The Snake Tattoo (24 page)

Maybe Reardon had overestimated Haslam's wealth, asked for an impossible amount. Maybe he'd just underestimated Haslam's need to keep his secret.

I didn't find 115 Lilac Palace Road so much as I found my car, my dear Toyota, pulled to the side of a road I thought might be Lilac Palace. It rested at an angle with the front tires on the grass verge and the back tires well into the street. Not well parked, but I couldn't see any dents. Valerie hadn't locked the front door, but the key was gone from the ignition.

I'd had to wait for the plumbers' truck and it had taken me some time to find the place. Valerie had beat me out here by, what? maybe an hour?

I patted the smooth fender of my car, leaned against it. Finding the car brought me flush with cold reality. Until that moment all my energies had been focused on finding Valerie. Finding her physically, finding her mentally. Now I knew who she was, this adult child. I knew why she'd run away from paradise. And I knew where she was. Inside with the man who'd stolen her childhood.

I didn't know what to do about it.

Two hours earlier Valerie had told me she'd wouldn't go home, ever, except to get her little sister. Had she come to rescue Sherri? But two hours earlier Valerie hadn't known Geoff Reardon was dead.

I wondered if I should ring the doorbell of the house across the street, Jerry Toland's house, ask to use the phone, dial the police. I could hear myself trying to explain the uncomfortable urgency I felt.

I didn't go to Jerry Toland's house. I crept closer to Valerie's, using my flashlight to guide me. Halfway up the walk a dark wrought-iron lamppost tried to trip me.

115 was a big, boxy Colonial with a two-car attached garage on the right, centered on maybe an acre of ground, painted a pale color with dark shutters. A stand of rhododendron bushes blocked the windows to the right of the door. The downstairs was dark, but lights blazed on the left side of the upper floor. I debated ringing the bell, skirted the path, and made my way closer to the lights.

The room underneath the lighted room was large, some kind of family affair, with leather couches, TV and stereo equipment, a patio, and sliding glass doors. A hooded barbecue grill blocked the center of the patio. A broad woodpile rose closer to the house. Even if I climbed the woodpile I couldn't reach that second-story room. Crouching near the sliding doors, I could hear noises. A man shouted something over a rhythmic thumping. There was another noise under the thumping but I couldn't make it out—a faint mewling, like a cat.

I tried the sliding doors but they were locked. I ran toward the front door, tripping over bushes. As I lifted my hand to ring the bell, all the lights in the house blackened. The noises disappeared. I froze with my hand raised.

Had Valerie used her key? Had she tried a secret approach?

I placed my hand on the front doorknob and carefully rotated it. It turned. I pushed the door and met with no resistance. Maybe Valerie had left it open to ease her later escape, once she'd found Sherri.

If she'd come back for her little sister.

The noises upstairs hadn't sounded like the successful result of a secret snatch-and-grab mission.

I patted my coat pocket and felt the reassuring metal, but I didn't take out my gun. I needed my right hand for the flashlight.

The beam showed me stairs, mounting to the left of the foyer, heavily carpeted. I took them well to the side, testing each one for creaks before committing my weight to it. While I climbed I worked out the geography of the house in my head. I was interested in the room with light, then with no light.

The second-floor foyer was carpeted with the same heavy stuff as the stairs. A skylight let in the stars so I could see four closed wooden doors. Two of them were on the left. Either could be the door to the room I wanted. I listened at the first. Nothing. I pressed up close to the second and heard ragged, labored breathing.

I turned the door handle gently, silently, holding my breath.

My flashlight showed a small room, a little girl's room with high shelves of dolls shadowing a single bed. A girl—Valerie by the clothing—lay across the bed, on top of the bedspread, tossed like a sack of laundry, knees drawn up, arms outflung. I thought she must be uncomfortable that way.

There was one window in the room, curtained. I crept closer to the bed, thinking I'd wake the girl, take her with me, to the police, to a therapist, somewhere safe.

“Valerie,” I whispered.

Her breathing sounded wrong and I shone the light full on her face.

Blood trickled from one nostril. Her nose was smashed to one side and her face had the lumpy look a beating gives, before the bruises have a chance to color and the swelling to start. My jaw clamped shut and I ran my flashlight over a wider circle. A glass of water sat on her bedside table next to a bottle of pills.

I didn't pick them up, but I leaned closer to read the label. The prescription was for Mathilde Haslam. Serax, 30 MG. Take one before bedtime.

I touched a dark spot on Valerie's sweater. Not blood. Water. Her chin was damp, too.

There was no phone in the room. I'd have to find a phone, dial 911.

The door to the room crashed open. Maybe the noise wasn't as loud as that, but I had my back to the door and the quiet, broken only by Valerie's attempts to breathe through her ruined nose, was so complete that the door, cracking against the opposite wall, sounded like thunder.

The overhead light blinked on, much too bright for my dark-adapted eyes. I squinted at the frilly pink room, filled with lace and dolls. The room of a small child. An immaculate child. Nothing out of place, not a china doll, not a stuffed animal. Except for the dark lump that was Valerie, bleeding on the bed.

Preston Haslam wore a bathrobe over slacks. His eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles were narrow, speculative.

“What's going on?” he said. “What are you doing here?” His voice was too loud, his face too red, his breathing too heavy.

“Your daughter stole my car,” I said.

“I'm sorry,” he said, striving for a smile, “but surely that can wait until morning.”

“Your daughter can't,” I said. “She needs a doctor.”

“I don't think so,” he replied, as if he'd given the matter careful consideration.

“Look at her,” I said. “She's hurt.”

“Yes,” he said coolly. “She must have fallen on the stairs.”

“She's out cold,” I said.

“I think we should let her sleep,” he said.

“There's a bottle of pills on the table. Your wife's sleeping pills.”

“Yes,” he said, “they are my wife's.”

“Your daughter needs a doctor.”

“No,” he said.

“No?” I repeated, changing the inflection.

“Listen,” he said. “You may think you're doing the right thing, but you don't know all the facts. My daughter's made a, uh, a choice and much as it hurts me, I think we have to respect her choice.”

“Choice? Listen, buddy, call a doctor.”

“My daughter has made her decision.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” In the full overhead light Valerie's injuries looked worse. One of her eyes seemed swollen shut, one half-open. The pupil in the half-open eye was huge.

“I know you think you're doing the best thing for her,” Haslam said firmly, “but she doesn't want to suffer anymore. She doesn't want the public shame, the embarrassment. She came home to tell me about it, to confess. I told her she'd always be my daughter, no matter what she did. But murder … she wanted this escape. Don't take it away from her.”

I saw the whole setup in his triumphant eyes. Valerie was to take the blame. Again. With Valerie dead, an apparent suicide, any questions about Reardon's death were easy to answer. Even if no suspicion arose about Reardon's suicide he could still use it. He could say the drama teacher had been despondent about his daughter's disappearance. And Valerie had felt such guilt on hearing about his suicide that she'd chosen the same end.

Of course if anyone thought Reardon's death might be murder, well, here was Valerie tailor-made for the killer. Reardon had spurned her after promising to run off with her. She'd gone back to the Emerson, confronted him the day he died. She'd told Papa all about it, and much as he hated to sully his dead daughter's name, the truth was the best policy, wasn't it?

The cops knew how wild Valerie was. She had a history.

“So did she decide to kill herself before or after she fell down the stairs?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the cops are going to ask you about that. About the beating. Your story is full of holes.”

“Probably some pimp beat her up. Some lowlife she met in the Combat Zone. My daughter had a taste for that kind of thing, you know.”

“I saw your daughter less than two hours ago. She had no marks on her face.”

“So you say,” Haslam replied. “So you say.”

“Get this straight,” I said. “Your daughter isn't going to suffer for you anymore.”

“I don't think I understand you.”

“Understand this. I'm taking your daughter out of here. With your help or without.”

“You're an intruder in my house,” he said.

“Don't worry. I won't stay long.” I reached out a hand and touched Valerie's shoulder. She moaned and I said, “Valerie? Valerie, can you stand?” He couldn't have forced the pills on her more than fifteen minutes ago. I didn't know how quickly they'd take effect.

She moved and groaned and whispered, “Sherri?”

“We'll come back for Sherri,” I promised. “First you have to come with me.”

“Has my daughter been lying to you?” Haslam said confidently, leaning one shoulder against the door jamb. “I can see she has.”

“No,” I said. “She's been telling the truth.”

“I doubt she knows what it means.”

“We'll debate that later. Right now, call a doctor or get out of my way.”

I stuffed my flashlight in my purse, slung it over my shoulder, leaned down, and picked up the girl, as gently as I could, like a baby, with one arm under her shoulders and one under her knees. She wasn't heavy, but her weight was dead in my arms. She didn't have the strength to hold on, to help in any way. She groaned, and, hearing it, I was glad. Even if the pain was bad, I was pleased she could still feel it. I didn't know how many of the pills she'd swallowed, how many had been forced down her throat.

I took a step toward the door. I'd carried heavier burdens, but not recently and not often.

It was a little gun, probably a .22. Haslam's fist almost smothered it.

“Put her down and get out,” he said.

I stared at the gun for a moment, then backtracked, and obeyed. I don't think Valerie had any idea what was going on. She wasn't aware I'd picked her up. She wasn't aware I'd put her down.

I rested my hand near my right pocket.

“You have a big problem, Preston,” I said.

“I'm not the one breaking and entering,” he replied.

“Either I take your daughter with me or I call a doctor and wait until he comes. It's going to be hard to explain that you had to shoot me because I tried to get your kid to a doctor.”

“Maybe Valerie shot you,” he said with a smile. “She does such crazy things.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but do you know how to set that up? I mean you're an investment banker, not a cop?” I stuck both hands in my pockets, casually. “Not a killer,” I said.

“What do you mean, set it up?” he said. “I'll be an eyewitness. The police will believe me.”

“It's tricky,” I said. “You've got to think about powder burns, residue, things like that.”

“I'll take the risk.”

“Well, I hope the gun is licensed,” I said.

“It's mine,” he said. “Legally. Valerie must have stolen it. I had no idea she was so violent.”

I thought I heard a faint noise across the hall, maybe a door opening.

“Of course, your wife might come in any minute,” I said.

“My wife takes pills,” he said. “She'll sleep through the Second Coming.”

Footsteps crossed the rug. Behind Haslam I could see a small form, dark tousled hair, a sleepy disheveled face.

“Sherri,” I said. “Run. Call the police. Tell them the house is on fire.”

“Sherri,” said her father. “You go right back to bed this instant.”

The small child stuck a finger in her mouth, pivoted, and went back to bed. She even closed her door behind her.

Her obedience was unquestioning, unswerving. She'd listen to her father no matter what he told her to do. The thought of that tiny child and Preston Haslam made me breathe faster, made my eyes hurt.

My hand was in position now, finger poised.

“One,” he said. He thought it was a game. Maybe he thought everyone would do what he wanted, like Sherri. Like Valerie used to do. Like his drugged wife.

“Two,” he said softly, lining up the weapon, using both hands, as if a little .22 was going to have a killer recoil.

I could almost trace the thoughts racing through his head. He didn't see any other way out, and I didn't wait for him to count three. No dramatic confrontation. No high noon. I didn't pull my gun and challenge him. I just shot him. Right through the fabric of my coat.

The bullet caught him high on the right side of the chest and spun him around. His hands scrabbled at the door frame and he came down heavily. He hardly made a noise on the thick carpet.

I walked over, my gun out of my pocket, pointed at Haslam's head. He didn't look like he'd be going anywhere, but I thought I'd better get his gun to make sure.

Leaning over him, I marveled at Sherri's closed door, the absolute lack of movement anywhere in the house, the absence of Mathilde Haslam. And I thought about what I'd told Haslam, about the cops and things being hard to explain. I put down my gun, pulled on my right glove, and with his hand on the .22, I forced his finger to pull the trigger, firing a shot in the direction I'd been standing only a moment ago. A second shot went a long way toward self-defense.