Death of an Immortal (17 page)

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Terrill got to his feet. Grime backed away, his eyes wide. He kept his distance, but thankfully didn’t run away.

Perry regained his composure. He shook his head. “There’s something really strange about you, fella. But… it is what it is. Since we’ve lost our home, we’ll have to seek shelter somewhere else. Don’t have much time to do anything but go to the homeless shelter. You up for that?”

Terrill nodded. He didn’t want to go back to the tarp with the holes in it if he could help it, but going into town was going to be dangerous. However, a trio of homeless men was less suspicious than one homeless man. And it wasn’t like he had any other choice.

They started walking toward the road. Both of the other men walked behind him, at a distance, talking quietly between themselves. Terrill didn’t mind. For some reason, he trusted Perry. If his instincts were wrong, then he was probably finished anyway.

He was at peace. It was as if he’d hit bottom and was on his way back up. Something had changed inside him. He was feeling emotions and thinking thoughts he hadn’t experienced in centuries.

He was feeling almost human.

He didn’t see the young man they called Damien hiding in the bushes, a cellphone to his ear, his mouth open in disbelief at the resurrection he’d just witnessed.

Chapter 26

Brosterhouse found Officer Carlan at his desk in the main squad room.

The Bend Police Department had assigned Brosterhouse a room in another part of the building, somewhere out of the way––a minimal courtesy on the part of the local police. It was obvious that behind the scenes, Carlan had made an issue of an outside cop taking over the case.

Brosterhouse was carrying a couple of coffees in white Styrofoam cups. He sat down without being invited and tried to give Carlan one of the cups. Carlan scowled and shook his head. Brosterhouse opened the lid and drank half of it down. Foo-foo coffee, with some kind of added flavor. It was hard to get plain old black coffee these days. Still, he polished off the cup and took the lid off the second one.

“You like this Hardaway family, don’t you?” he said.

“What do you mean?” Carlan sounded defensive.

“I mean, you seem to hang around their home a lot. The way the Hardaways described you, you might be their son-in-law or something.”

“Of course. I dated their daughter for over a year. What’s that got to do with anything?” Carlan was filing papers, not looking up from his desk.
I’m busy,
his manner said.
You’re interrupting my work.

“The two sisters look a lot alike, don’t they?” Brosterhouse was keeping his voice casual, as if he was just making conversation.

Carlan flushed, and Brosterhouse knew he’d hit on something.

“Not really. They don’t look anything alike. Besides, Sylvie’s too young for me.”

“That’s not what
she
says.” Brosterhouse let some of his skepticism creep into voice.

“What?” Carlan stopped shuffling papers and looked up. “What’s going on here? Why all the questions?”

“The Hardaway residence was broken into last night.”

Carlan looked puzzled, and unless he was a hell of an actor, Brosterhouse thought he really was confused. But there was something going on with this officer. He was dirty, Brosterhouse could feel it: the kind of policeman who thought his authority gave him power over others, and who used that power over women most of all.

“What’s missing?” Carlan asked.

“I can’t divulge that,” Brosterhouse said briskly. In reality, the Hardaways hadn’t found anything missing. Carlan seemed shaken, and now was the time to apply some pressure. Maybe the guy would spill something by mistake. Brosterhouse’s voice became hard. “Ms. Hardaway says you were there yesterday evening.”

“Yes, and she probably also told you I left. I didn’t have any of their valuables in my hands, either.”

“No… not that she noticed. But she also didn’t see you drive away. Who’s to say you didn’t come back?”

“Oh, hell. This is ridiculous. I left the scene right then and there.” Carlan paused, and then he smiled. “Wait a minute. I just realized––I have a witness. As I was leaving, I talked to some new neighbor. A Mister Harkins.”

Brosterhouse didn’t breathe for a second. That couldn’t be a coincidence. But if it was the same guy, what did he have to do with the case? Could he be the killer? It took some real brass to question the lead detective on a murder you yourself had committed––not to mention hurling that same detective into an alley––but it also fit the psychological profile of most serial killers. “Describe this guy.”

“Oh, tall––maybe six feet, three inches. Nicely groomed and dressed, slender, in his late forties. Dark hair.”

“Did he have an accent?”

Carlan had been confused by the questioning, shaken, even. But this question seemed to let him off the hook, and he took on an interested expression. “Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He sounded British. Highbrow. You think he has something to do with this? Hanging around the scene of the crime? That kind of guy?”

“Maybe,” Brosterhouse conceded reluctantly.
Dammit.
The whole dynamics of the conversation were changing. The pressure was easing off of Carlan. He’d been near breaking, near to spilling out the truth. Now he had a nice red herring to divert attention.

“I’m going to send some officers over to canvass the neighborhood,” Carlan said, sounding rejuvenated. “Find this Mister Harkins. Shouldn’t be too hard; he said he just moved in.”

“You do that,” Brosterhouse said tiredly. It was unlikely that Mr. Harkins would be found so easily.

He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, and the coffee wasn’t doing anything but giving him a sour stomach. He wanted to go home, but he was pretty sure he had the murderer sitting here right in front of him. They hadn’t found any of Carlan’s suspect’s fingerprints in either the motel room or the car, which Brosterhouse had to admit was pretty strange––as if the guy had worn gloves to bed and in the bathroom. But as far as he was concerned, until the DNA evidence came back, Carlan was still the prime suspect.

He would focus on trying to trip up Carlan, on getting him to confess.

Still, there was the nagging question of this Mr. Harkins, with his… unusual strength. He’d been about to think “supernatural strength,” but Brosterhouse refused to let his thoughts go there. In fact, he’d been trying not to think at all about what had happened in the alley.

How did the Englishman fit into all this? Most murders were about love or money. Unless he was completely wrong, this murder had all the signs of being about love.

But there was another kind of murderer: the kind who killed strangers, and who then hung around to watch all the emotion and drama that surrounded the crime––the kind who tried to get close to the authorities so he could soak it all in. A serial killer.

Brosterhouse had been relieved to find that the sketch of Jonathan Evers didn’t look like Harkins. There were some similarities, but it was obviously a different man.

The name was a coincidence. It had to be.

Chapter 27

Richard Carlan was innocent and he knew it, but he’d been a cop long enough to know that wasn’t any guarantee you’d stay out of jail, not if a determined cop came after you.

Brosterhouse was coming after the wrong guy, but Carlan had no way of proving it. It was frustrating that there hadn’t been any fingerprints. The Portland lab was taking forever with the DNA, just as he’d feared.

He had a good sketch of the missing “Mr. Evers,” at least. The motel clerk had been very observant. But the killer seemed to have disappeared into the darkness without a trace. Though the dogs had been at the scene of the abandoned Escalade within minutes, they hadn’t been able to pick up a scent… which should have been impossible. Carlan had driven back to the motel room and grabbed some of the fugitive’s clothing, but even that didn’t help.

Brosterhouse seemed determined to stick around, and it was making Carlan nervous. His relationship with Jamie had been complicated and messy, and who knew what the Portland cop might turn up if he looked long enough?

Carlan was kicking himself for having uploaded the video he’d taken to a site that paid him a thousand bucks––one of those “boyfriend revenge” sites. It hadn’t even really been about the money. The thousand bucks looked pretty paltry now, especially since it was all spent. But the video was still one of the top ten most downloaded whenever he visited the site. Jamie had been a good-looking girl, and even sexier with her clothes off. Thankfully, his face was never in the picture.

He was pretty sure Jamie had left for Portland without ever knowing about the video, but Carlan lived in fear that someone would recognize her, and that they would realize who her boyfriend had been at the time.

He needed to find Jamie’s murderer quickly and shut down the investigation.

There was a flurry of activity, a ripple through the squad room, which usually meant something major had happened. He got to his feet. Mostly likely they’d found the culprit. Half of the department was out looking for him.

“They get him?” he shouted to one of the cops getting up from his desk and putting on his coat.

“What?” Detective Burkett looked confused for a moment. “Oh, no. Sorry, Richard. There’s been a stabbing at one of the homeless camps.”

Carlan leaned back in his chair, disappointed. And then a little trickle of suspicion entered his mind. Where could the fugitive have fled? He hadn’t been seen on any of the main roads; all the motels had been checked. He had to be eating and sleeping and hiding somewhere.

“Wait up!” he shouted. “I’m coming with you.”

#

The police had found an old service road that ran near the encampment. Floodlights lit up the scene. Two homeless guys were sitting at the edge of the camp, stiff and obviously uncomfortable with all the attention.

“So the guy was dead,” one of the uniformed officers was asking when Burkett and Carlan walked up.

Both of the men were nodding vigorously.

“I’ll take it from here, Jerry,” Burkett said, stepping into the light. He pulled out a recorder. “Tell me what you got.”

“Yes, sir. Apparently there was a fight, and one of these gentlemen stabbed another gentleman in the heart. We got a cellphone call that said that the guy who was stabbed got up and walked away. These guys are saying that’s impossible.”

“All right,” Burkett said, and turned to the two homeless men. “Who stabbed who? And why?”

“Well,” said the younger of the two men, a big guy, clean-shaven on head and chin except for some stubble. “We had a malcontent in camp, guy named Perry. He pulled out a big honking knife and stabbed the other guy. Just like that.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Mark…” The man trailed off, obviously reluctant to say more.

“Mark who?”

“His ID says Mark Lincoln,” the uniformed cop said.

“OK, Mark. What was the fight about?”

“I don’t know,” Mark said. “Booze? Who owned which tent? Bullshit like that. Like I said, Perry was a malcontent. Right, Harve?”

The other homeless man, a guy with a big, bushy gray beard and a ponytail, nodded firmly.

“So I’m confused,” Burkett said. “Who said he walked away?”

The patrolman shrugged. “We got a phone call. Some kid in a panic, it sounded like.”

“That would have been Damien, if I had to guess,” Mark said. “I don’t doubt he had a cellphone. Not that he ever said anything to us about it.”

“All right. Tell me the rest. If the dead body didn’t walk off, where is it?” Burkett sounded frustrated. These kinds of cases should be easy to solve. Bodies didn’t disappear; the culprit was usually still around. He turned to the other homeless man. “Why don’t
you
answer this time, Harve.”

“Perry––that’s the malcontent––he and his buddy Grime carried the body off. Good riddance to Grime, he
stunk.
Said they were going to bury him and that we’d better not say anything. Or else.” He glanced toward Mark, as if looking for confirmation.

There was a hard gleam in the younger man’s eyes. He nodded slightly in approval. Carlan was suddenly certain they were being fed a load of bullshit. He could tell that Burkett thought so too.

Harve continued talking, nervously. “But of course, we’re cooperating. We were planning on walking to town in the morning and reporting it. Damien ran away; I don’t know where he is. Doubt we’ll ever see him again. Probably ran home.”

Mark spoke up again. “I’m telling you, detective. Perry stabbed the new guy right in the heart. Right up to the hilt. No way he walked away.”

Up until then, Carlan had barely been listening. But as soon as he heard the words “new guy,” he stepped over to the two men. He pulled the sketch of the suspect out of his pocket. “Were any of them this man?”

“That’s the new guy! That’s him!” they both exclaimed.

“Where did they go?” Carlan asked. “Where would this Perry and Grime go?”

“I’m betting they’re headed for the homeless shelter,” Mark said. “It’s going to be a cold night. There isn’t really anywhere else they could go.”

Carlan had heard all he needed hear. As soon as he could get confirmation that his suspect was dead, he was off the hook. It wasn’t the best of solutions, there wouldn’t be a confession, but it was good enough. He didn’t care who had killed whom, only that Jamie’s murder was solved.

“Can I take the car?” he asked Burkett.

“Sure, I’ll catch a ride with Jerry. I think we’ll wrap this up for now and come back tomorrow in full daylight to see if we can’t find any new graves dug in the dirt around here.”

“Good luck,” Carlan said, anxious to get away.

Burkett handed him the keys and waved him off.

Carlan tried not to kick up dust in his rush to drive away. He was trying to be calm, to be professional. He knew exactly where to go: he’d accompanied Jamie to the homeless shelter more than once, dropping her off and picking her up from her volunteer work. Father Harry would know who these men were.