The Judas Child (43 page)

The village officers were escorting Dr. William Penny toward the patrol car in the parking lot. He wore handcuffs and a white terry-cloth robe over his perfectly pressed gray pants. A moment later, a woman was led out of the same motel room and taken to Charlie Croft’s personal car. Through the woman’s flapping winter coat, Ali could see a cheap rayon blouse and polyester pants only minimally buttoned and zipped. The hair was a wild tangle of long henna strands and mouse-brown roots.

Ali looked up when Charlie Croft joined them. He was smiling as he leaned down to the open window of Marge’s car.

“I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble over this,” said Ali. Though he was the Makers Village police chief, he was temporarily under the command of Captain Costello. “You’re sure this won’t come back on you?”

“Not likely, ma’am. The woman’s from Makers Village.” He looked down at the driver’s license in his hand. “Rita Anderson. Her husband’s an invalid with a long history of heart trouble. She thinks it might kill him if he finds out she was shacking up with Proper William over there.” He glanced at the other side of the lot where the cruiser was parked with the heart surgeon in the backseat. “So, if it turns out the doctor isn’t our man, I don’t think either one of them is gonna say a word about this.”

Now the frightened Mrs. Anderson was standing by the chief’s car and raising her voice to one of the uniformed officers. “No! You can’t!”

Ali left Marge’s car and followed Charlie Croft across the lot. As they drew near the excited woman, the police officer was saying, “Ma’am, if you answer all the questions, we won’t need to file a report. Nothing public, okay?”

“But I don’t know anything about missing kids,” she said. “I’m telling you the truth. I swear it.”

“Sure you are.” Charlie Croft motioned the other officer to put her into the car. The door opened and she was sliding into the passenger seat as the chief took his place behind the wheel. “Come on, lady. It was big news—national television. You haven’t spent all this time on another planet.”

“You don’t believe me? You go check that television set. William always does something to the set so it won’t work. No newspapers, no radio, nothing. For ten days every year, we might as well be on Mars.”

Chief Croft leaned out the window and spoke to a uniformed officer. “Go check the TV set. Then look around the room for a newspaper or a radio.” He turned back to the woman. “Well, Rita, I think we can guess how the time was spent. But you don’t stay in the room for the whole—”

“But I do! I’m telling you the truth. I never leave that room. Suppose somebody saw me and told my husband? A thing like this would kill him. And what about my kids? I’d lose his disability checks.”

Ali Cray leaned into the conversation. “So William is the one who goes out for food, liquor? Things like that?”

“Yeah, and his damn tobacco.”

“Isn’t it a little strange,” said Ali, “a mother not being home with her children on Christmas Day?”

“Lady, I got four strange kids—all teenage boys, and they take after their old man. It’s been ten years since my husband noticed I was alive. Believe me, the boys never miss their mother on Christmas Day. Oh, maybe they have to get their own beer from the fridge, I’m sure that’s a hardship. This vacation is my Christmas present to me.”

Ali had the impression that there was some bitterness in this present, that it was not entirely a joyful experience.

Charlie Croft brought out his notebook. “Minors? Drinking alcohol?”

“Now don’t you get on me about that. Damn kids. Like who can control a teenager, huh? You think their old man is—”She gave up on Charlie Croft and appealed to Ali. “You won’t let them tell my husband, will you, lady? He’ll die if he finds out. I mean he’ll
really
die.”

“Mrs. Anderson,” said Ali. “I understand you’ve been doing this for a very long time. Ten years?”

“Yeah. After my husband’s first operation, he thought he was gonna have another heart attack if he accidentally saw me naked. I’m still young.” And now she caught sight of her face in the rearview mirror, all those lines in the harsh light of day. “Well, I’m not old yet.” And once, she had been quite lovely. “But if my husband ever found out about this—”

“Lady,” said Charlie Croft. “You’ve been taking solo vacations all this time, and you don’t think your husband has any idea what you’ve been up to?”

“No. Why should he? We’ve got all those kids. One of us had to stay home with them, right? That’s the damn law! My husband understands that—why don’t you?”

Charlie Croft was grinning when he walked away from the car. He motioned Marge and Ali to follow him to the cruiser on the other side of the parking lot.

William Penny was elated to see Ali Cray sliding into the front seat. “Oh, thank God. Tell these people who I am.”

“I’ll see what I can do to straighten this out, William. Can you tell the police anything about Gwen Hubble or Sadie Green? Do you know where they are?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“All right, William. Next question, have you ever been a patient of Uncle Mortimer’s?”

“Mortimer is
my
patient, Ali. I cut into his heart, remember? Now does it make sense? You think I could’ve operated on someone I had that kind of relationship with? Think about it.”

She did think about it; she had never liked William, but was he a sadist? If he was, he would’ve relished the opportunity of operating on his psychiatrist. What irresistible potential for fear.

But what about Uncle Mortimer? She tried to imagine him willingly going under the knife, knowing all the darkest things about his surgeon. And now she decided that it was not only possible, but even likely. The psychiatrist was so compulsive about his professional ethics. He would not have changed doctors merely because this one was quite capable of killing him. The rigid old man would have made no alteration, no deviation from habit to call attention to a patient relationship. And wasn’t he risking death every day with mounting anxiety and guilty knowledge? Mortimer Cray might even welcome a slip of the scalpel, a quick death under the ether. Yes, it fit perfectly with her uncle’s character.

The concept of a sadistic surgeon led her down another avenue of thought, the one inspired by Rouge Kendall. She turned back to the other car holding Mrs. Anderson, wife of an invalid with heart trouble. “That woman’s husband is your patient.”

William Penny folded his arms in petulant silence, not denying this, nor offering any elaboration. Perhaps he assumed that Mrs. Anderson had told her as much.

“William, I know you did his first operation ten years ago,” she lied.

Again, no denial, he seemed only perturbed. “Is this supposed to be leading us somewhere?” He made a rolling motion with one hand, suggesting that Ali get to the point.

So she was right. “Did Rita Anderson love her husband? That first time—didn’t you take her to bed
before
the operation?”

Was he a little frightened now? Oh, yes.

Rouge Kendall’s theory only erred because the pass at his mother had occurred
after
a surgery. William was into a much darker form of emotional extortion. He probably took advantage of gratitude at every opportunity, but he preyed on fear.

The exorbitant fees of a top-ranked surgeon would not be covered by a cost-cutting insurance plan. Judging by Rita’s low-rent appearance, the woman’s husband must have been a pro bono patient. Ali slipped into Rita Anderson’s state of mind on the eve of her husband’s surgery: What would she do when the sexual proposition was put to her? Would she stalk off indignantly, and then seek out a lesser surgeon to cut into her husband’s heart? Or would she go quietly to William’s bed?

Perhaps the woman loved her husband even now, for Mr. Anderson was very ill—and his wife was still in William’s bed.

Ali was angry when she leaned forward to kill off Proper William with one final satisfying shot. “If the other wives come forward—Oh, sorry. I know at least one of them was the mother of a patient. If they all testify, you’ll lose your license, won’t you?”

Right and right again. So there were others. It was a pattern. And if she was an adept judge of facial expressions and body language, the doctor was about to lose control of his bladder.

And what other patterns might he have?

He had demonstrated sadism, the most necessary element. He also liked a challenge and the element of risk. And he didn’t seem troubled by conscience, or ethics. A sadistic opportunist could divide his appetites between children and women. The women could be kept in line.

There had been no reaction when she mentioned the little girls. Could she have misread him? Or was he that cold about murder? Or perhaps he had more confidence in the crime of killing children, since the witnesses never lived to tell about it. What in hell was she dealing with here?

Captain Costello could only watch the flames licking the top of the garden incinerator. He was too late to stop Mortimer Cray. The large metal canister’s contents were certainly ashes by now. “Very thorough, Dr. Cray. Why didn’t you use one of the fireplaces in the house?”

“Too small for a really good blaze.” The psychiatrist looked at the captain with no hostility, no fear.

“So little time,” said Costello, “so many files to burn.”

“Yes, there were quite a lot of them. I realize the town codes don’t allow outdoor trash incineration anymore. I expect you’ll be writing me a ticket for this.”

“I’m not here to trade lines with you, sir. We found some of Sadie Green’s clothing in the next county, a tiny little pair of purple socks.”

“But nothing belonging to Gwen Hubble?”

“No. I think the bastard knows we’re getting close, and he’s trying to lead us away from town. What do you think, Doc?”

“I think a half-bright child might’ve come to the same conclusion. Do you want to serve me with your search warrant now?”

Costello handed him the document. The doctor only folded it away in his suit coat pocket without even glancing at it, and this annoyed the captain. It had taken two solid hours of begging before the judge would issue a warrant on thin grounds of probable cause. The district attorney, biggest fool in five counties, had actually argued against it. Only Costello’s passionate belief in the imminent danger to a child had finally swayed the judge in his favor.

Uniformed troopers were already at work on the garden, prowling through the plants, and now more of them entered the house. Two dogs from the Canine Corps were inhaling scent from bags containing children’s clothing. Men with shovels and men with black bags stood in the yard waiting on a signal. He nodded to them and the digging began. The captain spoke to the two technicians at his side. “I want every damn print in his private office. You got that?”

“I doubt that they’ll find anything,” said Mortimer Cray. “My housekeeper is meticulous in her dusting and polishing.”

“Okay, boys, you heard that. Check the damn ceiling if you have to. How tall is your housekeeper, Dr. Cray?” Costello turned to the flaming incinerator and smiled at an afterthought. “Oh, and this might be a good time to mention that I only wanted your appointment book. My warrant excluded the patient files.”

 

When Ali entered the conservatory, she found her uncle amid the debris of overturned giant clay pots. Young fruit trees and evergreens with rounded topiary shapes lay on the floor in the spilled dirt. Delicate orchids with naked roots had been pulled from smaller containers. Other unseated plants were scattered around small mounds of dirt from one end of the long potting table to the other. And a pane in the wall of glass had been broken by a careless searcher. The police had missed few opportunities for destruction, with the sole purpose of pressuring a frail old man with harassment bordering on terrorism.

Ali approved.

Mortimer was standing at the worktable, restoring dirt to a small ceramic pot of bright blue. He seemed in no hurry to rescue his prize plants. He filled the pot with a small measuring spoon, a bit of soil at a time, no hurry at all.

Years ago, as an invisible child, she had walked among these tables of flowering plants, following in the wake of touring houseguests, absorbing adult conversations on the lineage, origin and symbolism of each species. Today, Uncle Mortimer ignored his savaged hybrids of rare and riotous colors. He was concentrating all his efforts on a small plant of common white tea roses, metaphors of silence.

She wondered if this violence on his beloved plants had unhinged him. Perhaps he was simply slow to cope. “Can I help you, Uncle Mortimer?”

No response.

Ali picked up another pot and inserted a tender young orchid with torn petals. She scooped soil around the roots, gently, carefully, unmindful of the dirt gathering beneath her fingernails. “You could have stopped this if you’d given them a name.”