Good questions. "I guess I can't be one-hundred per cent sure, but whoever this person is, he or she loves nothing better than to send the victims little love letters. And they all say the same thing: Boo."
"God, Russell, this is giving
me
the creeps." Errall admitted.
"So then Duncan disappears, but before he does he leaves me a photograph of a group of people and one of those people is Jared." I gave Kirsch a pointed look. "The list of names I asked you to check out was a list of people in that photograph."
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He nodded. "Most of which had made complaints about being harassed." He was beginning to take me a little more seriously now. "So you think this boogeyman character is after everyone in the photograph?"
"Why else would Duncan give it to me?"
"Could he be wrong? Or could
he
be the boogeyman, trying to mislead you?"
Sheesh. I didn't want to consider that. But it didn't feel right. Duncan's fear was so palpable I doubted he could have faked it. "Maybe, but I don't think so."
"Quant, I think you're jumping to some mighty big conclusions here." A typical cop response. They want to be the only ones who jump to the big conclusions. "There's a whole hell of a lot of difference between harassment and scaring someone to death, or worse. What you're talking about is murder."
"I know, I know. What I don't understand is that for some reason the boogeyman is treating some of the people in the photo differently than others. Some are only getting threatening notes and irritating calls, while others are ending up dead. It's like he hates them all, but some more than others."
"Or..."
I stared at Kirsch and waited for it. Despite his usual inclination to disparage most of what I say, Kirsch is-I hate to admit it-a smart cop, and he knows when something fishy is more than just an unpleasant smell.
"Maybe he's new at this," he began somewhat slowly. "Maybe the boogeyman is only just now beginning to acquire a taste for murder," he said, eyes narrowed in thought. "Something you said earlier-about how maybe he didn't intend for Tanya to kill herself. What if he just meant to harass these people for some reason and then, whoops, one of them-Moxie was the first-dies. Suddenly he's a murderer rather than a simple troublemaker getting petty revenge for something.. .and he finds that he likes it. So he steps up his efforts and, with Tanya this time, it happens again. Russell, this guy could be developing into a real maniac, ignited by his own actions, becoming...a serial killer."
All three of us shared a collective gulp. Could it be true? Had we stumbled into something this huge, this dangerous, this potentially fatal for everyone in that photograph?
"And now Jared," Errall said, looking at me with moist eyes, her mouth a grim line across a blanched face.
Darren stood up. "I'm going back to the station, dig deeper into those names on that list from the photo.
Maybe something else has turned up." He stared at me, his face a piece of granite. "What about you? Is there anything else you should tell me?"
There've been times when I've held out on Darren, not told him all I knew, but not this time, not with Jared's life hanging in the balance. I gave him the names of the choir director and bus driver and a description of my brief meetings with both men and then he was off.
My phone rang. Oh crap, no cellphones in a hospital. But the way things were going today, I had to answer it.
"Mr. Quant?" a quaking voice came across the line. "It's Kim Pelluchi. You gave me your card with your number? You have to help me. Richie is gone!"
Despite her desire for more smokes, Errall agreed to stay behind in case word came of Jared's condition while I took Kim's call outdoors.
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"Tell me what happened," I said to the woman in as calm a voice as I could manage. God, I wanted one of Errall's cigarettes.
"Richie and I had this big argument after you left last night," she said. "He told me that something
did
happen the night we were stranded in Davidson. He said he couldn't tell me about it but that he was going to put an end to all our hassles once and for all. Then he just took off on his bike." Oh shit. "And I haven't heard from him since. I tried reaching him all day today, but nothing, and none of his friends have heard from him either." The bike. Oh shit. "Mr. Quant, I'm scared something bad has happened to him, and you told me to call if..."
"Oh shit." I said it out loud this time.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, nothing. Kim, I think I may know where Richie is. I'll call you." And I hung up. No time to explain.
I ran back into the hospital where Errall sat waiting and looking wholly miserable.
"Anything?" I asked her.
She shook her head. I'm guessing that by the look on my face, she knew something was up.
"I have to go."
She glared at me as if I'd lost my mind. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
"I may know who's behind all of this, and if it's the same bastard who did this to Jared -"
'Go.'
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I had recently seen a bike, a ten-speed, with flaking chips of red paint clinging to its battered frame. At the time I didn't know who it belonged to, but it all came together with the call from Kim Pelluchi. The bike, just like the one Richie described to me as his own the night before, was leaning against Guy Marcotte's trailer. Could it be a coincidence? Absolutely. But I didn't think so.
By the time I made a left off Central Avenue into the bowels of Hagar's Heath, the sun had set on this dreadful day and darkness covered the Mazda like a heavy cloak. Without signs to follow, I slowed my pace as I searched for the street I'd visited earlier that afternoon. My eyes were drawn to an unearthly glow and even though the top was up and the windows were closed, I could smell smoke. What the hell is going on, I wondered to myself, my suspicions running amok. An alien craft landing? Someone being burned at the stake? What were these people up to?
My car trembled over the rough road surface and eventually I came to an empty lot...well, empty except for the bonfire. In the middle of the lot-I'm sure contrary to numerous city ordinances-was a large group of people forming a circle around a blazing fire pit. Were they swaying? Chanting? Wearing hoods?
My stomach tightened and prickles of fear dotted my neck. Was this some kind of cult? Was something being sacrificed here? There was a smell, something familiar. But this was a matter for another time-in daylight, with a police escort. Maybe. I just wanted to get away unnoticed with my head and hide still attached to my body. I released the clutch and kept moving.
As it turned out, Guy Marcotte's trailer was at the beginning of the next street over, less than half a block away from where the fire-gazers were doing their spooky bit. I pulled up behind his empty faux driveway, thought better of it, and moved the car further down the street. My gun was still safely stored in a box in my garage. Crap. Why did I even bother? No matter, if this guy was responsible for Jared's attack, I'd take him down with bare hands if I had to. I swung open the door of the car and slipped out with as little noise as I could. That's when I heard the growling.
I froze.
Dog!
Big dog? Little dog? Hungry dog? Stray dog? Tied-up dog? Pit bull? Chihuahua?
The growl continued, lasting an impressive fifteen seconds until the darn thing had to take a breath, and then another fifteen seconds, another breath, another fifteen seconds, and so on and so on. This was one inhospitable place and I promised myself that after tonight I'd never return to Hagar's Heath. My current options, however, were few: get back in the car, or track down someone who might be responsible for Jared's critical condition. Only one option counted. I began to walk. The growling continued but grew fainter the further away I got from the car. Tied-up dog. Phew.
It helped that I'd been to Guy Marcotte's trailer before. I knew the lilac bushes fronting the structure would afford me good cover, but only so far. I also knew most of the windows were covered over. I'd originally thought it was because of the heat, but now I had a new theory: something bad happened that night in Davidson, between some or all of the members of the Pink Gophers and the bus driver, Guy Marcotte, and Richie knew about it. Richie'd come here to confront Guy and instead had been taken prisoner, at least until Guy could figure out what to do with him. Earlier this afternoon, I had seen the red bike, Richie was probably already inside. Guy had pretended to be leaving, to lure me away from the scene of his latest crime.
My hope was that one of the windows at the rear of the trailer, facing away from the street, might have been left uncovered. I needed to get a look inside, either to prove my theory wrong or, alternatively, give me an idea of what I was up against. Crouching low, I crab-walked across the open space between the lilac bushes and trailer. I made it without being spotted, I hoped, and plastered myself against the trailer 150 of 163
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wall, listening for telltale sounds from within. There were no screams for help or threatening epithets, but I could discern a light buzz of conversation or maybe a TV or radio. The window coverings-some sort of cheap vinyl blinds-were opaque but through the thin material I could tell there were lights on somewhere inside, so despite the empty driveway, someone was home. The flaking-red-paint ten-speed bike was in the same spot I'd seen it in earlier, leaning against a tree trunk. Careful not to make a noise, I slid down the length of the long rectangle of the trailer, across the back and up the other side, checking each window along the way. No luck. Every one of them was covered. Great. Now what? Knock?
Yup.
I'd run out of patience for this cat-and-mouse game. I abandoned all appearance of stealth and marched back around to the front of the trailer and up the three steps to the door, rapping on it with a force of authority. I wasn't sure of my plan, but I had to find out if Richie was in there and in trouble. I'd force my way in if I had to.
Guy Marcotte, now in a red polo and denim cut-offs, answered the door with what seemed to me anticipatory speed. He appeared surprised to see that his guest was me and not someone else.
"I...I...well, I didn't expect to see you," he bumbled.
That much was obvious. "Where is Richie Caplan?" The direct approach seemed appropriate.
"I
know he's here. I want to see him. Now."
"V/hat? I don't know what you're talking about. Who's Richie?" This guy would never win an Academy Award, or even a grade school amateur talent contest for that matter.
"I'd like to come in," I said, taking a half-step forward so that we were now uncomfortably close. He either had to kiss me or step back. He wisely chose the latter. Using the space he created, I slid by the large man into his home. Inside it was hot, smelling of cooked meat and in a general state of bachelor disarray. I wondered where the henpecking girlfriend was-if there really was such a person.
"You can't just come in here. You're not the police or anything," he reasoned absolutely correctly.
Thankfully he failed to notice that with our relative sizes-he much bulkier than I-he could easily have tossed me outside onto my butt. Instead he stuck with verbal threats. "I'm gonna call them. I'm gonna call the cops if you don't bugger off right now."
"Go for it," I said. "That's a good idea." It really was. "They'd like to know where Richie Caplan is too."
Well, not completely true. "Now where is he?"
I scanned the inside of Guy Marcotte's home. I could see everything except the bedroom and bathroom, which were at the far end of the long, narrow space. "Is he back there?" I asked, using a voice deep with bravado.
"He's not here right now."
Aha. "I thought you didn't know who he was?" Oh well, no time to get into that now. "Where is he?" I demanded to know. "What did you do to him?"
"Do to him? I didn't do nothing to him. I..."
"What?"
"Never mind. I told you, he's not here right now. Now get out."
I strode to the back of the trailer and stuck my nose into the bathroom (gross) and bedroom (better, but not by much). No Richie. Guy kept to the same spot throughout my search. I walked up to him, put my face into his and murmured menacingly under my breath, "His bike is outside. Now tell me where the hell 151 of 163
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he is."
"I let him borrow my car." Huh? Indeed, the Chevy I'd seen Guy driving earlier that afternoon was not out front.
"What for? Where did he go?" You let your kidnappee borrow your car?
Guy looked away and shrugged his mighty shoulders.
"You're lying. I know what you're doing, Guy, I know you've been terrorizing the Pink Gophers. Richie knew it too. He figured it out last night and he came here to confront you and make you stop." I was desperate for him to say something that would make all this make sense because, right about then, nothing did. "What did you do then, Guy? What did you do to Richie Caplan to keep him quiet?"
As Guy's dark eyes met mine, I got the feeling that although I was on the right train, I was definitely on the wrong track. In a heavy voice, as masculine as he could make it, Guy said, "I'd never hurt Richie. I..."
He stopped.
"What? You what?"
"I...I like the guy, okay?" He looked down at his big feet.
Oh boy. I did not see that coming. He was either being very clever, leading me on with this line, or else he truly was this big ol' galoot of a guy who had the hots for another guy and was bashful about admitting it. But if that was true, then where was Richie? Was he safe? Or had he been lying to his friend, Kim? Was
he
the boogeyman? Had
he
attacked Jared?