The Disciple (39 page)

In 1985 Kerry had been found at the bottom of a ravine near their home in a burned-out car. Drexler’s mother had collapsed at the news and had been in an institution ever since; she hadn’t said a word to anyone from that day to this. A double whammy if ever there was one. McQuarry looked over at her partner. She couldn’t imagine how a person might deal with that. She decided to let him sleep a little longer.

She opened her window to inhale the pine-scented air and began to shake out a cigarette. She paused over the pack, distracted by a light reflecting on the trees, and turned to see a car travelling from Sorenson’s house towards the highway.

‘Mike, we’re up.’

Drexler let out a deep sigh and looked blearily out of the car. The gates across the highway opened noiselessly and a small black convertible emerged. A blond-haired woman was at the wheel but didn’t even glance towards Drexler and McQuarry.

The car turned left towards the resort, sweeping its lights across the Chevy. Both Drexler and McQuarry instinctively ducked to avoid the headlights, though their car was easily recognisable as the one that had been parked in the same spot for much of the last two weeks. In that time they had seen Sorenson come and go maybe four times. He hardly ever left the place. People came to him though. His groceries
were delivered and a nurse visited three times a week. Apart from that, they hadn’t logged a single visitor to his house since they’d been staking it out. Sorenson was a virtual recluse.

‘It’s the nurse,’ said Drexler, sitting up. ‘She didn’t even look over at us,’ he added.

‘I told her better not to acknowledge us at all.’ On a solo shift a few days before, McQuarry had reported following the nurse and interviewing her when she stopped for gas. After certain assurances from the FBI agent, the nurse had revealed she was treating Sorenson for a minor lung complaint.

Drexler nodded. ‘She okay with it?’

‘She’s fine, Mike. I told her it was a financial investigation and just to carry on treating him. She’s in no danger but obviously she’s not to mention our interest to Sorenson.’

Drexler lay back down on his reclined seat.

McQuarry was halfway down her cigarette when Sorenson’s red Toyota drove through the gates towards the highway a few minutes later. This was the first time Sorenson had left his home at night in the two weeks they’d been watching him. McQuarry tossed her butt into the wet undergrowth and reached for the ignition. Sorenson turned left and, after a suitable interval, McQuarry turned the Chevy across the highway to follow.

She and Drexler were pleased to see that a slight crack in Sorenson’s driver side taillight meant they could drop back without losing their prey. They tracked the Toyota towards South Lake Tahoe on the Emerald Bay Road, which was technically still the same State Highway 89 that ran past the Ashwell gas station forty miles away.

On they drove towards Tahoe Airport, passing Fallen
Leaf Road, which skirted the lake of the same name, not once nosing above thirty miles per hour.

‘Think he’s trying not to lose us, Ed?’

‘Could be.’

Soon after the lonely road entered a more populated area, Sorenson turned east onto US 50, towards downtown Tahoe and the state line. A few minutes later, the high-rise hotels and buildings on the Nevada side of the line rose up like teeth in a shark’s mouth and the garish lights adorning each casino left no one in any doubt as to where they should come to part company with their cash.

On they travelled into the night and back into the enveloping darkness, following US 50 along the lakeshore, past Elk Point and Zephyr Cove and towards Glenbrook where the road headed inland towards Carson City.

Some forty minutes later, Sorenson came to an intersection and turned north onto US 395. He pulled off the highway into a lot and parked in a bay outside an unremarkable, low building with a sign that said ‘Golden Nugget Motel’.

McQuarry and Drexler pulled in just before the exit and watched their target step out of his vehicle. Sorenson seemed to examine his watch in the gloom. It had taken just over an hour to get here. He spent five minutes walking up and down the front of the motel, lingering for a moment outside the room farthest from reception. He appeared to write something in a notebook then walked back to the bright lights of the office. He disappeared for a moment then re-emerged, returned to his car and crossed the highway back towards Tahoe.

McQuarry pulled out to follow but as she drew level with the office, Drexler jumped out of the car.

‘Back in a minute, Ed.’

*    *    *

Brook drew up outside his cottage before midnight. He parked with some difficulty as Drexler’s recycling bin was out on the street for tomorrow’s collection. His neighbour was home and, judging from the lights, clearly still up. Brook resisted the urge to call and trudged into his house. The whisky he’d poured for himself yesterday evening was the only thing in the fridge, save a half-pint of milk and an opened can of beans. He examined the beans but plopped the rusted tin in the bin and closed the door.

‘First impressions, Damen,’ he muttered to himself, his mantra since the Wallis investigation when his blossoming relationship with PC Wendy Jones had been threatened by his inability to see how out of control his life had become. For Brook, an empty fridge was the litmus test of a mind in turmoil, and he vowed to set matters right the next day.

And he was hungry. That was a good thing. At the height of his obsession with work, his stomach had never grumbled and Brook had needed reminders to take on food. He wagered that Josh Hudson’s life never became so chaotic that he forgot to eat.

Brook sat down in his armchair and flicked on a small lamp. He pulled out the photocopy of Laura Maples’s picture that he’d removed from the Wallis house and unfolded it. He looked into the clear eyes of the schoolgirl, now dead nearly twenty years, the thin necklace with the heart-shaped links winking up at him. He placed the picture reverentially in a drawer.

He took a sip of his chilled whisky and looked across at his neighbour’s house, remembering the delicious burger of a few nights ago. He flicked the lamp back off and sat motionless in the dark, eyes closed, enjoying the momentary sensory deprivation. It didn’t last. The sight of the Ingham boy was upon him before he could slam the sluice gates on the flood of gore – stretched out before him, head pulled back, throat twisted like a gargoyle. He saw the other boys as well, smelled them, reeking of blood and fresh, steaming urine and excrement.
Finally Brook saw Drexler’s face in the dying flash of the camera at the crime scene. He opened his eyes, downed his whisky, left the house and walked down the side path of Rose Cottage.

‘Hi there.’ Drexler stole a glance at a folded handwritten sign on the desk –
T.J. Carlson, Night Manager.
‘Say, Mr Carlson, did I just see my old buddy Vic leave a second ago?’

The manager looked up evenly at Drexler, removing a well-chewed cigar butt from his mouth but showing no inclination to answer. He was an overweight figure with grey whiskered jowls and a mass of unkempt greying hair swept incongruously into a minute ponytail at the back of his neck. He scratched at a flabby bare arm. ‘Do you need a room, fella? It’s thirty dollars for the hour or forty-five for the night.’ He returned his gaze to a small TV, showing a college football game.

‘So that wasn’t Vic?’ Carlson returned his disinterested eyes back to Drexler and cocked his head. The penny dropped and Drexler fumbled in his trousers for a five-dollar bill and handed it over. ‘See, he’s my best man and he’s cooking up something for my bachelor night and I’d as soon know what it was.’

‘Took a card. Wanted to know what our quietest night of the week was.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Tuesday.’ ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. He wanted to know if I’d be working Tuesdays because he wanted someone he could rely on. Someone with discretion.’

‘That all?’

The manager gave Drexler a cryptic smile. Drexler fished in his pocket for another five-dollar bill.

‘He gave me a twenty.’

‘That’s what I got, friend.’

Carlson shrugged and wrapped his podgy fingers around the money. ‘I told your friend I’m on every Tuesday. He booked all the cabins for a week Tuesday.’

‘All of them? He say what for?’

‘Nope. And I didn’t ask. I got…’

‘Discretion. I get it.’ Drexler turned to leave.

‘For another fi’ dollars I can tell you his name.’

Drexler turned. ‘It wasn’t Victor?’ The manager returned his interest to the football. Drexler pulled out his diminishing roll of bills. ‘All I got is three ones.’

The manager glared at him and muttered something which sounded like ‘Cheap motherfucker’, then gestured with his chubby hand. Drexler handed him the notes which he pocketed before answering.

‘Reservation’s under the name Hera. Peter Hera.’

The small pot-bellied stove was still giving out heat but the embers were dying. The kitchen door was open and Drexler was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, cigarette in hand, looking at a bunch of papers strewn across the surface. Brook watched him from the shadows, debating whether to turn on his heel.

Suddenly Drexler looked up and for a split second Brook imagined he saw fear there.

Brook stepped out of the dark. ‘Mike. I saw you were up.’

Drexler found his Californian grin and stood, casting a sly glance around his tabletop as if to check the sensitivity of the documents, before coming outside. He closed the door behind him, extinguishing much of the light.

‘Damen. Quite the stranger.’ He gestured towards a chair in
the garden and brought out a pair of blankets, tossing one to Brook. He then busied himself feeding wood and newspaper into the small stove; the air was distinctly chilly now and both men were glad of the flames that began to catch.

‘Work, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ve been reading the papers. Six people. I won’t ask you about the case. I’m guessing you need to get away from it.’

‘You can ask me.’

Drexler studied him for a moment, but let the opportunity pass. ‘So what can I do for you?’

Brook hesitated, a little embarrassed to be scrounging for food. ‘I saw the light.’

‘God be praised!’ grinned Drexler, throwing his arms in the air.

Brook smiled politely. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

Drexler’s smile disappeared. ‘Yes.’

Brook decided to deflect him until he was ready. ‘Your book for one thing.’

‘I thought you’d have questions. Hungry?’

Brook nodded, as if to suggest the idea hadn’t occurred to him. ‘I could eat.’

Drexler returned to the kitchen and Brook fancied he was using the time to hide his papers. But it also allowed more time for Brook to finalise his side of the ensuing conversation. Drexler returned with a ham salad sandwich and two bottles of beer. They clinked bottles and Brook ate in silence as Drexler chugged on his bottle.

‘That was good. Thanks.’

Drexler nodded, but his good humour had dissipated. He stared into the fire, waiting, but Brook wouldn’t be hurried.

Finally Brook was ready. ‘When did you arrive in England, Mike?’

Drexler stared into the fire. A moment later, he said,
‘Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.
An interview technique my old FBI tutor taught me. I guess you had a similar
mentor.’ Brook waited, his eyes piercing Drexler. ‘About a month ago.’

Brook nodded. ‘Then why tell Tom you’d just flown in from Boston when he picked you up last week?’