Time Release (17 page)

The voice woke Sonny from a dream about Lake Erie. He was swimming hard and steady, on course and making good time. It was dark, after midnight, and the shore lights were disappearing into the gloom. Suddenly, something was behind him, moving like it was after him. Then his navigator was gone, leaving him alone. He swam harder, hoping to make it to the lake's northwest shore. Sixty strokes a minute became seventy. Then seventy-five. Eighty. He kicked with his legs instead of using them for balance. Working those large muscles would drain him, but it didn't matter. In the blackness behind him, something was closing in.

Again, Hawk's voice cut through his sleep like a foghorn.

“Science and nature, for the game. And as always, Mr. Doyle, good luck.”

Sonny sat up, untangled himself from his sweat-soaked sheets, and rose. He was naked and unsteady. Trivial Pursuit at … what? He glanced at his clock radio. One-thirty in the afternoon. Of course. His roommates were matching wits for dish duty. At twenty-two, he was the same age as both Hawk and Doyle. Why did he feel so much older?

Sonny pulled on his Western Pennsylvania Swimming Federation sweatshirt and a baggy pair of Quiksilver shorts. He entered the living room just as Doyle was draining a half-finished bottle of Rolling Rock, closing his eyes, and readying himself for the next question. Their Christmas tree had fallen over. No one else seemed to notice.

“Ah, I see Mr. Corbett has joined us,” Hawk said, waving an iron fireplace poker at Sonny like a sword. “Pleasant sleep after your morning swim? To bring you up to speed, Mr. Doyle needs only to answer this question correctly to avoid that diseased stack of dinnerware in the kitchen. A correct answer will end the game and doom me to an afternoon of drudgery. Do you have any questions?”

Sonny rubbed his fingertips across his eyes. “What's wrong with the kitchen-duty schedule we set up last month?”

Hawk smiled, shook his head. “Nothing, nothing at all. But you must understand, Doyle and I are men of danger. A three-day duty rotation is functional, but—how shall we say it?—it's not exactly living on the edge. This,” Hawk said, sweeping an arm toward the game board between him and Doyle, “introduces an element of risk.”

Doyle finally spoke: “Hit me, assface.”

Hawk fished into the box and withdrew a card from the center of the stack, then turned it face-up on the wooden cable spool they used as a coffee table. With his free hand, he twirled their fireplace poker like a baton.

“Hell-o bee-utiful. Ready? ‘What does a hippophobe fear?' And, as always, good luck, Mr. Doyle.” Hawk was cocky, humming the
Jeopardy!
theme.

Doyle took another long drink. Seconds passed. He was taking too long.

“Tick. Tick. Tick,” Hawk prodded.

“I think it's a trick. Hippos.”

Hawk emitted a loud, buzzerlike sound. “We're so sorry, Mr. Doyle. That's incorrect. You'll get neither the washer-dryer combination nor Carol Merrill, our lovely hostess. May I recommend Ivory liquid? So gentle on your hands. Care to venture a guess, Mr. Corbett?”

“Horses.”

Both roommates looked up, Hawk at Sonny, Doyle at Hawk.

“He right?” Doyle asked.

“Unfuckingbelievable,” Hawk said. “Of course Flipper's right.”

Sonny never lost. His mind was a rich storehouse of useless knowledge, one of the benefits of having lived and worked so close to Carnegie Library since he'd turned eighteen. Trivial Pursuit was the perfect channel for it, but lately the dish-duty challenge bored him as much as his inventory and ordering job in the university's chemistry department.

“All right then, Mr. Corbett, let's see how you are at history, shall we? Double or nothing for the dishes.” Hawk pulled another card from the box. “What war ended with an armistice signed at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month? And, as always—”

Sonny picked up his breakfast dishes from the dining room table and walked them toward the kitchen. “World War I,” he said over his shoulder. He dropped the dishes onto the crusty mound of silverware in the sink, obliterating his roommate's reply. “I'm going out for a walk.”

Hawk was on his feet, waggling the poker at him. “Wait a minute, wiseass. At least help us put this stuff away, or I'll be forced to beat you to within an inch of your life. What's the big hurry, anyway?”

“It's almost two o'clock. Life goes on”—Sonny gestured toward the kitchen window—“
out there.
I may stop by Rec Hall to lift. Need more shoulders for the Lake Erie swim. February's not that far off.”

“The mighty musclehead.” Hawk feigned awe. “Dollar to squeeze your bicep?”

“Supposed to exercise my hands, too.”

“They still going numb?” Doyle asked. He stood, lost his balance for a moment, and sat back down. The Rolling Rock he was holding was obviously not his first of the day.

“Once in a while. Nothing seems to help.”

Hawk seemed to consider that, stroking his chin, at first, then grabbing his crotch. “I know a great exercise for lower-arm strength. Three times a day. You'll notice the difference.”

“Strength's not the problem,” Sonny said, folding the game board. He picked up the box of trivia cards and searched the floor for its top. “They just tingle sometimes. It's weird. They say there's nothing really wrong. You seen the lid to this thing?”

From the apartment's entryway came the clank of the mail slot and the rustle of falling paper. “I'll get it,” Hawk said. He pretended to sheathe his poker by thrusting it down through a belt loop of his jeans, then swaggered off toward the sound. Sonny scanned the floor under the couch for the missing box lid. Hawk was back by the time Sonny stood up, still without the box top.

Hawk flipped through the stack of what looked like credit-card offers and thrift-store flyers, then pulled out a plain white envelope. He held it out to Sonny without looking up.

The only thing on the envelope was Sonny's typewritten name, no postmark or address. Must have been in the box before the mail arrived, Sonny figured. He juggled the box of trivia cards in one hand and slid the thumb of his other under the flap. It opened clean and Sonny somehow got the envelope's contents out without dropping them.

Hawk was still sorting mail when the box of cards suddenly fell onto the floor and scattered trivia like brightly colored confetti. The plain white envelope and the single page it contained fluttered down in its wake. Sonny returned his roommates' startled glances, then all three looked hard at the hands Sonny suddenly couldn't feel.

“What's the matter?” Hawk asked.

“I don't know. My hands.”

“What about them?”

“They feel really weird.”

“They finally match the rest of you!” Hawk was trying hard to keep things light, but stopped after seeing Sonny's face. “No, really, what do you think it is?”

Hawk stooped and picked up the envelope and the letter, which had landed face up. All that was on the page was a single typewritten paragraph, and his roommate read it to himself.

“This a Bible verse, or what?” He held the letter out to Sonny, who tried to grasp it but couldn't. Sonny pressed his limp hands together with a corner of the page between them, then brought it closer to his face. He stared without speaking.

Hawk prodded again: “From somebody you know?”

Late afternoon. Sun would be down in an hour, and he'd lose its warmth to the cold and dark of rural western Pennsylvania. Which was fine. After this, he was heading for Outcrop again, and this time he was ready. Thermal underwear. Heavy boots. Ski gloves. Wool watchcap. He wanted to watch Corbett long enough to establish his rhythms, to predict his movements. He'd brought his deer rifle, too, a Remington 30.06 with a long scope. He liked to be ready for anything.

The walkway was icy, almost like someone had hosed it down. Downing stepped off into the grass and limped toward the front door of the Cuddy house, hoping the day's luck would hold. One more score like this morning's and he might be able to make a circumstantial case against Corbett even if Christensen struck out with Sonny.

A young man answered his knock. Downing recognized the kid's voice from the recording of the 9-1-1 call.

“You must be Mark,” he said.

A man appeared behind the boy, opening the front door wide but keeping the storm door locked. He looked like a man who'd recently lost a lot of weight.

Downing flashed his shield. “Sorry to intrude, Mr. Cuddy. May I come in?”

A Waynesburg College professor, Downing remembered as he followed Cuddy down a hall lined with overfilled bookshelves and into the kitchen at the rear of the house. The kid disappeared up the carpeted stairs without a word, six weeks into a lifetime of rage. He'll be a death penalty supporter someday, Downing said to himself, one of the people cheering outside the prison when the state finally seats Ron Corbett in Old Sparky. Maybe the gods will be kind and let them both watch Corbett broil in that decrepit chair from behind the witness window. Maybe then the kid could move on, maybe then he could go to his own grave in peace.

The kitchen. Downing suddenly realized where he was. He tried to absorb the details, to imagine the scene. The telephone was on the wall near the refrigerator, its long cord tangled into loops and snarls. A cupboard door beneath the sink was missing. The wooden frame where its hinges attached was splintered and cracked, like the door had been torn away. His head echoed with the recorded sound of splitting wood and the solid thump of flesh on floor. Downing tried not to stare too long.

By all accounts, Charles Cuddy had been lecturing in front of seventy-five Waynesburg College undergrads at the moment his wife died. Took only three days for Ramsey and the local posse to rule him out, the geniuses. They noted in a follow-up report that Cuddy took his wife's death particularly hard, and that he probably wouldn't be much help with the investigation.

“You're probably sick of answering questions,” Downing said, settling into one of the breakfast table chairs. Cuddy had not spoken since answering the door. “Sure would appreciate you answering a few more.”

Cuddy arched his eyebrows toward the ceiling. “That's our son. My son. He was with her, but you probably knew that.”

“I heard the tape,” Downing said. “He did everything right.”

“He thinks he could have saved her.”

“He's wrong,” Downing said. Cyanide is unforgiving. The dying starts the second you swallow. He thought of Carole, of their last hours together, of her last minutes alive, alone. He'd needed to get home to Trix that night. If he'd stayed, would he have snatched the Primenyl bottle from her hand when she got it out of the car's glove compartment? Would she still be alive?

“Is he talking to anybody?”

Cuddy nodded. “
Good
people. But it'll be years—”

After an uncomfortable silence, Downing cleared his throat. “I won't take any more of your time than I need, Mr. Cuddy, but I do have one question. And I trust it'll stay between us, because I'm treading on fairly thin ice here, being that the Pittsburgh PD has no official role in this investigation.”

The professor leaned against the counter, apparently confused.

“See, I have a lot of experience in cases like this, and I'm following up on the local investigation, just making sure they've covered all the bases. You remember the similar cases in Pittsburgh in 1986, I'm sure.”

No reaction.

“Maybe there's no connection, like Detective Ramsey says. The cyanide wasn't a chemical twin of the stuff used in Pittsburgh. The methods are different. But with some­thing like this, it pays to be sure. And you can appreciate the delicateness of that situation. I'm just backstopping, but if they know I'm nosing around it'll come off as second-guessing. You follow?”

Long silence. Finally: “I'm not particularly pleased with their follow-up.”

Yes.
“Really?”

“I've called twice since the funeral with information. Just random thoughts. My wife—”

Cuddy peeled the wire-rimmed eyeglasses from his face. A strange smile, less happy than pained. Downing waited.

“There was a man, several years ago.” Cuddy's eyes strayed to the family portrait on the wall: father, mother, only son. “It was a difficult time in our marriage. It's probably irrelevant.”

Downing kept his eyes fixed on the husband's. An old investigator's credo: Nothing is irrelevant until the investigator says so.

“I don't know his name, but I know enough about him that somebody with access to records probably could have tracked him down. It was a long shot, but I at least wanted him questioned.”

Downing knitted his fingers together so he wouldn't fidget. “Why do you think it isn't relevant?”

Cuddy crossed the room and opened a drawer near the stove. He removed an envelope and laid it on the counter, but didn't offer it to Downing.

“It ended years ago, apparently. Just one of those things, something I should have seen coming but didn't. I had no idea. But I found one of the letters he wrote to JoAnn after the funeral. She had it tucked in a book.”

Downing winced, imagining him discovering her betrayal so soon after her death. He stifled his urge to reach for the letter.

“I thought it should be followed up,” Cuddy said. “There's no return address, but I know he lives in Colorado. I know he worked a while at the college, so the administrative office may know where he is. Detective Ramsey took the information, but he never came to get the letter. I don't think he even tried to check it out.”

This was good. The victim's husband wasn't happy with the local investigation.

“I'd be happy to make some calls on it,” Downing said, reaching for the letter. “In their defense, sometimes investigators working a case like this get so bogged down in the day-to-day they have trouble stepping back, seeing the big picture. But someone should follow up, even if it's nothing.”

A Boulder, Colorado, postmark. Downing tucked it into the inside pocket of his sports coat. He would make a call or two, eventually, but at this point he didn't intend to spend a lot of time chasing down old boyfriends with no grudges who lived two thousand miles away. “Anything else you think we need to know about Mrs. Cuddy's death?”

Six-thirty. Pitch black outside. The only downstairs light in the house was from the television screen's glow as the videotape of JoAnn Cuddy's funeral service dragged into its twentieth minute. The priest droned on. Candles flickered. A somber group of five men and the woman's only child lifted the bronze casket into a waiting hearse. Downing had seen most of this on the local news, only with better camera work.

Downing checked his watch again. No way he'd get out to Outcrop tonight. “Who'd you say shot this?”

“Truman, her brother. Thinks he's Cecil B. DeMille. Set up a tripod and videotaped his own angioplasty two years ago.”

Cuddy obviously needed to talk. Sometimes it paid off when grieving relatives mind-dumped on willing strangers. Sometimes it was just a pain in the ass. And so far Downing hadn't seen or heard anything that struck him as useful. Cuddy had relived their courtship, their wedding, the birth of their son. Their vacation to western Canada two years ago. Her fondness for artichokes and Rice Krispies squares.

The cemetery. Truman was relentless. He zoomed on the red burst of roses on top of the casket, on the priest, on Mark's blank face as a spray of holy water hit him square. Truman pulled back to show the shuffling assembly, its breath turning to vapor in the chilly mid-November air. Dark suits. Black dresses. Red eyes.

“That's JoAnn's father there, in the wheelchair,” Cuddy said, pointing at the screen. “Her mom died in '83. Breast cancer. JoAnn was religious about mammograms.”

Downing nodded, checked his watch again. He wanted to get to Outcrop before Corbett went to bed.

The priest committed JoAnn Cuddy to the earth and sketched a cross in the air over the open grave. A few people stepped forward to kiss the casket, but most walked toward their cars. Truman pulled back, but kept rolling straight into a panning shot of the cemetery. Three hundred and sixty degrees, starting with the line of mourners' cars parked along the curb. A distant mausoleum. A grove of flame-red maples. A utility building. The gravedigger's backhoe. A sturdy oak. Neat rows of headstones stretching up and over a hill.

“Go back,” Downing said.

Cuddy stopped describing his wife's collection of Hum­mel figurines. “What?”

“Rewind it a little, but just a little.”

Cuddy aimed the remote. The tape skittered back to the mausoleum. “Like that?”

“Let it run again.”

Downing got up from the couch and crawled toward the screen, “Now stop,” he said. “Right there. Wait, back up again. There.”

The videotape paused. The oak tree filled the screen. Downing focused on the base.

“What?” Cuddy said. “Is that somebody?”

Somebody, shit. Downing leaned closer, then turned around. “Can you stop it from jiggling like that?”

“It's an old VCR.”

Downing looked again. The image wasn't good, but no fucking question. It was Corbett's hairline. “Any idea who that might be?”

“Who?”

“Behind that tree, the guy leaning out in the flannel shirt.”

Cuddy squinted. “Nobody I know, but it's hard to tell. Don't remember him at the funeral.”

“That's the thing. Doesn't look like he was at the funeral. Looks like he was watching it, but not part of it, know what I mean? How far away was that tree?”

“Never even noticed the tree,” Cuddy said. “I was kind of a mess that day. Looks like a hundred feet or so, maybe.”

“And you don't recognize the guy at all?”

Cuddy looked again, then turned on a table lamp beside the couch. “No. Why?”

“Does he turn up in any other footage of the funeral?”

“Not that I remember. Maybe it's one of the people who work at the cemetery.”

Downing wanted to kiss the screen. Unfuckingbelievable. Videotape of Ron Corbett as an uninvited guest at JoAnn Cuddy's funeral. The dumbest goddamned jury in the world would recognize Corbett's hairline. What had he done right to deserve this?

“Could be,” Downing said. “Probably is. Tell you what, though. I'd like to borrow this tape, maybe have our lab guys clean it up a little and get a better look, just to be sure. This the original?”

Cuddy hesitated. “I can ask Truman. Probably first generation. But I don't know. It may mean something to Mark one of these days and I'd hate to lose it.”

Downing gritted his teeth. Patience. Patience. The VCR had two tape bays. Downing patted it gently. “You could copy it and give me the original, see. That way our guys would have the best possible version to work with.”

Cuddy squirmed. “You really think it's that important?”

“Won't know until we look at it closer. Sure hate to overlook something, though,” Downing said. He summoned his best trust-me smile. “Assuming it turns out to be nothing, Mr. Cuddy, I'll get the original right back to you. You have my word.”