While Galileo Preys (4 page)

Bobby Vega sat hunched over his beloved steering wheel. His blood puddled on the dash.

Cole the giant lay sprawled on the pavement.

The chief, full name Harold Lymon, nicknamed “Catch,” had tried to push Cole out of the way of the gunfire, then had run to save Bobby when the bullets found him. Catch, though, had been an object in motion. Hard to stop. Just as in 1982. The bullet grazed his left temple and left him bleeding and, mercifully, unconscious. He never saw Roscoe, Lou, Daniel, and Brian go down.

And two days later, Catch was still unconscious. He’d lost a lot of blood at the scene. Meanwhile, the third story of the aquarium collapsed into the second story. Thousands of sea animals were dead. The local paper actually listed the different species. Some of the national outlets had arrived. Connections were already being made between this attack and the one in Atlanta. The bastard had assassinated twenty people now and left a trail as cold as the Long Island Sound.

And he was just getting started.

“H
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappyVaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalentine’s Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!”

Sophie hopped into her parents’ king-size bed. It was 6:03 a.m.

Esme groaned. Forced open her eyelids. Her daughter stared back, her blue eyes (identical to Rafe’s, who was still asleep) full of energy.

“I made breakfast!” Sophie declared and ran out, presumably to the kitchen.

Esme groaned again. 6:03 a.m. Love was never ever easy.

But that didn’t mean she had to suffer alone.

Esme slapped her husband on the ass. Twice. Hard. Finally, he stirred. Glanced over at her as if she’d stolen his baby blanket.

“Our daughter made breakfast,” said Esme.

Rafe’s blue-eyed gaze (far from identical at this moment to his daughter in that they conveyed No Energy Whatsoever) shifted from Esme to the clock on her nightstand, then back to Esme.

“Do I know you people?” he muttered.

She poked him playfully in his paunch.

“I love you, too,” she replied. “Now let’s get to the kitchen before Sophie burns it down, okay?”

Esme’s concerns proved unwarranted. Sophie had made cereal. And by made, she had poured her favorite brand (Count Chocula) into two bowls and soaked the bowls in milk. She had even provided napkins, forks, and spoons. She would have provided knives too, but she was forbidden to open the knife drawer.

As Esme and Rafe shuffled into the kitchen, their daughter was already at the table, placing folded sheets of red construction paper on their wicker seats. She wore her red-and-white Cupid pajamas, with its little hearts and arrows and diapered cherubs. Red clothes always made her chestnut hair appear auburn, as if she had on a hat of autumn leaves.

“Do you want orange juice or grapefruit juice?” Sophie asked.

“Huhwhahuh,” Rafe replied.

“Grapefruit juice,” said Esme. “I’ll get it.”

Soon they were all three enjoying their breakfast. Esme and Rafe’s cereal had gotten soggy, but soggy chocolate was still chocolate. The construction paper Sophie had left on their seats were Valentine’s Day cards, lovingly Crayola’d. She drew Rafe with his glasses on and with his beard trimmed. Neither applied to Rafe at the moment. Crayola Esme had small ears. Sophie knew how sensitive her mother was about her ears.

“Come here,” said Esme, and hugged her daughter close.

Rafe finished his cereal first. His breakfast was normally comprised of a stale doughnut and a cup of instant coffee, both procured from the social sciences department faculty lounge, so this was a huge improvement. True, he continued to act half-asleep—mumbling answers, exaggerating every yawn—but in actuality Rafe was having a wonderful time. He absently ruffled through his thinning black hair and wondered how he could make this moment last the rest of his life…or at least until the end of the semester.

Ah, the work of the day beckoned. Rafe lumbered into the shower while Esme remained in the kitchen and helped Sophie finish filling out the Valentine’s Day cards for her classmates.

“But, Mom…I don’t want to give one to Thad Crotty…he’s gross.”

“What makes him gross?”

“He smells like the garbage disposal.”

“We shouldn’t judge people, Sophie. Everyone is unique and different. Like a snowflake.”

They sealed tiny candy message-hearts into each of the miniature red envelopes—one for each of her classmates and one for Mrs. Leacy. Sophie deliberated extensively which message-hearts went to which classmates. By the time Rafe had rejoined them in the kitchen, dried off and spectacled and in full professor-mode, Esme and Sophie were only half done.

“Better hurry up, kiddo,” said Rafe.

He was Sophie’s morning chauffeur. They usually left the house at 7:15. Esme hustled their daughter into
her bedroom and helped her select The Perfect Outfit for Valentine’s Day.

Meanwhile, Rafe contributed to Team Sophie by finishing up the cards. Before departing for her bedroom, Sophie gave him strict instructions. As he attempted to follow them, he also attempted to recollect his elementary school valentines. He couldn’t even recall the names of his instructors. He would be forty years old this July. This fact, unfortunately, he never seemed to forget.

Esme joined him back at the table.

“Sophie’s brushing her hair,” she said. “She wants privacy.”

“Well, sure.”

They kissed. Briefly—but briefly then lasted a minute. Two minutes. Hands touched cheeks. Mussed hair. Three minutes.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” whispered Rafe.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” whispered Esme.

Sophie marched into the kitchen. “I’m ready!”

At 10:00 a.m., Esme texted their babysitter, Chelsea, reminding the slightly scatterbrained but quite responsible teenager to come by the house no later than six o’clock. Rafe and Esme had strict dinner reservations at 6:30 p.m. at Il Forno.

As soon as Esme returned her cell phone to the counter, it buzzed. Was that Chelsea already, sneaking a text message back to her from some high school classroom? Esme checked the screen.

Tom Piper.

Her phone buzzed again.

Like most Americans, she had read about the attacks in Amarillo. The 24-hour news channels were still filled, three days later, with footage and interviews and expert opinions, not the mention rampant speculation. Was this attack related to the one in Atlanta? Was there a serial killer on the loose? It made for compulsive TV.

Except for Esme. After her initial obsession about the Atlanta shootings, after Tom Piper had deconstructed her obsession into simple displacement, her interest in the story quickly faded. One might even say she became just as obsessively uninterested. Instead, Esme concentrated her days on her Sudoku puzzles, her books (she’d moved on from the Elvis Costello biography to a schmaltzy novel her reading club had selected), and her ever-surprising daughter. She’d even started paying attention to the presidential elections. It was unavoidable, really. Amy Lieb was roping all of Oyster Bay into her campaign for Bob Kellerman and now that it looked like he’d be the nominee, her efforts (in her mind) had ascended to Great Importance. To not be involved would be un-American. So Esme found herself volunteering on weekends with the other housewives at Oyster Bay’s KELLERMAN FOR PRESIDENT campaign headquarters (i.e. Amy’s mini-mansion). She licked envelopes, cut decals and traded gossip with everyone else.

Bzzzzzzzzzzz!

Tom Piper, calling to snatch her from the jaws of mediocrity.

Bzzzzzzzzzz!

“Let it go to voice mail,” she muttered. She was content, damn it.

Bzzzzzzzzzz!

There were men and women at the Bureau far more in the loop than thirty-eight-year-old Esme Stuart from Oyster Bay, Long Island. Tom had no right to call her, really. The responsible thing for him to do would be to go to his own people. Yes,
she’d
called
him
last month, but as Tom himself had pointed out, that had been a moment of temporary lunacy. She was retired now. She was a housewife.

Bzzzzzzzzz!

“Just go to voice mail!” she growled. How many times did it have to ring before—

It stopped. Finally. She felt her shoulders slacken, and ambled to the stereo and pondered a distraction. Joy Division? Too morose for right now. Pavement? Too loud.

The Kinks. Ideal for any mood and setting. She popped in the CD. Bless you, Ray Davies.

And her phone buzzed again.

“Jesus, what the hell?”

She stomped back to the counter and checked the screen. It was just a note from her voice mail. One new message.

One new message.

Damn it, Tom.

It was Valentine’s Day, for fuck’s sake.

Esme slipped her phone into the utensils drawer (out of sight, out of mind) and lay down on the sofa with her water-damaged paperback. “Lola” strummed
in the background. She thought about lighting some peppermint incense, decided against it, and forced herself into the book.

Six people had died in Amarillo…

No. No. People die every day. Read the book.

Fourteen in Atlanta, six in Amarillo. Someone had to speak for those victims.

And they would. Why her? She had done her bit for king and country, hadn’t she?

More would die. This sniper had a purpose.

He
must
have left a note.

Esme closed her novel.

“Fuck,” she concluded.

She dialed down the volume on her stereo, went in the kitchen, and retrieved her phone. Didn’t bother listening to Tom’s message. Just dialed him direct.

“This is Tom.”

“Hi, Tom.”

“I just called you.”

“I was in the shower.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“How are you?”

“Busy.”

“I can imagine.”

“I know you can. That’s why I called.”

“For my imagination?”

“Have you been following the case?”

“I’ve actually been a little busy.”

“Oh?”

“I’m campaigning for Bob Kellerman.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’ve become very civic.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“How can I help you, Tom?”

“You don’t seem as enthusiastic as you were before.”

“What can I say? Love fades.”

“He’s going to kill again.”

Esme closed her eyes, then opened them.

“I’m sure you and your team are more than capable of stopping him. Our tax dollars at work, right?”

“He left a note in Atlanta.”

The cell phone trembled in her hand. No—it was her hand that was trembling.

“What did the note say?”

“I thought you weren’t interested.”

“What did the note say, Tom?”

“He left it in a shoe box. We found the shoe box on the roof of the school. It was just lying there. We also found the spent shells from his rifle. Sixteen shells.”

Sixteen shells. Fifteen dead in Atlanta, including the dog, plus the squad car’s red-and-blues, which were the first target. Sixteen shells. The sniper hadn’t missed, not once.

“We opened the shoe box and found the note.”

“What did the note say?”

“I just scanned it and e-mailed it to you. Call me back after you’ve read it.”

Click.

Esme introduced the phone to her middle finger, then clomped to her computer and turned it on. The Kinks segued into “Waterloo Sunset,” one of the sweetest rock and rolls songs ever recorded. Esme didn’t notice.

Windows took two minutes to boot up.

Fuck you, Bill Gates. Esme plopped down in her seat and clicked on her e-mail client. Another thirty seconds for
that
to boot up. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

And what did it matter if she read the note, anyway? Why was she making such a big deal out of this? She could read it, give Tom her two cents over the phone, and be done with it. What was the big deal?

Finally. Three new messages. One from Amy Lieb, one from Hallmark (Rafe must have opened one of the e-cards she’d sent him), and one from [email protected].

Esme double-clicked on the message. The note the sniper had left in Atlanta loaded in the body of the e-mail:

IF THERE WAS STILL A GOD, HE WOULD HAVE STOPPED ME.

—GALILEO

Esme felt her adrenaline turn to ice. This was not the rambling, incoherent manifesto she expected. In her time at the Bureau, she had encountered more than her share of rambling, incoherent manifestos. But this—this was just a direct statement. Yes, he chose a colorful moniker like so many of the other lunatics, but what insight could she possibly…

He had to have left another note in Amarillo.

Bzzzzzzzzzz!

She rushed to the phone.

“What was in the second shoe box?” she asked.

“What shoe box?” Rafe replied.

Esme swallowed hard. She suddenly felt like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “What shoe box?” she echoed innocently.

“You said something about a shoe box.”

“What’s up?”

“I just read your Hallmark card. The one you sent me online.”

Esme tapped her fingers on the countertop. “Did you like it?”

“It made me laugh.”

“Good.”

“I’ll see you tonight at six. Wear something slinky.”

“How risqué.”

“Love you.”

Rafe hung up.

Esme sat down on the floor. Why did she feel so guilty? When she got pregnant, they’d agreed her lifestyle—shuttling about the country working on violent crimes—was not conducive to raising a family. She’d made a pact with Rafe to leave the Bureau and move to Long Island. Gloria Steinem might not have approved, but Esme savored the time she got to spend with her daughter while the other mothers had to hire nannies or ship their children to day care. Surely a few phone calls with her old boss wasn’t a betrayal of her family. It wasn’t as if Tom was asking her to fly down to Amarillo….

But he would.

She knew it even before she’d answered the phone. Whatever he was dealing with was too much for him to handle. There was only so much help one could offer from Oyster Bay, Long Island. Elect a president—perhaps. Catch a sniper—you’ve got to be kidding. No, to really help, she’d have to walk the crime scene and
examine the evidence. Not scanned images of the note, but the note itself. What paper had he used? What typeface? What kind of shoe box was it? What was the pattern the shell casings made when they left his rifle and landed on the rooftop asphalt? Any of these could be clues to locating the guy, but they couldn’t be judged from a thousand miles away. If she walked the crime scene and examined the evidence…who knows?

All modesty aside, she had been very, very good at her job. Where others saw randomness, she recognized patterns, and patterns always led back to the perpetrator. Tom Piper could read anybody, even over the phone line. She read patterns. They were, so to speak, life’s intelligent design. She just filled in the blanks (thus her affinity for Sudoku puzzles). Even the entropy of madness, given the proper data, could be divined. Effect always followed cause. All actions carried context.

She knew there had to have been a second shoe box, one in Amarillo. It fit the pattern. And if she only knew what was inside it…

She stared at her cell phone. Tom was waiting for her call.