The Broken Ones (51 page)

The door opened. Leonie’s red eyes widened a little when she saw Oscar, then she smiled sadly and stepped aside to let him in.

The apartment was as neatly furnished as ever, but it felt oddly empty. On the kitchen bench was a soda siphon, an almost empty bottle of Pimm’s, and a glass bowl of melting ice.

“Is he here?” Oscar asked, although he could feel Jon’s absence.

Leonie padded unsteadily on small, bare feet to the kitchen and found another glass. Without asking, she filled it with ice.

“ ’Scuse fingers,” she said, and poured the fruity liquor over the cubes and topped it with the siphon. She held out the drink to Oscar. “No? Willful waste, woeful want.” She sat and crossed her ankles demurely, raised the glass, and drank deeply.

Oscar placed the wad of money on the bench. Leonie glanced at it and returned to her drink. “Ah,” she said. “That.”

“Where is he, Lee?”

She shrugged theatrically, giggled a little, then sobered. “Oh, Oscar. He wanted to invite you in, he did. But he knew you wouldn’t.”

“In to what?”

She gave him a scolding look—
As if I’d tell
. “I wish he’d thought the same of me. I do.”

Oscar could see that her eyes were unable to focus. Then she saw something behind Oscar and pointed accusingly, “Fuck
you
. Just you wait.” She drank again, long swallows, swaying on the chair.

“Lee. He needs to turn himself in.”

Leonie watched him over the glass, then burst into laughter, bubbles exploding in the drink and spilling down her blouse. Oscar could see now that she wore nothing beneath the white shirt. She saw him notice that and raised an eyebrow.

“Remember that beach holiday we went on? Jon went down to the water, Sabine went into town. We were alone.” She undid a button. “I thought you might try to seduce me then. You have such nice hands.”

As she reached for the next button, Oscar took her wrist and squeezed it.

“You’re hurting me,” she said through a smile. “I deserve it.”

“Kids, Leonie. Children. Why?”

She shook her head. “You never did understand the rules. Nothing for nothing. Poor Oscar.”

She lifted his hand around her wrist and kissed his fingers. Oscar pulled his arm away, and Leonie’s face crumbled. She sat hunched for a moment, then wiped her mouth and took another drink.

He strode away.

But at the door he heard her whisper, “Elverly.”

The storm arrived, blindfolding the sky and wailing. At its front was a shockingly cold wind that made power lines whip and whistle and stripped malingering leaves from trees in panicked clouds of green. It buffeted cars and made trucks on the highway shift lanes against their will. As Oscar flicked on the headlight, he felt like a cork on wild rapids. It was all he could do to keep the Triumph somewhere in the middle of the road, praying that he wouldn’t be shoved by the gusts into the oncoming traffic.

Then came the rain. It came almost horizontal, stinging like bird shot. He passed an SUV on its side, with an upended caravan still attached, like a fallen chariot. The sky was almost black.

One of the gates to Elverly House was pinned open; the other was swatted by the air, its hinges moaning as it swung loose on the mossy gatepost. Oscar pushed it aside with a foot and rode up the drive. He was lashed by the flaying leaves of the willow trees and his front tire shook unsteadily in the wet gravel.

The rain reduced Elverly House to a clifflike, looming mass. Parked at the main building’s stone steps were two charter buses. The windows of the front bus were fogged and dark, and spindly patterns of dripping condensation ran down inside them. Oscar could see the bobbing heads of children and the blonde hair of a caregiver moving about.

Elverly’s reception was a crush of bodies; children cried and laughed and howled. Several caregivers cuddled the frailer ones. Wheelchairs and walking frames were everywhere, and to one side was a large pile of packed suitcases, backpacks, and boxes. In a corner, two stout bus drivers in shorts and knee socks compared grievances. Two nights had passed since he cut down Chalk’s body here, but the air still had the
nasty back-of-the-throat acridity of gasoline. Oscar pushed his way gently through the bodies, but couldn’t see Megan. He went toward a large girl who held a clipboard and was calling out for everyone to just relax.

“Lauralie?”

She recognized Oscar. “Detective. We’re moving today. Well, we’ve started.”

“Storm?” Oscar asked.

The girl nodded. “We had to stop loading.”

“Where’s Megan?”

Lauralie blinked.

“She’s gone.”

Oscar felt his chest tighten.

“Gone where?”

“On the first bus. On the minibus.”

“What minibus?”

“Gone,” she repeated, going paler. “It left already. Before the storm.”

“Who organized it? Show me the list.”

She held the clipboard protectively against her chest, but something in his expression made her hand it over. Two dozen names had ticks beside them—the children outside on the charter bus, Oscar guessed. But the names of four girls had been run through with a pencil. One was Megan McAuliffe.

“How old are these girls?”

“Thirteen, fourteen.” Lauralie looked at the names.

He took her arm, and she winced. “Tell me about the minibus,” he said. “Who took them?”

“It looked all organized.” Her voice was pleading. “They said they were taking the girls to Clayfield.” An awful realization appeared on the girl’s rounded face. “It looked really organized! I mean, they had a minibus.”

“Tell me about the driver.”

“I didn’t really see,” she blurted. “Who looks at bus drivers? He carried Megan onto the bus. He was big.”

He ran out into the downpour. The rain found every bruise and cut on his face and scalp. Jon had taken them. But where? Where had he taken Frances White and Penny Roth and Taryn Lymbery?

The Thatch Group.

Anne Chaume.

Chislehurst.

Chapter
38

T
he guard booth was a little cube of green light under a sky as dark as night. The squall made the raindrops under the halogen light above the boom gate twist and curl like schools of silver minnows.

He stopped at the boom gate. A guard came out under an umbrella. Oscar showed his police photo ID and hoped the guard didn’t ask to see his badge, too. He didn’t; the gate rose and Oscar was waved through.

Oscar rode up zigzagging streets, climbing, slowing only to ease the bike around hairpin turns and fallen branches. Thunder cracked with the sound of rocks splitting.

The tall black gates of Chislehurst were closed. Oscar rode around a corner and pulled the bike up beside the ten-foot-high brick wall. He lifted the bike onto the center stand. He climbed onto the seat and reached. He could just hook an elbow over the wall. He jumped and pulled, and sparks of pain ran from his reopened wounds. He slid both legs over and dropped into a garden bed, his boots disappearing into mulch. He picked his way out and onto a wide lawn that skated away into darkness as thick as night.

Lightning scratched wildly across the sky, striking Chislehurst into bold relief, making its wet stone haunches twitch. Yellow lights shone from its tower. Again, there were a number of European coupes and dark limousines parked in the large circular driveway, but, this time, no fairy-tale path of sparkling lights, no inviting party hubbub or glow of orchestra music. Only a single light at the driveway and the howl of cold wind around stone.

Oscar ran a plodding pace, pushing against the wind. With every step his legs became heavier and heavier, millstones hanging from his
tired hips. He gave the castlelike building a wide berth and jogged around a long arbor, where he had to stop in the pitch darkness and wait for the lightning to help him navigate thorned hedges and hissing stands of trees.

At the rear of Chislehurst was a smaller carriageway where catering vans and cleaners’ vehicles could park. In shadow, under the low roof, was a white minibus.

Oscar’s legs burned, and he dropped to his knees. He pulled his jacket over his head, pulled out his telephone, and dialed Moechtar.

“Hello?”

Oscar was so surprised by the inspector’s immediate answer that it took him a moment to recover. “It’s Mariani.”

“Oscar? Where are you?”

“I didn’t kill those kids.”

Oscar turned his back against the wind so that he could hear better.

Over the line came the clink of crockery; he’d disturbed his inspector’s tea. He heard Moechtar stop chewing, a thoughtful pause. “Then you should turn yourself in.”

“Did Foley find you?”

Another pause. “Yes, I got his message. About Jon Gest.”

“He took four girls from Elverly.”

“That’s quite an accusation, Oscar.”

“I think he’s brought them to Anne Chaume. On the Heights.”

For a moment, all Oscar could hear was the wavelike roar of heavy rain, and he was sure he’d lost the connection. Then Moechtar said, “That’s also quite an accusation.”

“Jon is on the board of the Thatch Group.”

Another pause.

“The minibus he took them in is at Chislehurst right now.”

Lightning spiked the sky, and Oscar’s fingers reflexively clutched into wet grass and cold soil as thunder boomed.

“… there now?” came Moechtar’s voice.

“Sorry?”

“Are you there now?” Moechtar repeated.

“Yes.”

Moechtar sounded disappointed. “For God’s sake, Oscar.”

“Call Tactical Response. I’m going inside.”

“No! No, no—you wait. I’ll get some backup—”

Oscar ended the call. He crept closer to the van. He turned the phone on its side and aimed it at the vehicle. He pressed a button, and a silent flash made the minibus seem to leap forward. He sent the image to Moechtar’s number, then backed up for a wider shot.

“Detective?”

The voice came from behind Oscar.

He recognized it and turned.

A thin, ghostly figure emerged from darkness under a large black umbrella that strained in the wind.

“Hello, Karl,” Oscar said.

The pale man had a towel draped over the arm that held the umbrella and a SIG pistol in his other hand. Oscar gauged the distance and realized that even a poor shot would have three slugs in him before he’d moved five feet. And his legs didn’t feel cooperative.

“Quite the bit of weather,” Karl said.

“Yes.”

“Have your handcuffs? Slowly, please.”

Oscar wondered if he should stall as he did with Naville but realized that with Karl it would be a mistake. He reached into a pocket of his jacket and withdrew the hinged cuffs.

Karl said, “On one wrist, if you would.”

Lightning flared. Thunder seemed to shake the ground.

Oscar clicked the cuff around his left wrist.

Karl finished, “And you can imagine.”

Oscar got down on his knees and put both hands behind his back. He felt the steel of the muzzle against the back of his head while a skillful hand snapped the other cuff closed. Then a towel draped over his head and shoulders. He felt stupidly grateful.

“Before you get up,” Karl said, and stepped around in front of Oscar. He had the umbrella tucked in the crook of one arm, crouched, and with his free hand reached into Oscar’s jacket. He felt the empty holster and looked unsurprised. He found Oscar’s phone and threw it into the darkness. Then his long fingers went into Oscar’s right inner pocket and withdrew his wallet. In the coin section, Karl found the shining nickel handcuff key. He pocketed it, replaced the wallet, and stood. When lightning flashed again, his strange, mismatched eyes sparkled.

“Welcome back to Chislehurst.”

Chapter
39

S
conces high on the timber walls cupped tiny gas flames that really only made the darkness seem deeper. Oscar walked with Karl behind him. Their footsteps echoed on the marble tiles and high up into the invisible ceilings. Chislehurst folded around them.

Oscar said, “Did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got eyes like a husky?”