Prayer for the Dead (27 page)

They watched Hatcher stride quickly into the terminal. He was thick through the hips and his toes splayed out to either side like a dancer’s. In a hurry, he looked like a duck. Behind his back the men called him Donald.

As the car backed into traffic then spun away from the curb, Reynolds was already on the radio.

Chapter 14

S
pecial Agent Ty Hoban’s full name
was Tyree Zorro Hoban after the legendary masked swordsman and a character in an old John Ford Western. Being a black in Boston and somewhat beleaguered by life, Hoban’s father usually sided with the Indians, but something about the character of Tyree caught his fancy as he watched the late movie on the TV in the hospital waiting room while his son was being born. Hoban was only grateful that his father hadn’t been watching
Tammy
at the time—or
Gidget Goes Hawaiian.
His mother was Hispanic, so Hoban’s father threw in the Zorro as a nod to the only Spanish hero he could think of. By the time Hoban’s mother came out of the recovery room, the deed was done.

If anyone in the FBI other than the clerk in personnel who handled birth certificates knew Ty Hoban’s full name, they had been smart enough not to let on. People generally did not tell Ty Hoban things that might annoy him, since he had inherited his father’s huge, muscular frame to go with a name that was asking for trouble. Hoban was not terribly well-coordinated—a bit on the clumsy side, in fact—and had never played football or basketball, despite his height and heft, but if other people wanted to think he was an ex-linebacker and gave him the commensurate respect, he was not one to disabuse them.

The disadvantage to being a six-foot-four black man in a business suit was that it made being inconspicuous extremely difficult, not to say ludicrous, particularly in a small Connecticut town like Waverly. Keeping a low profile was not within Ty Hoban’s range of abilities, although he had many others. Selecting an agent on the basis of his race or appearance was strictly forbidden within the Bureau’s code of bureaucratic behavior, however, and so Hoban, the closest man at the time, was sent to the insurance agency in Waverly as the advance scout of the larger troop of agents that would be there later in the day.

A brown-haired man with a full beard looked up questioningly from his desk as Ty Hoban entered the office, temporarily filling the doorway.

“May I help you?”

“Ty Hoban,” said the agent, extending his huge hand.

The man half rose to shake hands. “Roger Cohen,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Cohen, I hope someone can sell me some insurance. I just bought a house in Waverly and the bank tells me I have to have homeowner’s insurance before they give me the mortgage.”

“I can certainly help you with that. It will take about ten minutes.”

“Everyone else gone to lunch?” asked Hoban. “It seems awfully quiet.”

“It’s a quiet town,” said Cohen. The owner and I are the only ones who work here and you’re right, he’s at lunch. Did you want to wait for him?”

“That would be Mr. Rice?”

“Rice? No, his name is Hogg. Charles Hogg.”

“Really? The people at the bank told me I should see Mr. Rice. Maybe I have the name wrong? Rice? Tice? Something like that.”

Hoban watched the man closely. His eyes looked vacant as he slowly shook his head.

“No, no one like that here. As I said, there’s just the two of us.”

“Was it Dice, maybe? I’m sure they said there was somebody around like that.”

Cohen continued to shake his head.

“I guess I just misunderstood,” said Ty. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed and casual, but his eyes never left Cohen’s face. He fit the description only in hair color and age, but it wouldn’t be the first description that was wrong. Ty had been told to A&D. Ascertain the suspect’s whereabouts and deploy forces until the order to apprehend. Deploying would be a little tough since Ty was the only force at his command at the moment, but as for ascertaining, it looked to him as if someone had screwed up again. If this puny little thing was the man who collected bones under his kitchen floor, then his appetites were one hell of a lot fiercer than his appearance. Ty knew better than to judge by looks alone—how often was he himself misjudged?—but still, instinct played a part in these things, and this guy looked as if he’d have trouble dissecting a frog in biology class.

“There is another insurance agency in town,” said Cohen. “I don’t think they can do anything for you we can’t do, but …”

“No, this is fine,” said Ty. “I don’t want to cause anybody any trouble.” He’d check out Mr. Charles Hogg, too, of course, but his guess was that his man was probably at the other insurance agency, or in another town, or nowhere at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been given the wrong address.

“No trouble,” said Cohen. He looked on his desk for something he couldn’t find. “Should we look at the homeowner’s policy, then?”

“You bet.”

“I’ll need some information before I can give you a quote, but I promise you I’ll find the best deal that’s around. That’s the advantage of coming to an independent agent; we’re not locked into any one company.”

Ty put his hand atop the computer terminal. “That’s what this is for?”

“That’s it, that’s our access to just about any company in the country.” Cohen rummaged in his desk for a moment. “I’m out of forms, I’ll just get one.”

He was on his feet and walking toward a door in the back of the office before Ty could think of a way to stop him short of tackling the man.

“Won’t be a minute,” said Cohen, smiling, as he stepped through the door.

The speed of the man’s withdrawal surprised Ty and set off an internal warning. Ty still didn’t think he was the bone man, but there was no real assurance that he wasn’t, either. After all, he was in the right place, he was the right age and general size—along with forty percent of the male population in the country. No one had said anything about a beard, but then no one had seen him for several weeks, either, and it definitely made Ty uncomfortable to have him disappear like that. A&D meant keeping the suspect under surveillance until some larger cheese like Hatcher could come waddling in, quack a few times, and get credit for the arrest—it did not mean sitting on his ass and watching him slip away into a rat hole.

By its location, Ty could tell that the storeroom did not have a door leading to the outside but he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t a window. Ty decided to give “Cohen” three minutes. If he didn’t return by then, Ty would go help him search for the right form himself If he did come right back, it was a pretty good bet he wasn’t the suspect.

Ty left the office and walked around the corner of the building. He spotted a window that probably led into the storeroom, but it was closed and the shade was drawn. If “Cohen” was going to flee that way, he would already have made his move and he couldn’t have done so through a closed window. Ty turned and went back inside.

Once he was back in the office, Ty glanced at his watch, then crossed to the storeroom door.

“Mr. Cohen?” he called. “You all right in there?”

There was no response. Ty tried the door. It opened immediately. Ty paused a moment, then stepped into the dark storeroom. As he felt for a light switch with one hand, the other moved reflexively toward the holster under his jacket. He felt a pinprick in his thigh and swung a huge arm in front of him to sweep the man away, but Cohen had already stepped back. Agent Hoban could see him pulling farther back into the dark behind a file cabinet.

“Freeze,” said Hoban, freeing his gun. “Federal agent.”

“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”

Ty reached toward the pain in his thigh and felt the syringe sticking out of his leg.

Don’t panic, he told himself. You can handle this. First get the man into the light, then get to the phone.

“Come out of there. Now!”

The man, Cohen or Dyce, stepped into the office, his hands in the air. He looked entirely too calm.

Ty backed toward the phone on the desk, keeping the man at gunpoint.

“You sterilize this needle?” he asked, realizing the irrelevance of the comment as he spoke.

“Oh, yes. You won’t get infected. I wouldn’t do that.”

Thoughtful little asshole. “What’s in it?” Ty asked, pointing at his leg. He couldn’t decide whether removing the syringe would make matters worse. The leg no longer hurt, which he knew was not a good sign.

“PMBL,” said Dyce.

“What the hell is that?” Ty saw the phone but couldn’t seem to move any closer to it. He thought of shooting the bastard’s head off just because. What the hell
is
it? he demanded, only then realizing he hadn’t spoken. Couldn’t speak.

“I would tell you, but I don’t think you’d understand,” said Dyce. The man was huge and the dose was only the usual one. As the man sat heavily on the desk, Dyce was afraid that he hadn’t given him enough. The agent continued to stare at Dyce as the gun slowly lowered into his lap.

Shoot the motherfucker, Ty thought. He’s killed you, shoot his head off. But he couldn’t lift the gun, couldn’t pull the trigger. As he pitched forward onto the floor he could no longer see it rising up to hit his face.

It took a considerable effort for Dyce to drag the man to the storeroom. It would not be possible to get him into the car without being seen, and taping his arms and legs would buy Dyce only a few minutes beyond the life of the drug anyway. Killing him, on the other hand, would give Dyce enough time until Hogg happened to go to the storeroom. That could be minutes or it could be days. He could cut the man’s throat with the scissors from his desk. Or he could inject an air bubble into his artery. He had heard that that would do it, but he wasn’t sure. The scissors were more certain.

Dyce found the FBI badge and identification and put it in his pocket, then thought about taking the gun, too. He held it in his hand and experienced the surprising weight of it. It was beyond imagining that he would ever point a weapon like this at another person and pull the trigger. Just contemplating the violence of it made him shudder with distaste. He was not that kind of man and had no desire to become one.

The artery in the man’s neck was easy to find. Dyce pressed and held a finger against it and watched the artery swell.

The agent was looking at him, but there was no message to read in his eyes; he seemed to be looking on with complete disinterest. The scissors were large and bulky and dull, a clumsy instrument. Dyce remembered the surprising blade on the knife he had used with Helen. That had been so pleasant, he recalled. A moment they had shared together—a long moment. It had been ruined at the end by her outburst, but on the other hand it was her very vitality that had made the experience so good in the first place. This agent wasn’t going to struggle, but Dyce wished there was some animation in him. Watching the peace come over Helen’s face had been so sweet. The agent didn’t look peaceful so much as arrested mid-breath. He looked as if he had been abruptly clubbed, pole-axed like a steer. Serenity would come in time as the muscles gradually relaxed, but Dyce, alas, did not have time.

“This is going to be a little on the sloppy side,” he said apologetically to the agent. “I haven’t really had time to prepare. If I’d known you were coming …” Dyce giggled. “You should always call first, didn’t you know that?”

Although the dose was average, its effect was stronger than usual. Dyce regretted it, but how could he have suspected this man would be so susceptible. He’d been afraid the normal dose wouldn’t be strong enough. He knew it was too late to change anything, but if only there was enough energy left in the man to respond in some way. There was beauty in doing it the old way, beauty and peace, but the time with Helen had been exciting in a brand-new way.

The artery stood out against the pressure of Dyce’s finger, throbbing. Invitingly, Dyce thought. “You won’t feel this, of course, but I don’t think it hurts much anyway. Not that anyone has ever told me.” He started to giggle again.

He opened the scissors and drew one of the blades across the artery. A white line showed against the dark skin, but no blood. Dyce tried the other blade and managed to get only a trickle from damaged capillaries. The blade was too dull to penetrate to the artery.

“I mean, really,” he said in disgust. He looked into the agent’s eyes, which looked back with the same impassivity. “I might as well be using a saw,” he said.

Dyce turned the man’s head away so that the blood, if he ever managed to get to it, would spurt away from himself Using the tips of the scissors, he began to snip.

“My apologies,” he said. “This is really clumsy … Under different circumstances, I think we might both have enjoyed it.”

But Dyce was enjoying it now, surprising himself with the pleasure he took, even in this unaesthetic way.

The blood, when it finally came, was astounding in its volume and pressure. To think that all that pressure came from the tiny pump of the heart.

It took him several minutes to clean his hand before he closed the closet door behind him and then he had to go back in to retrieve the syringe.

Surprisingly, although the needle had snapped off in the big man’s leg when he fell, the syringe itself was unbroken. He would need another needle, perhaps several, and more PMBL. There was a needle in the car hidden under the material of the visor and enough PMBL under the seat in a water bottle to suffice for one more injection. After that he would have to return to his supply.

Dyce’s heart was pounding and he realized it came from excitement, not exertion. Helen had been a revelation and this agent a confirmation. There was more to dying than just being dead. The state of death was serene—but dying, dying was a dynamic act shared by two. Dyce was sorry that it had taken him so long to realize it—but grateful he had learned at last.

Dyce glanced in the plate glass window of his office and was surprised at how calm he appeared as he walked toward his Valiant. A casual observer would never know he was a man who had just had a life-altering experience. Dyce laughed inwardly at his inadvertent pun. The experience had actually altered two lives.