The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3) (12 page)

That was the last thing I said, and Ambler didn’t pursue it further. It’s amazing how quiet it can get when you get busy eating, especially when it’s your emotional wellbeing that’s in need of nourishment. We both knew that there was unfinished business to discuss, but for the moment, we turned our focus to sustenance and Damien Zugg.

D
amien Zugg chased the Imitrex injection with a can of Red Bull to constrict the blood vessels and trigger an adrenaline surge.
It was one of the bad days, exhaustion and pain of sufficient intensity to cripple even the most robust spirit. Zugg was not one to go down without a fight.

Almost twenty minutes went by before he found the strength to stand and the will to summit the staircase. And then finally up he went, using the handrail to drag himself up to the attic, one step at a time. If his condition continued to deteriorate, he’d have to move the terrariums downstairs to the main level of the house where it would take less effort to reach.

With the air conditioning switched off, the house’s black roof kept the upstairs warm, just the right environment to keep the scorpions happy. The basement would have been a more convenient choice, but it was damp and the scorpions were used to an exceptionally arid climate. Zugg was happy with the heat as well. He’d lost significant weight in the last few months and was always cold. The morning’s baptism had chilled him to the bone and his body was having difficulty generating warmth.

He stored the three species separately, in tanks designed to simulate their endemic environment. He checked the tanks before setting up the equipment. The scorpions seemed content, hiding under rocks during the day. He checked the Death Stalkers first, then the Cuban Blues, and finally the Israeli Yellow Tails. Zugg fed them generously. The tanks were crawling with a variety of spiders and centipedes, a veritable smorgasbord of scorpion delicacies.

He set up a fresh collection tube and then put on his gloves to handle them safely. He extracted one from each of the tanks using long forceps and set them into small, but separate holding tanks. He milked the Israeli Yellow first, slipping the stinger into the collection tube and then squeezed firmly about the tail where the poison glands were located.

He’d grown reasonably adept at the process. Working quickly but cautiously, he extracted enough venom to fill the collection tube, and then returned the scorpions to their tanks to rest and dine so that they’d replenish themselves for the next time Zugg needed them.

The task required extreme caution and Zugg found himself spent from the high level concentration that had been demanded of him. He was about to plop into the chair when the doorbell rang. He went to the window and moved the shade just enough to see Ambler and Chalice standing by the front door. His immediate reaction was that of irritation, but it quickly disappeared. They were only there to look in on him, and though their timing was bad, their concern warmed him.

He placed the collected material in the mini-fridge, locked the door to the attic, and carefully negotiated the stairs down to the main level, conserving energy so that he’d appear strong when he answered the door.

“You again.” Zugg answered the door with a forced smile and an erect posture, somewhat overcompensating for the temptation to slouch. He knew they’d react to his initial appearance and that it would set their level of concern. He would make the bravest effort possible. “Come in, I was just about to prepare a Scorpion Cocktail. You’re just in time.”

I
looked at Ambler to see if he knew what Zugg was talking about.
It was obvious that he didn’t. “A Scorpion Cocktail?” I mean someone had to ask.

Zugg bid us entry. He looked much improved since we’d left him, certainly not robust, but healthy enough to get along under his own steam.

“They’re delicious, a couple ounces of rum, a little brandy, orange juice, and a twist of lemon—toss it in a blender with ice and serve with one of those adorable little drink umbrellas. They’re very refreshing.”

Refreshing,
like Seinfeld’s notorious Junior Mint?
It struck me odd for Zugg to be offering us a cocktail, or for that matter, that he himself would be contemplating the consumption of alcohol. I wasn’t exactly sure of what to make of it, but I let it go.

“You seem much better,” Ambler said.

“Well enough,” Zugg said, “Come on in, I’ll make sure I have all the ingredients.”

“No drinks for us. Your friend here just took me to lunch at the local greasy spoon. I’m stuffed.”

“Fried shell fish?” Zugg asked.

I nodded.

“That would’ve been my choice too. I’m sure you both needed comfort food after you left here. I must have scared the hell out of you.”

How do I admit that he’s right without offending him?
“We were just concerned. You looked pretty run down when we left you.”

“Not to worry, Detective, the human body is quite resilient. There’s no end to the torture it can endure. I myself have seen several at the brink of collapse, who went on to survive for years.”

The word torture served as a mental cue. If Zugg were the genius Ambler had so fervently bragged about, then perhaps it would help to see what he had to say on the subject of John Doe. “We didn’t get a chance to chat before—did Herbert have a chance to describe the circumstances around which the skull was recovered?”

Zugg looked at Ambler and then shook his head from side to side. “Actually no, I have a feeling that my dear old friend was afraid to overwhelm me with too much information.” He scowled at Ambler. “You know, Herbert, this isn’t 222b Baker Street. Holmes was one of a kind. As for me, I have trouble piecing things together while puffing on a pipe and engaging in word play with my foil—knowing the facts can actually contribute toward the case’s resolution. Had I been up to snuff, I certainly would have asked on my own.” Zugg edged slowly into the living room, which, as before was arranged with the three chairs. “Please, fill me in.”

We once again took our seats, Zugg in his wooden chair, facing ours. “The skull was found in a brown paper bag at the hand of a man lying unconscious in Central Park. The victim was mostly naked. All he had around him was a tattered bed sheet.”

“The word victim usually connotes mortality,” Zugg said. “Am I to assume that such is the case?”

“I didn’t mean to be vague. Our John Doe is still alive albeit in a deep coma. He was unconscious when we found him and the doctors tell us that he is unlikely to recover.”

“Doe had lost a tremendous amount of blood. He apparently severed a small artery,” Ambler added.

Zugg rubbed the bristle on his chin. “There must be more contributing toward his condition than simple blood loss. Consciousness usually returns shortly after blood volume is restored and the body is reasonably hydrated.”

“Doe was brutally tortured. He appears to have been held captive for quite some time.”

“Tortured,” Zugg repeated. “I see.” He grew quiet, seemingly to withdraw into the annals of his mind. A long moment passed before he returned. “Then lucky for all of us, he escaped. It tells us much about the skull specimen you recovered.”

It does? Tell me, tell me, what does it mean?
I had my own thoughts on the subject, but a credible explanation from Zugg would go a long way toward validating his pedigree.

“The skull was not left behind as a clue for the FBI or for any other law enforcement agency to stumble across. It was discarded. It was discarded because the perpetrator of Kevin Lee’s murder, this torturer, and connoisseur of the human anatomy was disappointed with what he found. Our UNSUB went to extraordinary means in order to study this skull. He painstakingly selected his victim. He abducted, murdered, and decapitated Lee. He went through the arduous task of preparing it for study, and when all was said and done, he left his treasure with your John Doe, a living creature he values about as highly as a common moth. Yes, undoubtedly, it was discarded, my friends, because it was imperfect.”

I noticed that my mouth was agape. Zugg had left me at a loss for words, a circumstance that was exceedingly uncommon. I examined Zugg’s face and could see that he was still ruminating over the facts, but more than this, I could see that he was iron clad in his belief. He was merely running over the details to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything. Under better circumstances, he’d probably have been more confident, but such was not the case, his mental state being what it was.

Ambler nudged my elbow and whispered. “Pretty good, huh?” He was grinning proudly.

I was feeling pretty good about Zugg myself. It was more than just his brilliant explanation and profound wisdom. It was a triumph way beyond his ability to reason, assess, and draw a conclusion. It was the fact that he was able to do it now, to reach up from the depths of despair, when most would’ve thrown in the towel. Zugg had likely accepted that his best moments were forever behind him. To see him at this moment, back at the top of his mental game, was the very definition of uplifting. I could see his spirit glowing from within. “Damien, that was amazing.” He looked at me with a warming smile, and then my cell rang. It was an incoming call from Lido. I’ll have to do the evasive thing with him. After all, Ambler and I never really told him where we were going. “Hi, Gus.”

“Stephanie, you and Ambler still out on the Island?”

“Uh huh. What’s up?”

“We caught our first break in the John Doe case.”

Gus didn’t know it, but he had just missed the first break award by about sixty seconds, coming in just behind Damien Zugg’s brilliant revelation. I didn’t have the heart to tell him, or the energy to begin telling him about the morning Ambler and I had spent with Zugg. “That’s great,” I said. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

R
ediscovering a favorite song is like taking that first deep breath after recovering from a chest cold.
It’s one of those simple pleasures that can only be described as magic. I was astounded to discover that Ambler’s old Volvo had an FM radio. It had an old slide rule dial, but I was able to tune in 104.3 and Led Zeppelin was playing Gallows Pole, a rather obscure tune even for rock radio. Now you’re probably saying that my soul is a might old. I mean Zeppelin was breaking the sonic barrier about the time I was learning to walk, but even today, I find kids listening to the artists of the sixties and seventies, Zeppelin, Hendrix, and Cream—it just never got any better than that. Whereas technology seems to take a quantum leap every day, rock music hit the wall after these giants disappeared. So for the moment, I clung to Page’s unplugged guitar, to buoy my spirits against the weight of adversity I had been faced with that morning.

We were on our way back to the city to rendezvous with Lido. This was one of those cases where information was not flowing, and so NYPD had taken to the street in mass, canvassing Manhattan from river to river and tip to tip, with pictures of John Doe. It was sort of a blinders on, nose to the grindstone approach—no magic, no brilliance, just good hard work, but it had paid off. Although we hadn’t identified Doe, he had been spotted on the evening he was found in Central Park. Oddly though, the sighting was not in the area surrounding Central Park, but rather in lower Manhattan. A grocery store clerk had seen him stumbling down the steps of a subway entrance. The clerk had seen him from the store checkout counter, through a plate glass window, and across the street. Although the possibility existed for any number of half naked men clad only in a sheet, walking the streets of Manhattan certainly existed, we felt this ID remarkably positive.

“So how do you like the chances of your John Doe taking a subway ride from the steps of City Hall to Central Park?” Ambler asked.

“How do I like them? I like them a lot.”

“He wasn’t seen? He wasn’t stopped?”

“Oh, on the contrary: I’m sure he was seen, and approached, and heckled, and harassed. When’s the last time you took a subway ride after midnight in New York City? It’s mostly kids partying and homeless folk. What’s more, it explains why no one saw him in our target area in and around Central Park. I figure he got on the C train and rode it up to 72
^nd
and Central Park West.”

“Why’d he get out there? I mean, why did he get off at the park?”

“Either he thought he was far enough away from his captor to safely emerge from the subway, or he felt consciousness slipping away and figured he’d better hit the street before he took a dirt nap in one of the subway tubes.”

“I love it when you’re so damn sure of yourself.”

“You’ve got another theory?”

“No, it’s just embarrassing. We’ve been frantically looking for leads on the Paul Liu case only to find his partner’s skull in the hands of a torture victim just a stone’s throw from Bureau headquarters.”

“Yeah, that does look pretty bad. Have to say though, it’s not an angle I would have considered. Now if we only knew where Doe had been incarcerated before he escaped. It had to be close to the subway entrance—so far no one other than our observant store clerk has admitted to seeing him on the night we found him.”

“Admitted, being the key word. As you pointed out, a man clad in a sheet had to be noticed by someone. Even in the streets of New York City, a sight like that has to jump out at you.”

“I’ll ask the OIC for more help. We’ll concentrate our efforts in the area around the subway entrance. We can go door to door if we have to.”

“They still haven’t named Sonellio’s successor yet?”

“No.”

“So who’s minding the store?”

“Pamela Shearson.”

“Pamela Margaret Shearson?”

“I think so. You obviously know her. I think she’s splitting herself between us and her old assignment—hasn’t even made an appearance at the house yet.”

Ambler rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know her. She’s definitely on the fast track. You know they call her PMS, don’t you?”

“Oh, that’s so flattering for a woman and so clever too. Let me guess, she’s moving up the ladder too quickly to win the approval of the Old Boy’s Club?”