Torch Song (4 page)

When Constance came down at nine, at first he thought her radiant smile was for him, but then he saw that she was gazing past him at the world turned into fairyland.

“Oh,” she said, and went to the door.

“And good morning to you, too,” he said huffily.

A thin coating of ice glistened on every blade of grass, every twig, every tree branch; already it was starting to drip diamonds. The weather forecast said it would be gone by noon. If he could go out there with a giant heat machine, he thought, he'd do it, and it would be gone now. He continued to watch her at the door, and when she turned away finally, whatever it was on his face changed her smile into an expression tender and private. Charlie didn't think anyone on earth but him had ever seen that look.

“I'll make you some scrambled eggs,” he said. “I'll even bring your coffee.”

She nodded and sat down, then eyed the table curiously. He had brought out the road map, a calendar, his notebook, and the faxes of ex-cons' names, and she couldn't tell what else.

He brought coffee and went back to the counter near the sink. “Onions, cheese?” he asked.

“Everything. I'm starved.”

He laughed and began breaking eggs, enough for both of them; he was starved again, too. When they were both eating, he said, “I looked for a pattern for the dates—zilch. Two on a Saturday, one on Tuesday, and like that. No pattern. And they're spread out over the months, too. Not the first week, or the last, just sort of random. No pattern there, or in the intervals between fires.” Always look for patterns, he had advised rookies in training. But you don't always find them, he now added.

“So, what's the plan?” she asked, motioning toward the papers he had pushed to one side.

“First, I want to see the other sites, just to check them out. I don't know what I'm looking for, to be honest. Then, a visit to Marla.”

“You think he might be hanging around her?”

“Maybe,” he said soberly. “I hope to God he is.”

He would take his gun, she knew, and no doubt Peter Eisenbeis would be armed. Slowly she said, “Charlie, listen a minute. You know a lot of people, and most of them will be like Werner, on your side. An APB on Pete might catch him in a day or two. You don't have to do this by yourself.”

“The people who really count won't be like Werner,” he said. He had already considered this; he gave her an abbreviated version of where his considerations had led him.

“First, he skipped out on his parole officer, so they already have a bulletin out. Second, he might lead them to nearly three hundred thousand in cash and millions in paper, so they're looking. Third, even if they get him, I'm not off the hook, because he's bound to have as good an alibi as mine, or better. Fourth,” he finished, “they already think they know who torched those buildings; they aren't looking for anyone else.” What they were doing, he knew, was sending flocks of agents out to every location, asking questions about a white car, a stocky man with dark hair turning gray, flashing his picture

“So where do we start today?” Constance asked when he became silent.

“Toss a coin. We can go over to Pittsfield and on down to Danbury, and Tuxedo Park, or we can go down to Middletown first and then Marla. Can't do all three sites in one day and still get to Marla, I'm afraid. I thought we'd pack a suitcase, pile up in a motel tonight, then hang around Tuxedo Park tomorrow and ask a few questions.”

“It will be mountain driving all day if we go to Middletown,” Constance said, and he said, “Right.” They decided on Pittsfield and points south. An hour later when they started, the ice was gone, and most of the lingering snow with it.

Charlie drove today, mostly on the interstates, and too fast. “Pittsfield,” he said as they neared the town in Massachusetts. “Two adjacent warehouses, one furniture, the other a wholesaler for craft supplies. Two dead, a watchman and a transient, who apparently sneaked in and went to sleep.” Soon they had entered a district of warehouses and car lots. Again the building sites they were looking for were closed off with a new fence, and again access would have been simple without the fence. Just warehouses with loading docks, drives, parking areas, a road behind everything, fields behind that, and nothing in the way of anyone with a sprayer filled with gas. He could have been heading out U.S. 7 before an alarm went off. What he couldn't have done was hang around and watch the show.

Charlie was tempted to skip the next one, but since he was driving on U.S. 7, and Danbury was on the way, he headed for the theater site. It would be the same, he thought, disgruntled, pondering the question of how Pete had been able to find such ideal places in such a short time. Had he drawn a circle on a map and worked only within the circumference? It looked like it. What he would give, he thought then, to find such a map with Pete's prints all over it, with each town circled in red.

“You don't suppose he knew any of those people who died, do you?” Constance asked. She was looking at the descriptions of the victims: a shopkeeper in Middletown, fifty-eight, lived there all his life; a chemist who had lived in Utica for twenty years, vice president of the paint company. The transient had been twenty-four, bumming around after serving in the navy for four years; the watchman, sixty-four… . She gave it up. Charlie didn't bother to respond. He didn't suppose.

The theater in Danbury was constructed of brick and wood; it had been repaired, the first of the buildings to be burned, the first one fixed again. It would have been the biggest challenge, too, Charlie thought as he drove through an alley behind the building. On the other side of the alley was a medical complex with a large parking lot, and a Methodist church on the comer, but the alley was narrow, and this was practically in the center of town. He must have driven exactly where Charlie was edging along. This was the only place where he had run any risk at all. But at three in the morning, who would be up looking? He suspected Pulaski would be concentrating on Danbury, maybe going from house to house, betting on the theory that someone was always up and looking. The fire had not done as much damage here as in the other buildings they had inspected. Pete had been learning on the job. By the time he hit the warehouses in Pittsfield, he had been a real pro who did not take risks.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, they checked into a motel in Tuxedo Park and got directions for Cedar Falls, which turned out to be a hamlet a few miles to the west. Charlie nodded as he drove through Cedar Falls: a supermarket with prices posted in the windows, and a smaller, more discreet grocery without signs in the windows, an antique shop, a few small houses set back off the highway. A Porsche and a Cadillac were in a gas station being serviced. A fine Victorian house partly hidden by trees had a sign swinging in the breeze: CHELSEY HOUSE.

“Restaurant,” Constance said. “Look at the size of that parking lot!”

The road narrowed when they left the tiny town: a slender black snake frozen in motion. The woods were dense here; the only indications that there were also houses were the many driveways that vanished among trees and shrubs. Most of the entrances had gates or chains. Some of them had signs with names. He spotted the name Boseman with a sigh of relief. That driveway had neither gate nor chain, but it wound among trees just like the rest, to a large, handsome split-level house with a lot of windows and a turnaround at the front entrance.

“Well,” he said, “little Marla struck it rich.”

She could have used a yardman, Constance thought as they went to the front door. The grounds were unkempt, overgrown with shrubs and flower beds that had been neglected for years and were a mass of decaying flower stalks, weeds, and leaves. Seedling maples had been allowed to grow, crowding one another, all spindly.

The door was opened by a young woman who looked surprised to see them. “Oh, I was expecting someone else. What do you want?”

“Can we talk?” Charlie asked pleasantly. “We're looking for Peter Eisenbeis.”

She started to close the door; he held it open. “I don't know where he is,” she said sharply. “I told them that already.”

She was slender and pretty, dressed in jeans and sneakers and an oversized white sweater. Her hair was black and long, caught up in a ponytail tied with a red ribbon. She looked almost exactly the way he remembered her from thirteen years ago.

“Mrs. Boseman—Marla—Pete's in very serious trouble. I have to find him before it gets even worse.” His voice was gentle; he made no motion to push the door open.

She looked from him to Constance, back. A slight frown appeared on her forehead as she studied him. “Who are you?” she asked, nearly whispering.

“Meiklejohn. I arrested Pete thirteen years ago.”

“Why did you come here? What's he done? I told you, I don't know where he is!” She stepped back from the door.

They followed her into the house. “Let's just talk,” Charlie said. “Maybe you know something and just haven't thought of it.”

She shook her head but made a vague motion toward an arch on one side of the foyer they had entered. Inside the house, the same lack of attention showed that was evident on the grounds; there was dust on a sideboard near the door, and an empty vase, also dusty. A pale blue rug that was deep and soft was also dirty, with a trail of footprints embedded in it. The room she led them to was spacious, with twin sofas, many chairs with damask covers, everything dirty, dusty, uncared for, all the expensive furnishings untended. She waved toward the sofas, and she perched on the edge of a chair. Almost immediately, she stood up again.

“I have to do something,” she said. “I'll be right back.” She hurried from the room, and after a moment Charlie and Constance followed. He kept his hand in his pocket, where he had put his .38.

They trailed after her up a short flight of stairs and saw her enter a room. Moving without a sound, they went to the open door, and now they could hear her voice; it had softened and sounded musical.

“Honey, I won't be long, and Roy will be here any minute. He's running a little late today, he said. Do you want me to put on a movie?…
Beauty and the Beast
again?… How about
The Canterville Ghost
? I'll just raise the chair a little. Here we go… .”

She continued to speak in a soothing, comforting tone. Looking through the doorway, Charlie could see the boy, her son, an elongated figure on a reclining wheelchair—so thin, he hardly raised the sheet. For a second, he looked bald, but then Charlie could see pale, fuzzy hair. His head appeared oversized for the thin neck; his arms on the sheet were skeletal, and he did not make a sound. The elaborate wheelchair was near French windows leading to a balcony, and a mammoth television was against the wall opposite his bed. A round maple table and a single chair were close to the bed. Silently, Charlie drew back when he felt Constance's fingers on his arm. They returned to the living room and sat without speaking until Marla reappeared in the arched doorway. The sound track of a movie was barely audible.

Before Marla could enter the room, the doorbell rang, and she ran to open it. “Roy, thank God! He's had a terrible day, and he's so tired.”

A large man walked past the arch, his head cocked as he listened to Marla. “I think if you just let him soak for a long time and then give him a massage, maybe he'll relax enough to eat something.” Her voice faded as they passed out of sight.

A minute later, she was back, and this time she sat down. “I'll tell you what I told the others,” she said. “And that's all I can tell you.”

She was as rigid as a department-store mannequin. Her white-knuckled fingers clutching the chair arms looked frozen.

“Pete came here a day or two after he got out,” she said in a low, fast monotone. “I told him to leave and he did. I haven't seen him since and I haven't heard from him.”

Charlie held up his hand. “Not quite so fast, Mrs. Boseman.”

“Don't call me that,” she said sharply.

“All right,” Charlie said. “But you see, we really do need to find Pete. Mind if we look around a little, just to make the record complete.”

She jumped up. “You think he's here? I'm hiding him? I told you, we had a fight and I threw him out. Be my guest, help yourself, look. I'm going to make Nathan something to eat.” She left the room swiftly, without a backward glance.

When Charlie stood and glanced at Constance, she shook her head and walked out after Marla. He started to explore the large house.

Constance followed Marla to the kitchen and stood back out of the way as she began to prepare food for her son. The kitchen was spotless. It was ultramodern, with a cooking island, stainless steel everywhere, white tiles, white appliances, all gleaming. An adjoining room that overlooked the back of the property held a television, comfortable chairs with russet-and-green covers, a dining table and chairs. That room looked used, as if this was where she spent her time. Half a dozen fashion magazines were on a sofa, jewelry and garden catalogs.

Marla was cutting up cooked carrots; she put them in a commercial blender and whirred them briefly, added milk and whirred them again, and scraped them into a small plastic bowl; she tasted the puree, added salt and a half teaspoon of sugar, stirred, and tasted it again. She put a lid on it and began to cut up potatoes to repeat the process. The food had the consistency of cream. A piece of well-done steak was next; she blended it with stock until it was like a thin soup. When the dinner was prepared, she put the bowls into a microwave.

She washed the blender and made a milk shake with frozen strawberries, a banana, half an apple, milk, and a scoop of ice cream. She poured it into a plastic glass and snapped on the kind of top used for toddlers just learning to drink from a glass. She put it in the refrigerator.

Finally, she looked at Constance. “What are you, an investigator for the health department or something?”