“Why didn’t the church get Paul Marie a decent lawyer?”
She let this oxymoron slide. “They got him the best shark that money could buy. But the priest fired that one.” She lifted up the transcript, and beneath it lay her late husband’s grisly scrapbook containing every public detail of their daughter’s murder in yellowed strips of newsprint. “It’s all in there. The first attorney wanted to plea-bargain, but Father Marie kept insisting he was innocent.” She made rough notes on a yellow pad. “I can trace some of Oz’s financial history with a credit report. It’s a start. I can probably get the rest through a bank officer in Manhattan. She owes me one. The banks are all hooked up to one big goldfish bowl.”
“And could you look into Almo’s business clients over the past fifteen years? He seems to have a lot of money—nice clothes, big house. I wonder if it comes from casework—”
“Or ransom money?” And now she could see that Rouge had also thought of this ugly little possibility. “Consider it done.” She understood her son’s need for the help of an outsider. The State Police would not take kindly to their brand-new rookie investigator going after an ex-BCI man. “I’ll start calling in my markers today. Anything else?”
Rouge nodded. “Ali Cray thinks someone screwed up Paul Marie’s paperwork to put him in the general population. Considering the crime, that would border on attempted murder. That might account for some of the missing money. If Oz Almo had to bribe the prison—”
“No, babe.” Ellen shook her head. “As conspiracy theories go, that angle is a real yawn. And it shows a certain naı̈veté about our screwed-up penal system.”
“That prison has a segregation policy for sex offenders. I checked.”
“And this is the logic supporting Ali Cray? Pay attention, Rouge. Mommy’s going to educate you. People get lost in the shuffle all the time—it’s a common event. So beware of logical deduction. No, let me put it another way—screw logic. Stick to the facts. Operate in real time, in real life. Don’t get caught up in anybody’s conspiracy theories.”
“If she’s right, the priest might—”
“Forget the just and noble cause, okay? There isn’t any justice. You want the truth? Then you can’t afford to become a believer—not in anybody’s cause. Not the priest’s—not your own.”
Rouge lightly slapped the transcript binder. “You’ve got the proof that Oz was a dirty cop. That bracelet—”
“No, babe. I’ve got a lead on a
possible
payoff. And suppose it pans out? This is proof he planted evidence? No. But what if he did? So what? Cops do this kind of thing all the time—another yawn. When I was a reporter in Chicago, cops used to carry
spare
evidence in their damn cars—usually drugs.”
“The silver bracelet—”
“That
was
Susan’s bracelet. Your father gave it to her on her last birthday. And she
was
wearing it that day. Oz did
not
get it from your father so he could plant it. These are facts.” She flipped through the pages of the transcript. “The priest didn’t get a fair trial, but there’s nothing here to say he’s innocent—so that’s not a fact. Don’t touch Oz till you get something solid.”
“Suppose I question Oz—alone.”
“No. Bad idea. Don’t listen to your heart or your gut, babe. They’re both pickled in testosterone. Listen to your mother.”
“I’m not going to hit him. I just want to—”
“Rouge? Take notes.” She held up the transcript as an exhibit. “You can’t put your faith in the cops or the courts.” Now she held up the scrapbook of clippings, exhibit number two. “And you can’t believe what you read in the newspapers. So, if you won’t trust your own mother—who’s left?”
At last she had the sense that they were in accord. He leaned back against the slats of his chair, smiling as he finished his coffee.
They were a team.
How many years had passed since she had felt so close to her son? And now she realized this was revisionist history. When her daughter was alive, Ellen had left the twins largely to the care of other women and not worried over them. Her children had always been so self-sufficient, wanting no company but their own. After Susan’s death, she had been immersed in guilt for the botched parenting. And she had never gotten any better at the mother’s trade, drinking heavily and utterly oblivious to her small son when he was the most needy. Had she frightened Rouge in the days when she slurred her good mornings as well as her good nights? What had it been like for a ten-year-old to see his mother fall asleep in a stupor, hours before the bedtime of a little boy?
But now she had a second chance: her surviving child needed a covert source of facts, the help of a dirty, backdoor invader, a professional destroyer of private lives, who well understood the loathsome workings of the world’s worst scum.
So this is motherhood.
Gwen woke to the sounds of crashing glass. The thing was in the basement with them—searching the white room, and very close to the hiding place beneath the cart. She could hear the clipped barks of the dog; she could feel the footsteps walking down the aisle of mushroom tables. Sadie was on top of her, both hands furiously working more dirt around Gwen’s body. The dog was more excited now, barking louder, and she could imagine him straining at the leash as they came closer. The barks subsided to small cries from deep in the dog’s throat, heavy breathing and snorting.
Gwen listened to the man’s footsteps and the panting of the dog. She flinched when the cart was kicked, and her jersey slipped down under her chin, letting dirt into her eyes and her mouth. She was gagging. She could hear the cart wheels rolling back. Her eyes were shut tight against the crumbles of dirt spilling from Sadie’s sweatshirt. And then the cart was slammed back into place under the table. The dog barked once, but the sound ended abruptly and was followed by a yelp of pain.
“Stupid animal,” said the whispery voice outside.
So he had seen what he expected to see—the one dead child lying in her grave, all stiff, eyes wide and staring in the dim light under the table.
Now the panting of the dog was trailing back toward the far side of the cellar with the man’s footsteps. The cellar door slammed shut, and finally there was silence.
Sadie rolled off to one side. Gwen tried to sit up, bumping her head on the wood of the cart as she spat out the dirt. The pain in her leg was back, and it was worse now.
More pills. I need more pills.
She was climbing out of the hole and pushing against the rolling cart when Sadie stopped her.
“Not yet. He hasn’t gone away. The car’s still here. Wait for the sound of the engine.”
“Sadie, I have to have those pills. I can’t—”
“You stay here. I’ll get them.” And then she was working her way out of the ground, the grave, crawling between the wheels of the cart.
Gwen sat alone in the dark. Light streamed under the cart, petering out above the wound and the torn-away denim. Swollen flesh bulged around the edges of the bandage. The damage was spreading beyond the wound. She stretched her leg into stronger light and untied the knot in the gauze.
And now she was frightened.
The skin around the puncture marks had turned from bright red to a dusky color. She touched the small holes from the dog’s teeth, and her body was shot through with a searing-hot skewer. She screamed in one long continuous cry, unaware that Sadie was back with her, climbing into the hole. Sadie forced the pills into her mouth and chased them down Gwen’s throat with water from a jar.
They sat in silence for a little while, time enough for the pain to dull. A beetle crawled out from the sleeve of Gwen’s jersey, and she slapped it away, suddenly cold and clammy in her skin.
“Lie down,” said Sadie. “Just till we hear the car pull away.”
“I can’t do this. It’s the bugs.” Gwen covered her face with dirty hands. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. Bugs never bothered me before.” She was crying now. “Remember the games, the bug races?”
“We were eight.” Sadie smiled as she stroked Gwen’s hair. “Your bugs always won.”
“But now I’ve got them in my clothes, and I can’t stand it. What’s happening to me?”
“You’re becoming a woman.” All the resignation in Sadie’s voice said that this was fated, and there was nothing to be done about it.
“And that
man
, Sadie. It’s the same feeling, like the big mosquito model at the museum—a big bug.”
“
The Fly.
”
“The original movie from 1958? Or the remake in 1986?” Gwen had automatically slipped into the old game of film trivia. This was deep long-term conditioning. Studying for Sadie’s horror quizzes had taken precedence over her homework assignments for years.
“I like it,” said Sadie. “So that’s his name—The Fly.”
And now for the last bit of madness in her strange odyssey, Gwen heard the sound of raindrops on the leaves of the trees. She looked out between the cart wheels and craned her neck to see a bit of the lightbulb ceiling beyond the cave of the mushroom farm. Great dollops of water were falling from the pipes that spanned the electric sky.
It was raining indoors.
“Would you say you’ve always been a little obsessive about the idea of a kidnapping?” Arnie Pyle turned his sad brown eyes on Peter Hubble, but Rouge saw no sympathy or empathy in the agent’s manner.
Peter Hubble only nodded, agreeing that this was a fact and then tilting his head to say,
So?
As if every father in America had sewn a transmitter into the lining of his child’s knapsack; and what man did not ink his little girl’s hands and roll the tips of each tiny digit onto the proper square of the card labeled for the impressions of fingers and thumbs; surely every parent had a frozen blood sample in the refrigerator, just in case the need should arise for a DNA match.
And then there was the pack of cards lying on the conference table, bearing yearly sets of Gwen’s footprints from the day she was born. Delicate loops and whorls described her toes and soles, so tiny, more heartbreaking than any photograph could be. None of the men seated at the long table would look at them again.
Three federal agents lined up on Pyle’s side. Peter Hubble was flanked by Rouge and Buddy Sorrel. The senior investigator had been silent for the entire time, only occasionally making notes. Another BCI man was slumped against the door, not making any indication that he was even listening to the conversation.
An hour ago in Captain Costello’s office, Agent Pyle had made it clear that, with the advent of a ransom note and its out-of-state postmark, this was now a federal investigation. The captain had responded with an enigmatic smile. Rouge had to wonder what Costello knew about the ransom note that Pyle did not. None of the parents had seen it yet, for the FBI had taken on the chore of sorting through the Hubbles’ incoming mail. Rouge wondered when the feds were planning to mention this note to the families—and how.
Agent Pyle had his mouth set in a tight line as he drummed his pencil on the table. “Sir, could your ex-wife have taken Gwen?”
“Marsha?” Peter Hubble was obviously taking the FBI agent for a lunatic. “No, of course not.” And now the man’s eyes were angry. He was rising from the table. “Pyle, you can’t even get your facts straight. My wife and I are separated, not divorced. Why are you wasting time with this nonsense? Why aren’t you out looking for Gwen? At least let me go out and—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Arnie Pyle. “But if you need a lawyer, I can arrange that. Whatever it takes, you’re gonna talk to me.”
Peter Hubble sank back in his chair, eyes rolling to the ceiling, as if to ask,
What next?
And Rouge did wonder if Kafka had scripted this interview with the devastated father. Any fool could see this man was in pain.
“Your wife fought you for custody of Gwen.” Pyle’s words were dry and clipped.
“That was two years ago.” Hubble spoke to the ceiling. “Marsha and I worked it out.”
“You take a lot of precautions with your daughter’s security, sir.” There was courtesy in Pyle’s language but not his tone. “You thought your wife would come after Gwen. Isn’t that right?”
“I’m a wealthy man,” said Peter Hubble, calmer now, or perhaps merely tired. “The reasons for the security should be obvious.” Unspoken were the words
Even to an idiot like you.
Sorrel smiled but never looked up from his notebook. Rouge wished he had the senior man’s eye, for he was confused. No one in the room, not even Pyle, had ever speculated on the possibility that Marsha Hubble had kidnapped the children. She had been in Albany at the time of the disappearance, and in full view of a staff of eight people, all royally pissed off at the loss of their weekend. The alibi of the noncustodial parent was always checked very carefully by the State Police, and the FBI man would know that. So where was the agent going with this line of questioning?
Arnie Pyle made a small production of receiving a file from the agent next to him. He was slow to open it. He shuffled the papers and extracted one with a boldface heading for family court. “Last summer your wife accused you of child abuse. Were you slapping the kid around?”
“No!” Peter Hubble was on his feet again. “Why are you twisting this, Pyle? My wife claimed
psychological
abuse, and I think you know the difference. She said I was overly protective.” Hubble leaned over, both hands on the table. He was looking less like a victim now and more like a man about to stomp another man into the ground. Rouge wondered if any of the cops in the room would stop Gwen’s father from decking the fed. He thought not. But it would further complicate Hubble’s life if Arnie Pyle filed charges for assault.
Rising from the table, Rouge put one hand gently on Hubble’s shoulder, and though his touch was light, it was sufficient to settle the man back into his chair. “Your wife’s a politician, sir. So I’m guessing that she fights dirty, but I don’t know what the feds have. Will you tell me about the abuse charge?”