur
niture in the reception room was dark mahogany. Doreen, the balky receptionist, sat at a desk embellished with a vase of long-stemmed roses and a nameplate. She was a heavyset blond woman in her mid-thirties, with a creamy and flawless complexion that was striking in its perfect, fleshy expanse. Probably there wasn’t a single imperfection on her entire generous body. She was attractive in a lush sort of way that went with the office.

When Nudger introduced himself, she smiled and said, “Ah, the feisty one.”

“Been called worse,” Nudger said.

“Bet you have.” She stood up. Despite her bulk, her tailored dark business suit fit her well, hung gracefully on her in the way of expensive material. “Mr. Siberling’s waiting for you,” she said. She shot another wide and beautiful smile at Nudger and led the way. Candy Ann had gotten tentative again. She hung back as they walked down a carpeted hall, and Nudger had to wait for her to catch up.

Doreen ushered them into a large conference room dominated by a long, polished table not quite large enough for Ping-Pong. The royal-blue and mahogany motif had been carried in here, too. Doreen worked a pully device that drew the heavy blue draperies closed, blocking out the slanted bright evening sun, then switched on a brass floor lamp. The net effect, despite the room’s size, was a cozy atmosphere; it was the sort of place where secrets were revealed in confidence.

Siberling came in then, along with an elderly woman with gray hair and a bored expression. He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit with a vest and carrying a fat leather briefcase. He was all lawyer today. Well, not quite. When he saw Candy Ann, a very unlawyerlike gleam entered his eyes. This was how Caesar had looked at Cleopatra, how Henry VIII had gazed upon leg of lamb.

The woman, who was taller than Siberling, gave a professional nod when he introduced her as Mrs. Kraft. “And you’ve met Doreen,” Siberling said.

Doreen looked wide and pretty and said nothing as Nudger introduced Candy Ann. Siberling was obviously impressed. Nudger thought for an uneasy moment that the cocky little lawyer might actually kiss Candy Ann’s hand.

They all sat at the mahogany table, Mrs. Kraft before a gray steno machine that had been set up at one end. Doreen stepped out for a moment and came back with a young paralegal named Jason, who would, along with her, sign as witness to Candy Ann’s deposition. Jason was a skinny, acne-cursed kid just into his twenties who looked as if he’d rather be out somewhere with his buddies filling up on junk food.

“You sure all this is gonna help Curtis?” Candy Ann asked nervously.

“I’m sure it might,” Siberling said gently, smiling a predator’s saccharine grin meant to paralyze his prey. “Only might. I won’t make any promises to you I can’t keep, Candy Ann. And that’s a promise.”

Doreen appeared about to be ill, but she said nothing.

Candy Ann smiled back at Siberling and settled into her chair, confident that she had an ally here besides Nudger.

The numbers were shifting in her favor. Doreen and Mrs. Kraft were women, therefore natural allies. Young Jason the paralegal was virtually a minor and didn’t seem to count. He sat quietly as if that was fine with him, if only he could get out of there soon and watch some MTV.

“Just tell us your story in your own words,” Siberling coaxed, “and Mrs. Kraft will record them. Then I’ll ask you a few questions. Don’t be afraid. Just be truthful. There’s never any reason to be afraid of the truth.”

Nudger was beginning to understand why Siberling was a good lawyer. If he was too obvious for Doreen, or for most people, his act was working on Candy Ann. And it was Candy Ann he was playing to; he wasn’t interested in ratings.

Candy Ann told her story slowly, in a soft voice. About how Curtis hadn’t come back to her trailer the night of the liquor-store holdup, and how she’d read in the morning paper that he’d been arrested and charged with murder. She wasn’t surprised when she learned Curtis was involved in a robbery. He never went into detail when he told her his business, where he went at night, where the money came from, but she knew. She also knew he wasn’t a killer. She knew that gut-deep.

Jason was sitting forward, suddenly interested. This was better than most of the dry, corporate legalese he was used to witnessing. This was maybe even better than whatever he had planned for that night.