Applaud the Hollow Ghost (20 page)

I grabbed my coat and raced for the kitchen. “Take your time answering the door,” I called. “And don't come back here.”

“Why not?”

“How long ago did I come in?”

“Jeez, I don't know. Half hour maybe.”

The doorbell kept ringing, as we called softly back and forth down the long hallway, out of each other's sight. “Well, then, you haven't seen me for at least a half hour. Right?”

“Uh, right.” He sounded bewildered, but then added, “Yeah, that
is
the truth. I haven't
seen
you.” He understood.

Casey would have a hard time with a flat-out lie to the cops, or to anyone, even to help out a friend.

I suppose I knew it was stupid, and I didn't even know what I was running from. But Casey was going to have to answer the door, so I went out the back way and ran down the steps, thinking I'd figure it out later.

CHAPTER
26

I
T WAS SNOWING AGAIN
, thick heavy flakes swirling down in spiral waves that, higher up, glowed and reflected the amber light that spread from tall poles in the alley. On the ground, visibility was maybe twenty or thirty feet. I was halfway through the backyard when I heard snow-hushed voices moving my way between the buildings. Suddenly, the thin, bright beam of a flashlight stabbed out from the gangway, darting up and down and side to side like a laser cutting through the falling white. If the cop with the light swept the beam across the yard when he stepped out from the gangway, it wasn't likely they'd miss a dark figure moving through the snowfall.

The gate in the fence was open and I was just through it, still far from the safe cover of the neighbor's garage, when the cops did emerge from the gangway. By then, though, I was huddled low to the ground, elbows and arms tucked close, head down. Motionless, I had at least a chance of being missed.

The light swept back and forth across the yard and may have picked out a dark, low blob beyond the fence, or maybe not. But a harsh voice said, “Upstairs, damn it. C'mon.” The stabbing light turned then, and bounced its way into the covered back porch stairway. There were two of them, but maybe more to come. Running in a crouch, I made it to the garage to the south and stood inside the narrow shelter of its shadow. Farther down, where the alley opened onto the side street just south of the Connolly home, a squad car blocked the way, its strobe lights sending blue-and-white blurred flashes through the clouds of snow.

I started the opposite way, which meant I'd have to pass behind Lammy's place again, where the sound of a nightstick pounding on the second-floor back door was muffled, but unmistakable. I'd taken just one step, though, when far at the north end of the block a pair of headlights swung into the alley. I shrank back against the garage, sidled along the overhead door and around the corner of the building, away from the car that slid and slithered my way over a quickly building carpet of snow.

Crouching near the ground, I poked my head around the corner of the garage, then pulled back quickly. The approaching vehicle was larger than a car, maybe a police patrol wagon. No more pounding came from Lammy's back door, so I knew those cops would be inside now, soon to discover I wasn't there.

Maybe I had it all wrong, though. Maybe it was Lammy they were looking for. But why? They couldn't know yet that he'd run off. In fact, legally he hadn't fled or violated bail, not until he missed some court date he was required to attend. So they must have come for me. But why in the middle of the night? Was there some new evidence they thought tied me tighter to Tina Fontana's killing?

The headlights grew brighter and then swept past. It wasn't a paddy wagon, but Steve Connolly's Ford van. The falling snow seemed determined to absorb all the sound it could, and the van's motor gave only a low, urgent throb. I creeped forward and watched it slow to a stop near the end of the alley. Light from inside the Connolly garage spread out into the snowfall as the electrically driven garage door rose.

I turned the other way again and my hopes sank as yet another pair of headlights bounced into the alley. But this pair stopped, backed out again, and then the faint, blurred blue-and-white flashing started at that end, too. They had the alley blocked at both ends.

Steve's backup lights went on as he prepared to maneuver the van into his garage within the confines of the narrow alley. Just then, muffled shouts came from the direction of the squad car at his end of the alley, and the bright beam of a spotlight slashed through the swirling snow, swinging from side to side. The backup lights went out again, and Steve swung open the driver's door. The spotlight stopped on him as he half-stood, raising his head above the open van door and waving his left arm.

“I'm Steve Connolly, damn it.” The snow muffled his shouted words. “I live here.”

A response came, but not loud enough for me to hear the words.

“For chrissake!” That was Steve again. He stepped down and headed toward the police car, pushing backward at the van door to close it. The door didn't catch, but fell open again and Steve ignored it, trudging ahead toward the cops, caught in the steady beam of their spotlight. And as he did, the distant sounds of sirens announced the approach of more police, from two different directions.

I made a choice, then, one of those choices you make when you have to choose, even though you lack the information needed to make your choice intelligently. You're left with a few preliminary decisions that are less than informed, and then you choose a path. Sometimes it works out.

I decided first that the cops were after me, not Lammy. I decided something new must have turned up or taken place and that, whatever it was, it was bad news for me. I decided that with Lammy missing, and with Rosa and Trish missing, and with Dominic Fontana, the maniac that attacked Trish—and certainly must have killed Tina, too—still roaming around, I didn't want to spend even the next twenty-four hours trying to convince anyone I wasn't responsible for any of the bad things that kept happening around me. Ultimately, though, the choice I made was that I wouldn't give myself up, not to that son of a bitch Sanchez, not until I knew what the hell was going on.

They seemed to be flooding the area with cops, and there was scant chance of getting away through snow-filled backyards and over fences, even in the darkness and poor visibility. So, with no good direction to turn, I didn't turn at all. I ran in a crouch straight ahead, to the rear of Steve's van. The motor was still running and the open driver's door was keeping the interior lights on. I tried the handle on the van's rear door. Not locked. I crawled inside, pulled the door closed, set the lock button, and squeezed down into the space behind the rear seat.

In a few moments Steve was back, talking to a cop who had come with him. Steve got into the van and drove it back and forth until he had it parked in his garage. When he cut the engine and got out, he didn't close the overhead garage door, but went back out to the alley, where the cop was waiting for him.

The two of them stood talking, not six feet from where I lay huddled in the van. The cop was trying to convince Steve to come with him and talk to the investigators, without saying what they'd be talking about. I knew, though. They wanted to tell him that Rosa and Trish were missing.

For his part, Steve was plenty loud, almost bombastic, and it was obvious he'd been drinking. “I just got off work, goddamn it. Gotta say g'night to my daughter, for chrissake.”

“Well, sir, it's your daughter that … anyway, sir, would you come with—”

“The fuck you talkin' about? What about Trish?”

“Can you close the garage door from here, sir? And come with me?”

“Okay, okay. I got a key here somewhere.” There was a pause. “But what about Trish? What's happened to her?” The garage door started to close down.

“Probably nothing, sir. But this Foley individual showed up at the church. We aren't sure why. The pastor was there and, well … Foley went after him.” The overhead door was closing. “… our guys got there, he was already dead. Jesus, kill a priest. Who—” The lowering door hit the pavement with a thud.

It was very dark.

CHAPTER
27

A
T FIRST AN OCCASIONAL
car drove past in the alley, and distant sounds of sirens drifted in through the closed garage door. Strangely, I kept wanting to give up, just get it over with. I had to remind myself that running and hiding wasn't much of a crime if you hadn't done anything to be arrested for in the first place, and if they ever actually charged me with the murder of the priest, whether evading arrest was an aggravating factor or not would be the least of my worries.

Eventually there was an end to the sounds of activity and, after one full hour had passed with nothing happening, I sat up and inspected my hiding place, using the tiny flashlight on my key chain. It was a typical conversion van, with four so-called captain's chairs for the driver and three passengers, and a bench seat in the rear that probably folded out into what the conversion people like to call a “bed”—though you'd have to be less than five feet tall to sleep in one comfortably. The floor was carpeted, and much of the walls and the ceiling as well. There was artificial-looking wood trim everywhere, and fixed to the ceiling above the driver's head, facing the rear seats, a little television set. All in all, like most conversion vans, it must have cost a small fortune, and still managed to look a little tacky.

The interior was neat as a pin, though, and there was a plaid wool blanket draped over the back of the bench seat. That was lucky, because it was getting colder by the minute. I had no idea when Steve would come back, and it wouldn't do to be caught rummaging around the garage for something to wrap up in. Dragging the blanket down with me, I sank again into the cramped space behind the backseat, to ponder how much longer to wait before leaving the seductive safety of the van and venturing out into the neighborhood.

I picked five o'clock as the magic hour, because a few people might be out on the street by then, headed for work, and I wouldn't be so obvious. With my internal alarm clock set, I searched for the least uncomfortable position and tried to fall asleep. Half an hour later, though, the garage door rose again, and someone was climbing back into the driver's seat. I recognized Steve's voice, muttering soft curses to himself, as the van jolted and bucked out of the garage. Then, much too fast to suit my aching joints and muscles, we careened north down the alley.

He slowed just a little at the end of the block, and I braced myself against what was certain to be a too-fast turn onto the street. But, surprisingly, he kept going straight. The van bottomed out, twice, as we left the alley, crossed the street, then bounced into the alley again on the other side. We'd gone maybe another half block when we skidded and fishtailed to a stop.

For a moment there was nothing but the sounds of the idling engine and the wind whistling through the alley. Then muffled voices outside. The passenger door, then the side door, were opened and the vehicle dipped and rose again as two people got in and both doors were pulled shut. At least one of the new passengers had a decidedly feminine taste in cologne.

“The fuck's she doing here?” Steve's voice was strained, anxious.

“She's with me,” Dominic said, as though that answered the question.

“I don't want her along.” Steve paused. “Who's watching—”

“Hey, that's fine with me.” It was Karen Colter's drawling voice, and I heard her open the van's side door. “Christ, Dominic, I told you I should—”

“Fuck that,” Dominic said. “Close the door and drop your ass back in the seat.”

“Gus ain't gonna like us bringing her.” This was Steve again, but he slipped the van into gear, the door closed, and we were underway. “Who's watching the kid?”

“Lisa? She got kinda hysterical yesterday, after Tina's funeral, so one of Tina's friends took her to stay with her family for a while,” Dominic said. “Anyway, Gus ain't gonna care about Karen. He calls in the middle of the night, what the fuck's he expect? She can wait in the car. Right, Karen? Watch TV or something.”

“Oh yeah. Right. Freeze my butt off,” Karen said. “Jesus, it's cold in here.”

“Whaddaya mean cold?” Steve said. “I got the heater going.” The van swung out of the alley and gathered speed.

“Broad's from Kentucky,” Dominic explained. “Constantly fuckin' complaining about the cold.”

“Yeah, well it's freezing back here,” Karen said. “Heat isn't coming back this far.”

“There's a blanket,” Steve said, “behind you, on the backseat.”

I heard her shifting in the seat.

“I don't see any blanket,” she said.

“It's there. Should be hanging over the back of the seat.”

“I'm telling you, there's no—”

“Probably fell behind the seat,” Dominic broke in. “Get off your ass and go back and look. Or else shut the fuck up.”

“Okay, okay,” Karen said.

Meanwhile, I'd gotten free of the blanket in question and bunched it up on my chest, and now lay on my back and stared up, waiting for her face to appear over the back of the seat. As the van bounced along the icy city streets, I could sense her movement. Then, right beside my head, the cushion of the seat sagged, and I knew she must be kneeling on it.

Her face was suddenly right above mine. She stared straight down.

“Oh my God!” Her cry was too choked to qualify as a scream, because she was gasping for breath at the same time.

“What is it?” Dominic called, and I could hear him twisting around in his seat.

“Um, nothing,” Karen said. “Nothing.” She had her breath back now, and she could really have screamed if she wanted to. Certainly your average young lady from Kentucky would have, staring down into the barrel of an automatic, six inches off the bridge of her nose. “I just, oh, twisted my knee on the seat here.” She was far from average, this particular Kentucky lady, and she looked more shocked than afraid. “You don't have to worry about me.” She called the words out, as though to the men up front, but her eyes made it clear she was speaking to me.