Daughter of Darkness (19 page)

    "I met him last night, actually. But I needed his address.

    Thanks."

    "No problem."

    "I appreciate it, Briney. You're not having any luck with the van?"

    "It's a lease job. Imperial Leasing. That part's easy enough. But I haven't been able to find out who it's leased
to
yet."

    "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep trying."

    "My pleasure."

    "I'm putting two fifties in an envelope as soon as I hang up."

    "That's my pleasure, too," Briney laughed.

    Coffey knew that he could probably have gotten Briney to cooperate free of charge. But this was more efficient. And it would incline Briney to help him again in the future.

    "I'll keep trying on that lease job," Briney said.

    

    

    He put on some fresh coffee. He found some sugar cookies up in the cupboard and set those out, too. They were a bit stale but edible.

    He figured she wouldn't sleep long, and he was right. She lasted an hour, and then she got up and went to the john. She stayed in there ten minutes and came out. Her wig was gone. So was all her makeup.

    When she came into the kitchen, she said, "It is you."

    He just watched her.

    "From the other night," she said. "The cabbie."

    She walked over to the kitchen table. "How did I get here? The last thing I remember, I was home with my parents, and-" She looked around, her gaze lingering on various items. Then, "May I sit down?"

    The correct usage of "May I" confirmed what he'd suspected the moment he'd seen her in the kitchen doorway just now. Linda Fleming was gone. She was once more Jenny Stafford.

    "Sure," he said. "Sit down and I'll get you some coffee."

    He took her cup to the counter, filled it, brought it back, sat down across from her.

    "I had a blackout again, didn't I?"

    "Well, not exactly a blackout. But something like it."

    "I don't know what you mean."

    "I'd better let my friend Hal Ford explain it. He'll be calling soon."

    "Who's Hal Ford?"

    "He's a psychologist."

    "I'm already seeing a psychiatrist."

    "Well, Hal practices hypnosis, too. He's very good at it."

    She blew on her coffee. "Why would I need a hypnotist?"

    "Does the name Linda Fleming mean anything to you?"

    She didn't hesitate. "No. Who is she?"

    He didn't answer her question directly. "Did you find a lot of makeup on your pillow this morning?"

    "Yes, as a matter of fact." She set her cup down. Looked around some more. "I'm scared again. Just like the other night. I still don't know how I got here."

    The phone rang. He was most appreciative. He didn't want to get into anything about multiple personalities until Hal Ford was here.

    "Hello," Coffey said.

    "This is your old friend Margie Ryan. Mr. Coffey."

    "Oh. Hi."

    "I just wondered if you'd heard anything from your friend."

    "My friend?"

    "I wouldn't be so coy, Mr. Coffey. I could still decide to tell the DA's office how you decided not to call the police when you found Mr. Benedict's body in the motel room. And how you just let the woman walk off."

    "You really think they'd charge me?"

    "They'd charge you in a minute, Mr. Coffey. In a minute. So why don't you knock off the crap and tell me if you know where your lady friend is?"

    He looked straight across the table at Jenny Stafford. "No, I haven't seen her since that night."

    Silence on the other end. "It's called aiding and abetting, Mr. Coffey. In case you're interested."

    "If I see her, you'll be the first to know."

    "You'd better. Because you'll be in a whole lot of trouble if I find out you didn't."

    She hung up.

    Jenny said, "You don't look happy."

    "Just a little problem I have. No big deal."

    She yawned. "Excuse me. I don't know why I'm so sleepy."

    "It's not easy drinking coffee. Wears you out."

    She said, "So how did I get here?"

    "I think I'd rather wait till you've talked with Hal."

    "That makes me nervous. That you won't tell me."

    "It won't be long."

    "Did I do something you're afraid to talk to me about?"

    "I just think he can handle it a little better than I can, Jenny. Nothing sinister at all. I promise."

    "Is my car here?"

    "No," he said.

    "Did I come here in a cab?"

    "Jenny, look, I-"

    The phone rang again.

    "Just a minute," he told her.

    He picked up the receiver from the wall phone. "Hello." Then, "It's Hal. He'd like to talk to you."

    She got up and walked unsteadily over to the phone. "Hello."

    Hal took over from there. They talked for nearly forty minutes.

    

    

    Skyway Terrace was a land of expensive, two-story brick homes set against a backdrop of forest and piney hills. The driveways were clogged with vans and Volvos. These were Mom's cars. Dad would have the more expensive one at work, unless he opted for the commuter train. Coffey noted a small depot on his way in. This wasn't a town. It was a small collection of new homes and nothing more. The closest Pizza Hut was five miles away, the closest mall ten. This was the veritable frontier.

    His passage was noted by a few women out working on their yards. They leaned on their rakes and watched him with solemn curiosity. There was no thought of waving. Strangers were not welcome here. Strangers were house burglars and arsonists and child molesters. Given the way things had been going in this country, he didn't blame them for their fears.

    He found the house he was looking for. He pulled in the driveway and stopped. David Foster lived in a Southern Traditional style home. The entrance was dramatic, flanked as it was by two brilliant white columns. There were gables and ornate moldings as well. The lawn was nicely landscaped. There was a bird fountain and a sundial and a gazebo. It was all a little cluttered. Coffey reasoned. But pleasantly so.

    He got out of the car and walked up to the front door, past the two columns. Everything was new here. You could smell fresh paint. He pressed the bell. Inside, he could hear the bells peal forth a mini-symphony.

    In all, he rang three times. There was no answer. He was about to give up when he heard a voice behind him say, "Something I can help you with?"

    Coffey turned around. At the bottom of the steps stood David Foster. To celebrate the warm day, he wore chinos and a paint-splotched T-shirt and white tennis shoes without any socks. He was a good-looking young man, but there was an air of anxiety about him that made him seem very young and insecure. He wore mud-stained white work gloves. In his right hand he had a garden trowel. He held it like a weapon.

    "Mr. Foster."

    At first, Foster didn't seem to recognize who was talking. Just some stranger. But as Coffey walked out of the shadows of the narrow porch and into the sunlight, he saw recognition fill Foster's eyes.

    "Hi," Foster said. "How'd you find me?"

    "I used to find people for a living," Coffey said. "I was a homicide detective."

    "Really?"

    Coffey nodded. "In the restaurant, you made it sound as if you had something to tell me about Jenny. That's why I looked you up."

    Foster pitched his trowel to the grass then slipped out of his gloves. "They say gardening relaxes you." He smiled sadly. "So far it hasn't done much for me. You like a beer or something?"

    "No, thanks."

    Foster stared off at the woods to the north. He didn't speak for a long moment. Then he turned his gaze back upon Coffey and said, "She tell you I dumped her?"

    "No. I don't know much about her."

    "Yeah. I just walked away one day. I'd met this woman. It didn't last long. Then I ran around a while. And then, finally, I realized that I was still in love with Jenny." Foster flung his gloves on top of the trowel. "Anyway, I've been trying to win her back. I see now that I still love her."

    At first, Coffey didn't recognize the feeling for what it was. He felt irritated suddenly. But why? Foster was being nice enough. Jealousy. When he realized the feeling, he felt shocked. He was jealous of Foster. Felt possessive of Jenny. Didn't want anybody else to see her. Not even ex-boyfriends who'd been crazy enough to dump her. He changed the subject quickly. "The other night you said there were good guys and bad guys in Jenny's life. Who're the bad guys?"

    "I'm not sure. Not yet. That's why I put off calling you."

    "Maybe I could help you."

    "Maybe. But not right now. I shouldn't have shot my mouth off the way I did."

    "International Investigations helping you, are they?"

    He was slow in reacting. He looked angry at first, but then his face broke into one of his melancholy smiles. "I guess you really were a homicide cop, huh?"

    "Cummings made it easy for me. He left his card with a friend of mine."

    "Maybe he's not such a good detective? That what you're saying?"

    "That I couldn't say. I don't know the guy. But Jenny's in trouble, and if he knows anything that can help her, he should share it with me. Then we can take it to the police."

    Inside the house, the phone started ringing. "I'd better get that. Then I've got to get ready to go into the city."

    "What about Cummings?"

    "Go talk to him, Mr. Coffey."

    "Will you call him and tell him to cooperate with me?"

    The phone was insistent now.

    "I'll tell him."

    Then Foster was running around to the back door of the small mansion, leaving Coffey to stand in the sunlight and look over the sweep of well-kept lawn. He was trying very hard not to think of the jealousy he'd felt just a few minutes ago. He was also trying very hard not to think about how much Jenny reminded him of Janice. With one exception-he'd never considered the possibility that Janice might be a killer.

    

    

    The van was parked half a block away from where Foster's sweeping drive emptied out on to a tree-shaded, asphalt road.

    For the first time, Coffey realized that there were at least two vans used in following him and Jenny around. This one had different license plates. And whitewalls. The other van had blackwalls. Otherwise, the exteriors were the same, including the same small black box on the roof.

    The window of the van was empty as Coffey passed it. Presumably, the driver was in the cargo area of the vehicle. But not for long. Coffey had barely gone a block before the van swung into a U-turn and headed eastward to fall into place behind him.

    They went fifteen minutes in this formation. The driver always stayed a sensible half block behind. Coffey pretended to be unaware of the van. But what he was really doing was setting up a maneuver that had worked for him a few times back in his cop days.

    He drove a few more blocks then took an abrupt right into an alley that ran behind a shopping mall. They came right after him. He took seven blocks' worth of alleys and it was quite the ride. He was traveling at sixty mph. The car slammed into ruts, skidded into garbage cans and dumpsters, fishtailed on long patches of gravel. There was no reason for the van to come after him, but you could always count on a guy's sense of macho to make him do stupid things. The van driver was obviously not going to let himself be shown up by Coffey.

    But was it going to work? Coffey needed a clear stretch of about a quarter block to pull his trick off. He also needed enough clear space to turn his car completely around. He drove two, three more blocks, the alley ruts seeming to grow deeper and deadlier, the bottom of the car banging against the ruts with mournful scraping-metal noises.

    He lucked out. He found a small loading dock with a concrete apron just big enough for the maneuver. He gunned his car. When he was roughly a quarter block ahead of the van, he whipped into the loading area and spun his car around, accelerating in the turn, never once tapping the brakes. The screech of tires filled his ears and the surprise of the van driver's face filled his eyes. Coffey floored his car, driving straight for the front of the van. The van driver was good. He managed to brake the vehicle before slamming into Coffey, the van sliding and fishtailing on the gravel, the tires throwing gravel as far as twenty feet behind.

    Coffey was already out of his car, running toward the passenger side of the van. His police revolver filled his right hand. There was a woman in some kind of uniform riding shotgun. She watched him coming then, as he got near, her window came down instantly. She had a harsh face with short, thatch-like gray hair. She took a small red plastic ball about the size of a lemon, ripped off the top grenade-style, and threw it at Coffey.

    He was blinded and gagged instantly. She had loosed some kind of gas upon the air. A thick chemical-smelling fog encased Coffey and he dropped to his knees and then fell to his face on the gravel. Before he passed out, he could hear the van transmission whine in reverse. The van was escaping.

    The van was…

    … and then there was…

    … nothing…

    

    

    The cancer scare had come right before Jenny had been put in the psychiatric hospital. Two aunts on her mother's side had! died in their thirties of breast cancer. The day Jenny found the lump in her left breast-she wasn't very dutiful about self-exams while showering, always thinking, wrongly, that she was too young for such worries-that day she saw her mother and father dissolve into total terror. Her folks rushed her to the doctor as soon as possible. Then began the long wait for the biopsy. Her mother put the best face on it she could. She was sure it was benign. She was sure it was nothing. But every evening during the three-day wait, she heard her mother crying late into the darkest hours of the night. Dad holding her and trying to comfort her. That was the great curse of the family, the genetic predisposition to breast cancer, and the women lived constantly under its shadow.