Night Terrors (26 page)

Chapter Forty-four

It was just past nine when I got home from Eleanor's. The last thing I remember thinking, before collapsing into bed, was that the next morning was Saturday. Which meant that, since my involvement with the FBI had ended, I was free to go back to work on Monday. Recovered from my bout with the “flu.” Able to see patients again.

I probably thought about Eleanor and me as well, but an urgent need for sleep overtook me so quickly I don't recall what conclusions I came to. If any.

I must've slept over ten hours, until the insistent buzz of my cell on the nightstand woke me. I gasped as I reached for it, feeling the full effects of the physical punishment I'd taken recently. Everything ached, pinched.

The display on my cell read 7:15 a.m.

“Dr. Rinaldi?” A young, hearty voice I struggled to recognize. “This is Sergeant Harve Randall, Wheeling PD. Remember me?”

“Of course, Sergeant.” Still half asleep.

“Chief Block gave me your number and asked that I call you. We got us a little situation here and he thought you could help.”

I rubbed my eyes into wakefulness. Sat up in the bed.

“What kind of situation?”

“Well, I don't know all the details, exactly, but Wes Currim got himself arraigned yesterday, so we're moving him to county jail. General population.”

“I didn't know…”

“No reason you should, I guess. Anyway, when Wes' mother learned about it, she kinda freaked out.”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“Mrs. Currim came down here to the station and started cussin' out the chief. Throwin' stuff, too.”

“That doesn't sound like Maggie Currim.”

“I know. She always seemed real ladylike to me, too. But she said she was afraid of what's gonna happen to Wes when he goes to county. Threatened to go on a sit-down strike right there in the chief's office. We had to have some uniforms remove her bodily.”

“You're kidding me.” By now, I was desperate for some black coffee and a fistful of aspirin. “Where is she now?”

“In lockup. Remember where I took you to see Wes? Same building. Different cell, though.”

“That seems wise, Sergeant. And Chief Block wanted you to call me—?”

“He hopes you can get down here ASAP and talk some sense into the lady. We got enough to deal with today—movin' Wes, dodging reporters. That whole circus again.”

I considered my response, but only for a moment. The image of Maggie Currim sitting in a jail cell, hands demurely folded on her lap, made the decision for me.

“On my way, Sergeant.”

***

Thankfully, the weatherman had gotten it right and no new snow had fallen during the night. And the highway to Wheeling, now both plowed
and
salted, presented no problem, either. Though my rental was equipped with snow tires.

I pulled into the precinct parking lot and stepped out into a cold but sunlit day. There were no TV news vans in sight, which probably meant that Wes Currim had already been relocated to county jail.

Entering the precinct's lobby, I found Sergeant Randall talking with that same desk officer I'd seen the last time I was here. Randall was taking a jacket from a rack of hanging coats whose hooks were deer antlers.

“Hey, Doc.” He reached to shake hands, then noticed the bandages. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. Little accident.”

He absorbed this. “You made good time.”

“Roads were fine. Is Chief Block in his office? I'd like to speak to him before I talk to Mrs. Currim.”

Randall buttoned his jacket. “Ya just missed him. He went with the wagon takin' Wes to County. A couple news vans were waitin' across the street, plannin' to follow 'em. The Chief wanted to be there when they made the delivery. Wes' lawyer—what the hell's his name?…”

“Willard Hansen.”

“Right. Hansen's gonna be there. Givin' Wes moral support or whatever. Chief Block wants to make sure they don't turn this into a media event.”

“Lotsa luck.”

“Tell me about it.” He turned to the desk officer. “See ya later, Stan. And don't forget to put ten bucks down on the Browns for me. I got a feelin' about this one.”

As Randall led me across the parking lot to the lockup, he jerked his thumb back toward the precinct.

“Stan runs a little action on the side. Chief Block don't mind and it puts a few extra bucks in Stan's pocket. He's got an autistic kid.”

“I'm glad the chief sees it that way.”

“It's a small town, Doc. Makes us a pretty tight-knit group, know what I mean? Like a family.”

When we stepped into the building, we followed the same procedure as before. Randall handed me off to a guard, who walked me down to the visitor's room. The guard left me there for a minute, and then returned with Maggie Currim. Without a word, he went out and took his place in the corridor beyond. Eyes staring flatly into the room through the rectangular window.

Maggie was equally silent as she took a seat opposite mine at the pinewood table. Sitting in the same chair her son Wes had used when I questioned him.

I went first. “It's good to see you again, Maggie.”

“I wish I could say the same, Dr. Rinaldi. Oh, dear, did you burn yourself?”

My goddam hands again. “It's nothing.”

Wearing a beaded blouse and black slacks, her coat wrapped about her shoulders, she presented the same picture of dignified poise as when we spoke in my office. Though her face was pale and drawn, and her fingers, interlaced and resting on the table, twitched noticeably.

“I think I understand why you came here to see Chief Block,” I said. “Why you were so upset.”

“Upset? I behaved like a harpy. Using foul language. Throwing things in the chief's office. I swear, I'll never forgive myself.”

“None of that matters, Maggie. You have every right to be concerned. Given the crime Wes is charged with, and his media notoriety, I can see his having trouble with other inmates in County. That's why I came down. I wanted to see
you
, of course. But I also want to talk to the DA. Maybe I can persuade her to put Wes in a protected cell block. Out of the general population.”

“Good luck with that one, Doctor. Our lawyer, Mr. Hansen, already approached her with the same request. She denied it.” Her voice broke. “Something's going to happen to my Wesley in that place, I know it. Something bad.”

I covered her clasped hands with mine.

“Look, Maggie. This DA owes me a favor. I helped out when Wes took the police to where Ed Meachem's body was found. I'm hoping I can call in that favor now.”

Blinking back tears, she managed to look squarely at me. That familiar mix of pride and vulnerability.

“But why would you help us? I know you think Wesley is guilty. Even though
I
know he isn't.”

“The truth is, I don't know whether Wes is guilty or not. I
do
know that justice wouldn't be served if something happened to him in prison before his trial.
Or
after.”

“I…Thank you, Doctor. You're a good man.”

Then, hesitating, she spoke again. “I also…I've been thinking about our conversation in your office, and—well, I wasn't exactly honest with you about something.”

“About what?”

“My husband Jack. I told you I didn't care about him anymore. Since he ran away with that girl…”

“Lily Greer.”

She nodded sadly. “I mean, I know I said she could have him and all that…But it isn't true. No matter how badly he treated me, I always loved Jack. And I still do.”

“I'm surprised to hear that.”

A thin smile. “I'm surprised myself, Doctor. I guess I'm not as proud as I like to think. Even though he cheated on me, I'd take him back. In a heartbeat. Wesley can't understand it, of course. He never could. But love is…” She paused. “Love is God's gift to us, I suppose. Whether we deserve it or not. Most people would probably say that Jack doesn't deserve it. But I love him just the same. If he came back from Fiji or wherever tomorrow, I'd want to be with him again. And I'd hope he felt the same about me.”

She searched my face. “Does that make me a fool, Dr. Rinaldi?”

“Not in my book. Besides, Jack isn't—”

I silently cursed myself, instantly regretting my words. I felt my face flush.

Maggie slipped her hands out from beneath mine.

“Do you know something? About Jack?”

“Not really. I probably shouldn't have said anything. It's just that…well, the truth is, I think Jack and Lily are still here. In the United States.”

“How do you know?”

“Like I said, I don't. But I have a strong hunch. Lily Greer never picked up her passport, which she would need to travel overseas. Plus I don't get the impression that either one of them would be that comfortable living abroad. Not indefinitely, anyway.”

She sighed heavily. “I used to think the same thing. I even consulted a private detective once, hoping he might be able to locate them. But he said that, by now, the trail has probably gone cold.”

“Doesn't sound like much of a detective.”

“I think he was just trying to spare my feelings. I imagine, if people really don't
want
to be found…”

Maggie let the words die on her lips.

I cleared my throat and slowly got to my feet. Her eyes, strangely unfocused, didn't follow me.

“Let's concentrate on what we
can
do,” I said. “First thing, I'll talk to Chief Block about getting you out of here. Then I'll call the DA about Wes.”

She didn't stir. Spoke to the air.

“I don't care about me, Dr. Rinaldi. It's my son I'm worried about.”

“I understand. And I promise I'll do my best.”

I motioned to the guard through the viewing window.

***

Walking back through the midmorning chill to the precinct, I caught sight of Sergeant Randall. He'd changed into a thicker winter coat and ear muffs, and was climbing behind the wheel of his police cruiser.

I trotted over to where he sat waiting, with the car door open. He started up the engine and revved it. A milk-white cloud of exhaust rose against the clear sky.

“Needs a tune-up, I think.” He gave me a toothy grin. “How'd things go with Mrs. Currim?”

“Fine, Sergeant. But I do need to speak with the chief now. Is he back from county jail yet?”

Randall clucked his tongue. “I just got off the phone with him. Sounded like he'd had enough o' police business for the day. Hell, he don't usually work Saturdays anyway.”

“Then where is he?”

“He said he was goin' home. You can call him there if you want.”

“I'd rather talk to him in person. Can you give me his address?”

Randall hesitated for a moment, then grinned again.

“I guess that'd be okay. But if he gives me hell about it later, I'm puttin' the blame on you.”

“Seems only fair.”

He wrote the address on the back of his business card and handed it to me.

“See ya around, Doc.” Shutting his car door.

I watched as he pulled out of the lot, trailing a thinning plume of exhaust smoke. Then I got into my car and turned the key.

Unfortunately, the rental wasn't equipped with a GPS. So I dutifully pulled out the map of the area I'd picked up at a gas station on the way down here and looked for Chief Block's place.

It wasn't easy to find. When I finally did, I groaned audibly.

Great
, I thought.
In the middle of fucking nowhere.

 

 

Chapter Forty-five

I realized, soon after turning off the main highway and venturing into the stark January woods outside of town, that I'd neglected to get Chief Block's number from Sgt. Randall. Which meant I'd be showing up unannounced.

The only route to Block's house was a series of bumpy, poorly-marked dirt roads. None of which had seen a snowplow in weeks, if ever. To make any headway, even with snow tires, I had to keep my wheels positioned in the deep furrows carved by the few vehicles that had preceded me. One of which, I presumed, had been the chief's.

Finally, I made a sharp right onto what looked to be a fire road. There was only one set of tire tracks—some kind of four-wheel-drive vehicle, from the look of the tread marks—and I again let my own tires slip into the deep, soot-spackled grooves.

After a hundred yards or so, I turned again, this time onto a narrow gravel driveway. Passing slowly through a tree-ribbed tunnel of icy branches and window-high snow banks, I approached a modest though well-kept ranch house. Front walk and porch recently shoveled clear, it was a brick and redwood structure boasting an impressively peaked, snow-collared roof. A Ford SUV I took to be the chief's was parked in an attached covered car port.

I'd just pulled next to it when I heard the gunshot. Then its echo, fluting off the surrounding woods.

About to bolt out of the car, I thought better of it and carefully opened the door. Looked left and right. And listened. Hard.

It took me a moment to get a fix on where the shot had come from. Then I had it. Behind the house. Before I could decide my next move, there was a second shot. Again, its booming echo, this time accompanied by the outraged cry of a crow.

Followed by the harsh, throaty growl of a man, hurling a volley of curses into the trees.

A voice I recognized. Chief Avery Block.

My senses tightened like coiled wire, I hazarded a slow, careful walk around the near side of the house.

Rounding the corner, I came upon a broad, snow-dotted yard, overhung with thin black branches that reached down like gnarled fingers.

Chief Block stood in the middle of the yard, beside a picnic table incongrously buried inches up its legs in snow. Though the table itself had been swept clean in curved swatches, as though by a gloved palm. Two empty beer cans lay crumpled atop it.

The Chief turned and peered with open irritation at my approach. He was bareheaded, and his winter coat was un-buttoned. In his left hand was another beer can, from which he casually took a swig.

In his right hand was a gun.

A Taurus 44M Tracker. It was easy to recognize, since I'd seen one fairly recently. In an evidence bag at the Federal Building in Pittsburgh.

“Chief Block. Sorry to drop in uninvited, but—”

Block threw back the rest of his beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it on the tabletop with its breathren.

“How'd you know where I live, Doc?”

“Sergeant Randall gave me your address.”

“Figures.”

“Look, it was my fault. I pressed him for it.”

He tugged at his red-veined nose. “Goddam, I can't catch any kinda break. Ever since I became chief, I can't grab me a moment's peace. A moment to myself.”

By now, I'd crossed the distance between us. Without making too much of it, I glanced at the gun in his hand.

“I heard a couple shots.”

A crooked, self-satisfied grin.

“That was me. Target practice.”

He pointed the revolver's muzzle out toward a clutch of leafless trees. From one sturdy branch hung a broad sheet of tin, pockmarked with bullet holes. A crude target had been painted in red on its battered skin.

“Wanna give it a try?” Block swiveled the gun around and, with a puzzled look at my hands, offered its butt to me. “If you can still work your fingers, that is.”

“No thanks. But I did want to speak with you. I'll just need a minute of your time.”

“That's what people always say. Next thing I know, my whole fuckin' life's gone by.”

I paused. “Could we sit somewhere and talk, Chief?”

He considered this. Then, without answering, he turned and headed toward the rear of the house. I followed.

We approached an oak-framed back door, flanked on either side by weathered Adirondack chairs. They too had been hand-swept of recent snow, and looked damp and uncomfortable. Turned out I was right on both counts.

Chief Block sank heavily into the other chair. “I'd invite you inside, but the place is a mess. Besides, like you say, you ain't stayin' long.”

Grunting, he lay the revolver on his lap and reached into his coat pocket for some beef jerky. Offered me a stick. I shook my head.

“Suit yourself.” He took a sizeable bite, chewing noisily. “It's this shit or that goddam nicotine gum. But I always gotta have somethin' in my mouth. Guess that's what you people call bein' oral, right, Doc?”

I didn't reply, keeping my eyes trained on the gun.

Again, that easy, challenging smile. “I know you're dyin' to ask me about this revolver, ain'tcha?”

“It's a Taurus 44M Tracker, Chief. You know that's the same make as the shooter used.”

“Of course I know. It was on the tri-state interface, before the feds shut it down. Now I don't know what the fuck's goin' on with their investigation. Not that I'm real interested. Not my case. More like professional curiosity. Hell, I got enough on my plate.”

“Maybe. But I have to wonder what you're doing with the same kind of gun. Using it for target practice.”

“I happen to like the Tracker, not that it's any o' your goddam concern. Though not
this
one. Not as much as I liked the other one.”

“What other one?”

“The other Taurus revolver. I have a pair of 'em. Or at least I
did
, until the mate to this one was stolen.”

“Stolen? When?”

“Beats me. Musta been a while back. I hadn't taken 'em out of the gun cabinet for the longest time. But then I went to get 'em, use 'em for some shootin' out back here, and I saw that one of the pair was missin'.”

I sat forward in my chair.

“Who has access to your gun cabinet? Where is it?”

“In the house, where else? In the den. Since my wife left me, I can keep stuff wherever I want to. In the den, in the crapper. Wherever the fuck I want.”

“Do you keep the cabinet locked?”

He was enjoying my look of consternation.

“What can I say? Now and again, I forget to lock it. And I got all kinda people comin' in and outta here. Like the mayor, my squad. My weekly poker game. And then there's the gun club. We rotate meetings, now that the Moose Hall's burned down, and I've had the boys here a bunch o' times. I guess just ‘bout anyone coulda taken the damn gun.”

“But that missing revolver…Don't you see? It could be the murder weapon. I happen to know the FBI has the shooter's gun. If it still has its serial number, and we can match it to the one that was stolen—”

He held up a rough, nail-bitten forefinger.

“Whoa, sonny. First of all, there are thousands of Taurus 44M's out there. Second, both this baby and its twin got their serial numbers filed off.”

“I don't understand.”

“That's 'cause you ain't on the job. My two revolvers were recovered in a raid at a meth lab years ago, along with a dozen others. After the trials, they weren't needed as evidence no more. So me and a couple o' other cops sorta kept them. As souvenirs. I always hate to see a fine piece o' armament go to waste.”

I was probably staring at him, for he started to laugh, a sound laced with years of casual disregard for the finer points of the law. A small-town cop with an equally small-town view of how the world worked. Or, rather, with only too
clear
a view of how
his
particular world worked.

Keeping the revolver on his lap, Block bent and withdrew another beer from a small cooler at his feet.

“All this yakkin' is makin' me thirsty. Ya want one?”

“Bit early in the day for me.”

“Spoken like a true city boy. Hell, beer's like mother's milk to me.”

As if for emphasis, he took a healthy swig.

I was still uneasy about his gun, and whether or not it might be the mate of the shooter's. Though, as Block pointed out, it was unlikely. On the other hand, maybe I ought to alert the FBI about it anyway. Let
them
come down and look into it.

Regardless, I figured I'd better get to what I'd actually come to see Chief Block about.

“I
did
want to talk to you about Maggie Currim. I just spoke to her in lockup.”

“Good. I appreciate you comin' down. She okay now?”

“I think so. She told me she's sorry for the way she acted in your office.”

“Stupid cow
should
be sorry. So now you're here to ask me to let her outta her cage, right?”

“She's no danger to anyone, Chief. Not really. She's just worried about Wes.”

“Yeah, I know.” Another swallow of beer. “I guess she learned her lesson. When you get back to town, you can tell Sergeant Randall I said to let Mrs. Currim go home.”

“Randall's not at the precinct. At least, I doubt it. He drove off right before I came up here to see you.”

Block grimaced. “Again? Damn, the guy asks me for some personal time, and 'cause I'm soft in the head I give it to him.” He grew thoughtful. “No, wait a minute…today's Saturday, ain't it? He's got that class.”

“What do you mean, personal time?”

“Last couple weeks, he's been takin' time off—without pay—to visit his mother. Sometimes days, sometimes nights. Looks like she's dyin'.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Must be hard on Randall…”

Block squinted in the noon light. “If it is, it makes a nice change. ‘Cause Harve's hated her guts his whole life. When she took sick a couple years back, she got put in the county hospital for the indigent. Real shithole. This whole time, he's never even visited her. Not till recently. I guess I nagged him about it so much he figured it'd be easier to go check in on the old bag. At least a couple times before she croaks.”

“Why'd he hate her so much?”

“Hey, I don't blame the guy.
I'd
hate her, too.”

He finished his beer in one long, noisy gulp. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Crumpling the empty can, he looked awkwardly about for a place to put it.

Finally he tossed it, underhanded, toward the picnic table. It missed. At the same time, the sudden movement made the revolver slip from his lap and fall to the ground. Luckily, it didn't go off.

I scooped it up and handed it over to Block, who checked the safety and pocketed it. Then shook his head.

“Christ, listen to me airin' out poor Harve's dirty laundry. I probably shouldn't be tellin' you all this.”

“You don't have to tell me anything, Chief.”

“Damned right, I don't. If Harve wants to tell ya the story of his life, that's his business…”

“I agree.”

But I made a point of edging my chair a bit closer to his. I had no idea what was on the chief's mind, but I could tell he wanted to get it out.

“Not that there's any big secret. Most folks in town know about Harve. How ‘Randall' ain't even his real name. He just picked it outta the phone book when he was a kid.”

Block scratched his chin stubble.

“And let me tell you, given where he came from, he's done real well for himself. Worked his way up to detective sergeant. Yessir,
real
goddam well.”

“Given where he came from..?”

“Poor bastard grew up in low rent foster care, all kinds of abuse, neglect, that shit. Abandoned by his no-good mother, Doreen Somethin', when he was just a baby. Real piece o' work, that broad. Drugs. Livin' on the street. The whole nine yards.”

“What about his father?”

“He never even knew who the hell his father
was
. The lousy prick abandoned Harve, too. Just knocked up his mother and took off. No big surprise there, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I
mean
, what did the bitch expect? He was one of her johns and she got careless. It was her own stupid fault.”

My stomach twisted. “Her johns?”

Block's eyes narrowed.

“That's why Harve
hated
her so much. All his life. His mother was a goddam whore.”