Raising Cain (11 page)

“So we don’t know who this character is, and we don’t have fingerprints so we can find out?”

Harvis nodded.

“They could go back and get them,” Jennifer suggested.

“He’d refuse,” Gardner replied. “Judging by his attitude, he’ll stonewall any further investigation. Without a warrant or
formal charge, we have no authority to force him to submit to fingerprinting.”

“They can always try,” Jennifer persisted.

Gardner walked from the board and sat down at the table. “No,” he said finally. “We have to figure another way.”

“I told Frank to do what it takes,” Harvis declared suddenly. “I told him to keep on Ruth till he got something.”

“Great move, Harv,” Gardner said sarcastically.

The lieutenant frowned.

“Giving Davis a blank check could be dangerous,” Gardner said.

“You have a better idea?”

“Put someone else on it.”

“No. Frank’s gonna come through. You’ll see.”

“Watch him, Harv,” Gardner replied. “Watch him like a goddamn hawk.”

The meeting continued for another twenty minutes, then broke up. The only conclusion they were able to draw was that they
were on a tightrope. At one end was truth, at the other, logic. Below was chaos.

Gardner and Jennifer sat alone at the table. “This is a lot worse than I thought,” Jennifer said.

“You noticed.”

“I understand what you meant last night about how riots start. It could get ugly.”

Gardner nodded.

“We can get through this.” She touched his hand.

Gardner perked up. Maybe the storm was over. Maybe Jennifer had backed off the hard line. “We can,” he said.

Jennifer read his mind. “You’re not off the hook,” she warned. “Don’t misinterpret the show of support.”

Gardner smiled and kissed her cheek. She really didn’t mean it.

Brownie raised his head from his lab table and rubbed his eyes. Then he checked his watch: 8:15
A.M.
He must have dozed off after coming back here early this morning. His neck hurt, his stomach gurgled, and his eyes were crusted.
He was a mess.

Brownie packed up his papers and put them in his desk drawer. Just then the door opened.

“Brownie!” It was Lieutenant Harvis. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“I told you to take time off.”

“Didn’t know it was an order.”

“It wasn’t an order. It was a suggestion.”

“Then I respectfully decline.”

Harvis hesitated, rubbing a sheet of paper between his fingers. “I just came from the State’s Attorney’s office. We’ve been
going over your father’s case….” His eyes became apologetic.

“You still planning to leave Davis in charge?”

“Yeah. ‘Fraid so.”

Brownie’s eyes narrowed.

“But in the meantime…” He handed Brownie the paper. “Sorry I have to do this, Brownie. You are officially relieved of any
involvement with the case whatsoever.”

Brownie read the document, then folded it sharply.

“We have to avoid even the appearance of impropriety here. Please understand.”

Brownie crossed his arms. “The directive says ‘formal’ involvement. What about
informal
?”

“No involvement,” Harvis replied. “This is to protect you, in case things heat up.”

“You mean in case I decide to go out and roust the
suspect
.”

Harvis frowned. The Davis report was supposed to be an internal memo, confidential. Not even Brownie was supposed to know
about it.

“You’ve seen the report?”

“Yeah.” Brownie had a lot of friends in the department: clerks, cops, secretaries. Nothing escaped him.

“Then you know what I’m talking about. You’re the
last
person who should go anywhere near the quarry. This thing is a powder keg, and you’re the match.”

“I take it this isn’t a
suggestion.
“

“No. This is an order.”

Brownie did not respond.

“This you
cannot
respectfully decline. You don’t have to take leave, but you are totally and absolutely off the case. Understood?”

Brownie remained silent.

“An
order
.” Harvis pointed his finger in Brownie’s face. Then he left the room.

Brownie did a slow burn after Harvis left. Then he picked up his phone and dialed.

“Tony Bellini.”

“Doc, this is Joe Brown.”

“Sergeant.” There was sympathy in his voice.

“I’m checking on the autopsy report. Haven’t received it yet.” “Still in processing. It’s done, but our typists are backed
up. Should be out in a day or two.”

“What about the print test? Is that going to be attached?”

Bellini cleared his throat. “I was meaning to ask you about that when I gave you the results the other day. I still haven’t
inked the form to indicate the test was performed. What do you want me to do? As I told you, the test was
negative
for fingerprints.”

“But there were some other marks,” Brownie said.

“Yes. They show up in the photos real well. My guess is that there was contamination that caused the spray to react. There
were no corresponding cuts or abrasions on the neck that I could tell.”

“I want to see the photos.”

“Fine. Do you want that included with the autopsy packet or separate? It’s your call.”

Brownie thought for a moment. The autopsy report would go straight to Davis and then to the lieutenant. “Send the print report
and the pictures to me at my home. And don’t itemize them on the autopsy file.”

“Done,” Bellini said. “Any progress with the investigation?”

“No,” Brownie replied. “Not at the moment. But there will be soon.”

Sallie Allen was in a motel room on the Pennsylvania interstate.

Her laptop was set up on the small desk, and her fax phone was plugged into the wall jack. She was clicking away on the keys,
roughing out her story.

After the scene with Ruth, she’d wasted no time getting out. She retrieved her notepad and tape recorder from her cabin and
raced for the gate, envisioning her head being stuffed in the rattler barrel the whole way. When she reached the entrance,
she found it locked. Then she saw headlights approaching from the compound. She scrambled into the bushes, cutting up her
legs. The car took a turn by the gate, then bounced down a dirt road paralleling the south fence. They were looking for her!

Sallie ran to the wire and started to climb, gasping and clawing her way to the top. She threw her leg over the barbs in time
to see the headlights coming back. Then she flung herself off the other side, hitting the ground hard, rolling, and running
for the woods.

The rest of the night she intermittently ran and rested, putting as much distance between herself and the quarry as she could.
Ruth had really scared her. His alluring exterior was deceiving. Underneath that blond fluff he was as venomous as his snakes.

By dawn she was finally able to make it to town. Thanks to a grizzled farmer in a flattop truck, she caught a lift to an auto
rental shop and picked up a car. And now here she was, fifty miles away, scared, nervous, and tired, piecing together her
masterpiece.

Beside the word processor lay a police teletype, faxed in from New York. Sallie had phoned her publisher and asked them to
check any police activity involving CAIN. The news blackout at the quarry had kept her in the dark as to the mystery beyond
the fence. And now it was clear: there was a suspicious death incident under investigation. The details were spare, but it
filled her blanks. A black man had died and the cops were checking it out. Ruth and CAIN
had
to be involved.

Sallie now played her keys: “He speaks of love and the word of God, but his heart is evil. His subjects follow and obey, mesmerized
by his power and his charm….”

The phone rang. Sallie clamped it against her neck.

“Yeah?” Her hands were busy.

“How’s it going?” It was her editor, Phyllis Downs.

“In progress.”

“How soon can we get copy?”

Sallie hit the enter key and jumped to a new paragraph. “Today. This afternoon.”

“Good. Staff might give you the cover if it’s up to snuff.”

Sallie stopped typing. “Cover story?” That was a huge step up for her. She was usually filler.

“Make it good, and we’ll see.”

Sallie smiled and rubbed a sore spot on her knee. “Get the artwork ready,” she said. “This one’s a doozy.”

“Can’t wait.”

Sallie hung up the phone and went back to her keys. The words and images were flowing fast, and she could hardly keep up with
herself. Her first cover! It was a dynamite piece, a blockbuster. This was a story that no one would ever forget.

Paulie Brown stood in the backyard of his aunt’s house and looked across the Blocktown valley. He had Brownie’s wide face
and heavyset muscular physique. But light-years separated their souls.

Paulie had abandoned his surname and hometown long ago. He had adopted the Africanized name Katanga and moved to Washington,
D.C., where he worked at a drug rehabilitation center in a run-down ward. He dressed tribally and read revisionist history.
And he distrusted white people big-time.

“What you doin’, Paulie?” his aunt asked.

“Looking at your town, Aunt Gladys.” His mother’s youngest sister was his favorite relative. Slim and bespectacled, she was
a devout, kind-hearted woman. And her cooking was superb.

“Thinkin’ about Daddy?”

Paulie turned. “Yeah…” He and Joseph had had a rocky relationship, too, over a cloud of issues. But Joseph was blood, and
his passing hit hard.

“I wish you and Joseph junior had done better,” she said sadly.

“Don’t start on that.”

“You are
brothers.
“

He smirked.

“You need to talk,” Gladys suggested.

“No, we don’t.”

Gladys put her hand on his thick arm. “Daddy hated this thing with you two. Could never understand what happened.”

Paulie stared into her eyes. “Yes, he
did.
“

“Can’t you let it go?
Now
? after all this time? As a tribute to Daddy?”

“My daddy is
dead
. Killed. Snuffed. Drive-hyed…. I Haven’t you heard?”

“Don’t listen to Reverend Taylor. He’s a troublemaker.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s been riling things up since he come out here. Daddy didn’t think much of him. Refused to join his church.”

“Yeah?” Strange how he was the keynote speaker at the service.

“We got to move on,” Gladys said. “Start puttin’ things back together. Stop talkin’ nonsense.”

“You people amaze me,” Paulie replied. “You live on the slave plantation, and you still have a slave mentality!”

“Don’t talk that way.”

“Why don’t you wake up? Why don’t you see what is really happening to your lives? Why do you keep making excuses for yourselves?”

Gladys shook her head. “Please, Paulie.”

“Daddy is dead because someone killed him. Some white-skinned slave master.”

“Please,” Gladys begged. “That’s not true. It was his poor old heart!”

“It mighta been his heart, but
someone
helped it along.”

“No…”

“And
you
and your God-loving brother this, and sister that, deny it. You accept what the man dishes out like you always have. A hundred
years, and nothing’s changed!”

“Paulie…” Her voice was trembling.

“But I don’t have to accept it!”

Gladys put her arms around her nephew and held him.

“I’ll
never
accept it!”

“Please, Paulie.”

“
Never
!”

“Don’t do nothin’,” Gladys whispered. “Please.”

But he ignored her. He was looking toward the meadow and the woods, north, where two miles distant there was a giant gash
in the earth enclosed by a stretch of metal fence.

Thomas Ruth was agitated. Sallie’s defection had set the camp on edge. He’d been warned about intruders, spies in their midst,
but this one had slipped through despite the screening procedure. He’d suspected Sallie earlier, but her willingness to walk
the valley had temporarily convinced him she was harmless. And then she was seen poking around in places where she had no
business. Whether she was a cop, private investigator, or something else, it really didn’t matter. There was nothing in the
quarry to see. He’d made sure of that. Whatever Sallie was up to would not pan out. They were clean from top to bottom. But
the deception still bothered him.

Ruth unlocked the gate and drove out of the compound. It was late afternoon, not exactly the best time, but he had to get
out and make contact, explain the situation.

He turned right and headed west, toward the retreating sun. The sharp rays hurt his eyes, despite his dark glasses, and he
slapped the visor down to block them. His head was pounding again. After another no-sleep night and a half dozen extra pills,
his brain still felt like it was on fire. Thanks to Sallie, no doubt. He’d only tried to scare her up on the ledge, shake
her up a little, teach her a lesson. He’d never have thrown her over the edge. That wasn’t his style. But she’d still gotten
inside his throbbing skull.

Ruth continued driving, checking his rearview for traffic. The cutoff was a half mile up, and he didn’t want anyone to see
him make the turn. He slowed through a tunnel of overhanging maple trees, cutting past the dancing shadows that the leaves
made as they swayed in the wind. For a second, he flashed back to a scene a lifetime ago. He felt panic in his throat, saw
muddy Boots, heard voices. Ruth swallowed and the car came out of the trees. He took several deep breaths and tried to stabilize.
His head was still pounding.

The turnoff was just ahead. Ruth checked the mirror again.

“Shit.” There was a car coming up behind. He slowed to let it pass, not wanting to overrun his secret road.

The car kept coming but didn’t move over to the other lane. “Pass,” Ruth said.

But the car slowed and pulled up close behind.

“Shit!” Ruth repeated.

The car was very close now, almost on his bumper. Close enough for Ruth to see the blue-and-red bubble lamp spinning angrily
on its dashboard.