“This signature pattern is repeated with the Milo killing. During the interrogation, Ben simply said Milo tried to blackmail Hennessy and him and therefore was taken care of. What he didn’t dwell on was the complex methodology, which again was less appropriate to the task than to satisfying his own psychological needs. Why use rabies? Because it’s arcane, experimental, takes brains to pull off. Anyone could’ve knocked Milo over the head and dumped him in a ditch. He would’ve been frozen solid by morning. But to use rabies was a sign of genius. A genius who needed recognition, of course, which is again why he made another anonymous phone call.
“The same pattern of camouflage and deflection is evident even while he was ostensibly helping NeverTom’s cause,” Andrews continued. “He used his brother’s phenobarbital on Shawna, cut up the rabid raccoon using his brother’s worktable and tools, and made it appear Tom was Eddy Knox’s sponsor at the Keene country club. Not only would all that get Tom into trouble if everything fell apart, but it imbued Ben with a secret power over the very person who had mentally tortured him his entire life.”
I paused near the end of the high, dark, basement hallway we’d been traveling. “Let’s back up a bit. Why did he grab Mary Wallis and put her under lock and key? Why not kill her?”
“A couple of reasons, as I see it. First of all, he had to do something after Shawna was proven dead, because his hold over Mary had suddenly vanished. He tried threatening her at first, which is why she seemed so secretive and fearful to you, but he soon realized that would yield only short-term results—that Mary would probably tell what she knew if you promised her protection. As to why he didn’t kill her, that’s a little less practically motivated. People who kill in this fashion need to justify the act in their own minds. That way, they aren’t so much butchers as unappreciated servants of society—it’s a form of vigilante mentality. Remember how he described Shawna, Milo, and Mrs. Sawyer?”
“A hooker, a bum, and a bitchy old woman with one foot in the grave.”
“Right—blemishes on the face of society, in his view. But Mary Wallis, regardless of politics, wasn’t a blemish—she was a community leader. That’s why Ben had to stop her in the first place. She was powerful enough to halt the construction project, so killing her created a moral problem. Also, I think in his demented way, he was hedging his bets in case he got caught. His whole demeanor changed when he told you about Mary still being alive, as if she had now become proof of both his good will and his rationality.”
I stopped beside the door to the locker room, letting some of the people J.P. had summoned file by us. I offered Andrews my hand. “Thank you for your help—with Bernie, too. We probably couldn’t have done this without you.”
Andrews smiled but shook his head. “Oh, I doubt that. People like Ben Chambers just think they’re invincible. It would have caught up to him sooner or later. For one thing, he wouldn’t have been able to keep such a success to himself. Being caught allows him to finally bathe in the limelight.”
· · ·
“So what role did Hennessy play in all this?” Gail asked, after I’d brought her up to date.
I slowed for an upcoming curve in the road, the blue lights on top of the car flashing off the snowbanks on either side. I was leading a short caravan of vehicles, including an ambulance, to Sunset Lake Road in West Brattleboro, where Ben Chambers had told us Mary Wallis was being held captive in a trailer.
“It was purely financial. He’d been skimming Carroll Construction for years, which Ben discovered early on. When Ben hatched his plan to take over the convention center project, he needed someone dependable to remove Gene Lacaille from the picture. Hennessy supplied the answer—the PCB—and even salted the Keene construction site. Problem was, Hennessy was promised a piece of the action once Ben sold the project a few years down the line, but Hennessy was a short-term thinker, and maybe a little nervous about Ben. He decided to milk the deal up front by embezzling from Carroll like never before. Ben got pissed. That was the fight Milo overheard, and which got him killed. Hennessy’s greed was why Ben killed Adele Sawyer—to get his partner back under control.”
“And NeverTom knew nothing about any of it?” Gail asked skeptically.
“According to Ben, he knew only the bare necessities. Tom applied the pressure to Eddy Knox, Ned Fallows, and the others, and he was fully aware of the squeeze being put on Harold Matson and the bank, but he had nothing to do with the killings and thought the PCBs that stopped Lacaille’s Keene project were just a stroke of good luck. We’ve had him picked up by the state police in a Montpelier hotel about an hour ago. Politicking to the end. They’ll be delivering him to us in the morning.”
I slowed down, killed the blue lights, and got on the radio. We’d turned onto Sunset Lake Road and were now minutes away from the trailer Ben Chambers had told us about. “O-3 to all units. SRT assemble at the lead vehicle. All other units stand by for backup as assigned.”
I saw the string of headlights behind me die as I pulled over. I stepped out onto the frozen dirt road, grateful for the cloud-covered moon and the night’s total stillness. Appearing from the gloom like menacing ghosts, the rest of the Special Reaction Team gathered around, dressed as I was in black watch caps, black BDUs—Battle Dress Uniforms—and Kevlar vests.
I put my hand on Gail’s shoulder. “You wait here. Once we give the all-clear, come to the trailer. Okay?”
She nodded, her eyes narrow with tension.
Moving soundlessly in rubber-soled combat boots, I led the team up the road another quarter-mile. Just shy of the small clearing surrounding the trailer, whose anemically glowing windows we could just make out, I signaled the five people behind me to stop.
Sammie came up and handed me an infrared night-vision monocular. I scanned the area slowly, studying every pale, green-tinged detail for any anomalies, any movements. There were none.
“Okay,” I murmured. “It’s a go.”
Sammie, Sol Stennis, Marshall Smith, and I crossed the thick snow to the front door, making no more noise than the creakings in the trees nearby. The two remaining members of the team spread out to cover the far corners. In the reflected amber glimmering from the small, grimy windows, we could just make out a trailer whose traveling days were over—overpatched, sagging, and surrounded by insulating hay bales. The wispy smoke of a wood stove escaped into the night air from a crooked metal chimney. At the rear of the rig, plywood panels had been bolted to the windows of the room we’d been told was Mary Wallis’s prison.
Marshall Smith and I positioned ourselves to each side of the rickety door, located to the right of the long wall, while Sammie and Sol stood slightly back and to the center. All of us except Marshall were armed with thirteen-inch shotguns with powerful flashlights strapped to their barrels. Marshall had a pry bar which he quietly fitted between the door and the jamb. From inside, all we could hear were the muffled exclamations of a TV set.
At a nod from me, Marshall threw his weight against the pry bar, springing the door open. Following his own momentum, he fell away from the opening, allowing me and the two others to pour past him, while he circled around to bring up the rear, a pistol now in hand.
I went straight across the narrow space to the opposite wall, quickly checking to the right where there was only an empty sofa and table. Sammie and Sol came in covering the left, from where we’d heard the TV, she in a crouch, and he standing.
“Don’t move—Police,” we all shouted simultaneously.
Before us, sitting in matching upholstered rocking chairs, their mouths open in astonishment, were an elderly couple, their eyes as wide as the three shotgun barrels facing them.
“Tim and Bernice Walters,” I said, “you’re under arrest. Is there anyone here besides the woman you’re holding in back?”
Speechless, both of them shook their heads.
Sammie and Marshall moved farther into the trailer, checking all the doors, including the only locked one at the end of the narrow hallway. “Clear,” she reported. Our assault had taken about eight seconds.
I nodded to Sol, who pulled his radio from his web belt and forwarded the all-clear to the others. Sammie had Tim and Bernice Walters sit down on the floor next to each other and cuffed their hands behind their backs.
Gail arrived moments later, and I escorted her down the narrow hall, leaving Sammie to read from her Miranda card.
“You ready?” I asked her.
“Go on,” she urged.
I worked the heavy lock and pulled the door open. It was dark inside and utterly airless.
“Mary?” Gail asked tentatively, squinting to see better.
“Who’s there?” came the tired, confused reply.
A light flashed on, and Mary Wallis was revealed sitting up in bed, one hand on a small lamp, the other shielding her eyes. She looked dirty, haggard, and weak. “Gail?” she said incredulously.
Gail crossed the room and held her in her arms. I faded back to the front room. The old couple were being led outside by two patrolmen. Sammie glanced at me expectantly.
“She looks like hell,” I told her, “but she’s alive. Might as well bring up the ambulance.”
· · ·
The next morning was overcast, the sky as gray as the now-gritty snow. There was a dampness to the cold, making it difficult to ward off. After the satisfaction of escorting Mary Wallis to the hospital and from there to her mother’s bedside, I’d returned to the office to bring the paperwork up to speed. What we’d stopped Ben Chambers from burning in his office had amounted to a gold mine of evidence against both him and his brother.
In addition, without fanfare or drama, Paul Hennessy had turned himself in at the dispatch window three hours earlier, having heard of our arrests on the radio—a special irony, I thought, considering how much I’d relied on the newspaper. Now, Stanley Katz’s “exclusive” on the case’s wrap-up would trail Ted McDonald’s reports by a full day. Sweet revenge for Ted, not that Katz had much to complain about—Hennessy would produce enough copy to keep Katz content for weeks.
Maxine Paroddy’s voice came over the intercom. “Lieutenant? State Police just called—they’re about five minutes out.”
I rose and grabbed my coat. “Willy?” I shouted across the squad room, “want to help with the honors?”
For once, there was no grousing. Kunkle appeared from around the corner, dressed for the weather. I wondered how long he’d been waiting. Although neither one of us had ever referred to it, I knew how NeverTom’s reference to Willy as a cripple had hurt, which was precisely why I’d asked for him now.
We went outside and stood around the parking lot for a few minutes. Willy had slept no more than I had and was in no mood for conversation. Eventually, the crunching of tires on old ice announced the arrival of the dark green state police cruiser. We waited for the car to roll to a stop, and then Willy bent forward to open the back door.
Thomas Chambers sat in the rear, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his cuffed hands nestled in his lap. Two troopers emerged from the front.
“Quiet ride?” I asked the driver.
“Yeah—snowing a little up north.”
“Coffee’s fresh inside.”
Willy reached into the car and grabbed NeverTom’s arm. Chambers jerked it away angrily. “Get your hands off me.”
Willy laughed and dragged Chambers completely out of the car, landing him on his knees. “Not this time, asshole.” With his one good arm, he lifted the other man up as if he weighed no more than a child. The two troopers looked slightly alarmed.
“Not to worry,” I muttered. “He had it coming.”
The driver nodded and went around the car to park it properly, while his companion joined us as we walked toward the building.
It was the slight crackle of ice underfoot that caught my attention. Otherwise, the dark shadow appeared from around the building’s edge with all the sound of a gentle breeze. I glanced over casually, expecting to see one of our officers walking toward the parked cruisers. Instead, it was Ned Fallows who stood there, legs slightly apart, a semiautomatic pistol held in both hands. Willy Kunkle, oblivious to all but his prisoner, was directly between Fallows and his target.
“Gun,” I shouted, diving in front of Chambers and pushing Willy hard in the chest with one hand.
The explosion went off just as I hit the icy ground, Willy’s startled cry still in my ears. I heard the trooper who’d been walking behind us shout, “Freeze,” and looked up to see Fallows standing, hands high in the air, the pistol at his feet. I rolled over to check the damage he’d done. Willy was struggling to get up. Tom Chambers lay spread-eagled on his back, motionless.
Willy’s face was twisted with humiliation and outrage. He looked from Fallows to Chambers’s prone body. “God damn it,” he yelled at me, “I could’ve handled it. What the fuck did you push me for?”
A pool of blood was rapidly expanding from the gaping wound in Chambers’s head. I slowly got to my feet and walked tiredly over to Ned Fallows, taking him by the arm. I looked him in the face for a moment, studying its familiar, haggard lines. “You did this because of what I told you, didn’t you?”
His eyes flickered to mine for a moment, but thankfully, he didn’t answer.
· · ·
I sat exhausted in my office, my head throbbing. Instead of the elation I’d hungered for, especially with Mary Wallis being found alive, all I felt was sorrow and loss and depression. The motivations I’d recently witnessed—Ben Chambers and his amoral brother; Paul Hennessy and his beguilingly dissolute girlfriend; Ned Fallows, whose life of good work had grown twisted and bitter with pride—had shaken my trust in human nature. I thought of their victims—Shawna, Milo, Mary Wallis, Adele Sawyer, even poor old Bernie, who’d been forced to revisit the battlefield that had scarred him—and wondered how it was that they should have been singled out for such wanton destruction. It seemed so carelessly capricious. The irony was that NeverTom—who’d killed no one—had wound up the victim of his own devices.
Unfortunately, that gave me no solace. Too much damage lay in the way.