Scar Tissue (23 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

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“What are you saying?”

“What do you think?”

“You mean he let them have sex in his house?”

She nodded.

“Is that it?”

“Okay,” she said. “Mikki told me they sometimes had group sex. Like orgies, okay? I don't mean Ed. But sometimes friends of his were there.”

“Adults, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“And the kids didn't mind that?”

She mumbled something I didn't hear.

“What did you say?” I said.

She cleared her throat and turned to face me. “Mikki said they got paid.”

“For doing what?”

“Forâfor performing.”

“You mean Sprague's friends would watch?”

“Sometimes they just watched. Sometimes they'd â¦”

“Have sex with the kids?”

“Yes. That's what Mikki told me.”

“Who paid them? Sprague?”

“His friends, I think. Mr. Coyne, you can't tell anybody I told you this. Please.”

“You have my word.” I paused. “How long has this been going on?”

“Not long, I don't think. A couple months? Mikki mentioned something about Christmas vacation.”

“Who else knows about theseâthese orgies?”

“I don't know. Mikki told me. We're best friends. I don't think anyone else knows. Can you imagine if their parents found out about it? This town would explode.”

Like Jake, I thought. Jake knew. He found those photographs, and he exploded.

“So what do you think happened?” I said.

“To Jenny and Bri, you mean?”

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a moment. “It's pretty obvious, isn't it?”

“Tell me what you know.”

She sighed. “I don't know anything, really. Brianâthat night I picked him up, the night Jenny â¦ when she died â¦ he didn't say much to me. But the other night, after youâyou went there and scared himâhe told me he and Jenny had decided to run away.”

“And Sprague went after them, ran them off the road.”

“Yes.”

“Brian told you that?”

She nodded. “They were good kids, Mr. Coyne. They got into something they shouldn't have, and they wanted to stop, and he wouldn't let them.”

“He was afraid they were going to tell somebody,” I said.

Sandy shrugged. “I don't know. I guess so.”

“So who killed Sprague?”

“Bri's father, I thought.”

“No,” I said. “Somebody else. The same person who killed Sprague also killed Jake Gold. That was the man I shot the other day. Somebody hired him. I want to know who.”

“I don't know,” she said. “Honestly.”

I pulled into the parking area at Drago's. There were only a
few cars in the lot on this Saturday morning. I parked off to the side away from them, and we sat there in silence for a few minutes.

“Want some coffee?” said Sandy.

“Thank you. Black.” I took out my wallet and gave her a five-dollar bill.

She was back ten minutes later. We sat there, sipping our coffee.

“You should've told me this before,” I said.

“I figured it was all over,” she said. “When Ed died, I mean.”

“It's not over.” I looked at her. “Sandy, were you ever there?”

“At Ed's?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged. “I told you. I was there a few times. Ed didn't care who was there. But I stopped going when I realized what was going on. And I never â¦” She looked at me. Her eyes were brimming.

“It's okay, Sandy,” I said.

“I'm not into sex. Anyway, I'm too fat.”

“You're not too fat,” I said.

She shrugged. “His friends, they liked the skinny, young-looking kids. Like Brian and Jenny. Jenny hardly had breasts.”

“Did you meet any of Ed's friends?”

She looked out the side window and said nothing.

“What about that man I shot?” I said. “His picture was in the paper, on TV. Did you recognize him?”

She shook her head.

“Come on, Sandy. People have been murdered. Brian's in trouble.”

“I didn't recognize that man.” She turned to look at me. “Please, Mr. Coyne.”

“You did meet some of Sprague's friends, didn't you?”

She shrugged. “Sort of.”

“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. Look, I really shouldn't be talking to you.”

I told youâ”

“I know. But I don't want to talk about it anymore, okay?”

“Sure. I'm sorry.”

We drove back to the camera store in silence. When I pulled up in front, Sandy turned to me. “I've told you everything.”

I nodded.

“So don't come around again, okay?”

“Okay.”

“If I think of anything else,” she said, “I'll call you.”

“The last thing I want to do is make trouble for anybody,” I said.

She peered at me for a moment. “It's a little late for that, don't you think?” She laughed quickly, then got out, slammed the car door shut with her hip, and walked directly into the camera store without looking back.

I pulled away and headed back to Boston. I had to do some thinking.

I
got home a little after one in the afternoon. I went directly into my bedroom. The red light on my answering machine was blinking steadily. One message.

Evie.

I sat on my bed and pressed the button.

“Hi, Brady.” The soft feminine voice belonged to Sharon, not Evie. “I just wanted to thank you again,” she said. “The flowers, the wine. The â¦ the sympathetic ear. It was all so sweet. I had a lovely evening. I meant it about doing dinner again, you know. I hope you did, too.” She paused, then laughed quietly. “I think I'm feeling a wee bit better today. One day at a time, huh? Anyway, that's my message for today. I just wanted to thank you for everything. I hope you'll keep in touch with me.”

The machine rewound itself and beeped.

I sat there and stared at it. I wondered if Sharon would thank me if she knew what I wasn't telling her.

I went to the kitchen, made some coffee, and took it out onto my iron balcony overlooking the harbor. I leaned my elbows on the railing and savored the summerlike breeze. The snow on the docks below me had nearly disappeared.

Sandy's story whirled in my head. Evil secrets in a small town. It made me want to puke. It made me want to strangle somebody.

I thought about Evie. Where the hell was she? She had said she'd call me. I needed her.

Maybe I'd misunderstood. Maybe she was waiting for me to call her.

Hell, I wasn't proud. I had to talk to her.

I dialed her number. When her machine answered, I hung up without leaving a message.

I showered, shaved, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Then I went into the kitchen and heated up a can of Progresso lentil soup. I ate it at my table and thought about what Sandy had told me.

By the time I finished my soup, I knew what I had to do.

I
waited until five o'clock to leave. I wanted it to be dark when I got to Reddington.

I pulled on a dark blue ski parka, my Herman's Survivor boots, a black knit watch cap, and thin leather gloves. I checked the batteries in my little cigar-size flashlight, stuck it into my jacket pocket, then took the elevator down to my car and drove over to my office in Copley Square.

When I got there, I went directly to my safe, took out the envelope of photographs, and spread them out on my desk.

They'd been printed on some kind of flimsy photographic paper with a shiny surface. They were as hard to look at this time as they had been before. But I forced myself to study them.

Brian and Jenny were easily identifiable in each of them. The other naked and seminaked bodies appeared to belong to several different people, both male and female. None of them was young. All of the faces except Brian's and Jenny's were averted from the camera. No help there. If there were tattoos or birthmarks or distinctive scars on any of those adult bodies, I couldn't make them out.

The surroundings were blurrier than the faces, but I could see that there was a patchwork quilt under the bodies, a lamp with a square shade on the table beside the bed, the corner of a window with no curtain, half of a picture frame beside the window.

There had to be other photos. Photos that showed faces besides those of the kids. I wanted them.

I slid the prints back into the envelope and returned them to the safe.

My hand hesitated when it brushed against the .38 Smith & Wesson. I took it out, held it for a minute, curled my finger around the trigger, hefted its weight.

I remembered the way Bobby Klemm had slammed backward onto the floor when I shot him, the way the blood had soaked his sweater, the way his eyes had stared up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

I wondered if I could use my gun again.

Then I thought about those vile photos. I remembered Jake's dead body, spotted with cigar burns. I remembered Brian, curled fetally on a bed in a darkened room in Boston, telling me to go away. I thought about Sharon, her terrible dreams, her brave smiles, and I thought about Sandy Driscoll, and Mikki, and the other Reddington children, the unspeakable secrets that were haunting them.

Could I use my gun again?

I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

Damn right I could.

TWENTY-SEVEN

S
haron's porch light glowed a warm, welcoming orange. When I climbed the steps, I heard the sounds of television voices from inside. She opened the door before I took my finger off the doorbell.

She blinked, then smiled. “Oh,” she said. “Brady. How nice.” She pushed the storm door wide open. “Come on in. It's chilly out there.”

I stepped into the little flagstone foyer. Sharon gave me a quick hug.

“I need you to do me a favor,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. She frowned, then took my hand and led me into the living room and turned off the TV. She was wearing tight-fitting black leggings and a man-size red-and-black checked wool shirt. The sleeves were rolled up over her elbows and the tails flapped down nearly to her knees. One of Jake's shirts, I guessed.

She turned to face me. “You've got that serious look,” she said.

“I want you to drive me over to Ed Sprague's house,” I said, “and I don't want you to ask why.”

“Ed's?”

I nodded.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged. “Well, sure. Okay. Got time for a drink first? Or coffee?”

“No. I want to go right now.”

“I'll get my coat.”

I drove her car over the dark country roads. Sharon sat silently beside me. When I stopped at the end of Sprague's long sloping driveway, I looked at my watch. “It's seven twenty-five,” I said. “Pick me up right here at nine-thirty.”

“What if you're not here?”

“Go home and come back an hour later.”

“This seems awfully â¦ clandestine,” she said.

“Oh, not really,” I said. “I just don't think my car can get back up this driveway with all this snow, and I don't want to leave it on the street.”

“Because you don't want anybody to know you're here.”

“It's a crime scene,” I said.

She was silent. She was remembering, I guessed, that the crime had been Jake's murder. “So you're going to break the law,” she said after a minute.

“Technically, I guess.”

“But you're not going to tell me why.”

“No.” I reached over and touched her cheek. “See you in two hours, okay?”

“I've got a better idea,” she said. “Just call me when you're ready.” She touched my arm and put something into my hand.

I held it up to the light. It was a cell phone. It wasn't much bigger than a thin deck of cards.

“Julie keeps telling me I should get one of these things,” I said. “So I can keep in touch, she says. The truth is, most of the time I like being out of touch.”

“They can be handy,” said Sharon.

I slipped the little phone into my pants pocket and climbed
out of the car. Sharon got out the passenger side and came around, and I held the door for her. She slid in behind the wheel. “Well,” she said, “see you later.”

I nodded and closed the door, and she drove away.

The sliver of a new moon hung low in the star-filled sky. It was a clear, cold late-winter's night, and the fresh snow seemed to gather the starlight. It lit up the countryside with a pale bluish glow, and I didn't need my flashlight to navigate.

Sprague's driveway hadn't been plowed since the recent storm. The snow had melted and settled during the warm day, but the driveway was still covered with three or four inches of new snow. As I started toward the house, I found myself following the tracks of a large deer. They went about halfway down the slope before they abruptly veered off into the piney woods on the left.

When I got to Sprague's house, I fished my flashlight from my pocket and turned it on. A strip of yellow police crime-scene tape had been strung across the front porch. I ducked under it and found the key under the rocking-chair cushion. There was an X of tape over the front door, too, along with a cardboard sign that read: POLICE CRIME SCENE. The tape was flapping loose. I guessed the storm had torn it away from the doorway.

Actually, the crime scene itself had been the barn, not the house.

I unlocked the front door and put the key back. Then I ducked around the loose tape and went inside.

I followed the narrow beam of my flashlight directly to Sprague's office and sat down in front of his computer.

For years, Julie had kept insisting that I should learn how to use our office computer. I'd held out as long as I could. She called me “Old Man Technophobe,” which I didn't take as any kind of insult whatsoever. I kept telling her that if I knew how to use the computer, I wouldn't need her anymore.

Finally, just a couple of years ago, I surrendered. Our office Mac was surprisingly simple to operate. I rarely used it myself,
but I liked being able to drop words like
megs
and
RAM
and
download
into casual conversation as if I knew what I was talking about.

I shone my light on the keyboard, pressed the key to turn it on, then shut off my flashlight and watched the icons pop up on the screen.

I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe a file labeled “dirty pictures.” But no such luck.

I clicked on the icon called “hard drive,” and a moment later a list of folders appeared on the screen. None of them was labeled “dirty pictures” or “kiddie porn” or “Brian Gold.” I scrolled through the list. There seemed to be hundreds of items, many of them coded with numbers and letters that meant nothing to me.

It would take me hours to examine all of it. I clicked randomly on several of the folders and opened the documents inside them. All I came up with was text, stuff that Sprague apparently had downloaded from the Internetâstatistical crime reports, articles about juvenile delinquency, Supreme Court decisions, studies from the FBI and the DEA, descriptions of experimental crime-prevention programs, speeches on crime and enforcement. Just the sort of thing a conscientious police chief would store in his computer.

No photos. Nothing that appeared remotely related to pornographic pictures of children.

All I wanted were some faces. One face would be enough.

But if Ed Sprague had stored his photos in his computer, he'd hidden them well. It would take timeâand someone geekier than Iâto dig them out.

I turned off the computer, turned my little flashlight back on, and made my way upstairs.

The upstairs hallway ran across the front part of the house, and two bedrooms occupied the full dormer on the back. I looked into what I assumed was the guest room, the smaller of the two. It held a pair of twin beds, a desk and chair, a
shoulder-high chest of drawers, bookshelves. I remembered the photographs. They had not been taken here.

Between the two bedrooms was a small bathroom that opened into the hallway. I shone my flashlight into itâa mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink, toilet, shower stall, linen closet, and on the rear wall a door that opened into a larger bathroom, the one that adjoined the master bedroom.

I went into Sprague's bedroom. Those photographs, I instantly saw, had been taken here. I recognized the patchwork quilt. In a couple of the pictures, Brian and his partner had been lying on top of it. In others, the quilt had been thrown back. The bedroom window beyond it had no curtains. A framed watercolor painting of sailboats on what looked like a salt pond hung beside it. The lamp on the bedside table had a squarish shade.

I moved around the room, trying to find the angle from which those photos had been taken. I ended up with my back against the tall mirror that hung against the inside wall beside the door that opened from the bedroom into the master bathroom.

I went into the master bathroom. It had a Jacuzzi, two sinks, and a double-wide linen closet. I opened the closet door, and when I pulled a stack of towels off a shelf, I found myself looking into Sprague's bedroom. The bed was right there, and the window and the framed watercolor painting were beyond it.

I was looking through a one-way mirror.

Sprague had entered this bathroom from the hallway through the other bathroom without the people in the bedroom knowing it. He braced his camera on the closet shelf and clicked away.

The photos in my safe matched up perfectly with the view through this one-way mirror.

I put the towels back on the shelf and closed the closet doors.

Now what?

One voice in my headâa strong, logical, sensible voiceâtold
me to get the hell out of there, call Horowitz, and dump it all on him.

But another voice kept reminding me that I hadn't snooped thoroughly enough, that I should learn everything I could, that once it was out of my hands, there was no way I could control what would happen.

What I needed was buried in Sprague's computer. I had to figure out how to ferret it out. Horowitz couldn't do that. He was off the case.

I stepped out of the bathroom and paused in the hallway. I heard a faint rustling sound behind me, no more of a noise than a mouse would make scurrying across a carpet. Before I could turn around to shine my light on it, something heavy slammed into the back of my legs.

My flashlight went flying, and I toppled forward. My head crashed against the wall, and I went down on my stomach.

He was on top of me instantly. Fists smashed against my head and shoulders. He was grunting, pounding away at me. Fists like pistons, bouncing off my skull, my arms, my back.

I curled into a ball, braced myself, and heaved, and he went flying.

I went after him in the dark, scrambling on all fours. I got ahold of his leg, yanked at it, pulled him down, grappled with him, got him in a bear hug.

I squeezed him as hard as I could. He wasn't very big, but he was kicking and straining against me.

I tried to get my forearm around his throat. He had his chin tucked down.

Then he got my wrist between his teeth.

“Ow!” I said. “Shit.”

I ripped my wrist away and punched at him in the dark. I hit him in a soft place, and I heard the breath whoosh out of his mouth.

I threw myself onto him. He was lying there, limp and gasping for breath.

My flashlight was lying a few feet away. Its narrow beam
was shining against the wall. I grabbed it and shone it on my assailant.

It was Brian.

His face was streaked with tears and he was wheezing and panting.

“It's me,” I said to him. “Uncle Brady.” I shone the flashlight on my own face.

He looked wide-eyed at me. “I thought â¦”

“Did I knock the wind out of you?”