WIDOW (30 page)

Three days later Lt Epstein called him into the office. Jerry Dodge, hunched over his desk across from Samson, swigged from a Styrofoam cup of coffee and said, “I already know what he wants with you.”

“That so? Clue me in, Dod.”

Dod reached out and tapped the file folders holding the floaters. “Got another one.”

“I guess I expected as much.” Samson stood and straightened his tie. He reached for his sports jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it.

“You gonna form a task force?”

“I don't know yet, depends on what the boss says.”

“I could run legwork for you if you do.”

“Don't you have a full case load already?”

“Doesn't everybody? I'd still like to learn a little bit about how you track down serials.”

“Oh, you mean the glamor of the job. Yeah, it's real uptown, Dod. The guys in Quantico call me up all the time, fly me private jet into West Virginia, ask my opinion on where I think the Zodiac disappeared to, and if the Green River Killer's dead, in prison, or hanging out at the Vegas roulette tables.”

“You don't have to be sarcastic. I just offered.”

Samson paused. He leaned over toward Dod. “It's shit work, just like what you've got on your own desk. You wouldn't like it. It's more tedious than the Parole Violation Squad.”

“But there might be a promotion in it.” A knowing glint had come into Dod's eyes.

“I don't think so,” Samson said, heading for Epstein's office. “You've been misinformed.”

In the lieutenant's office he studied the file on the latest victim while the boss talked.

“We have a definite pattern now. This one clinches it. Guy's naked, poisoned, floating up the channel. Not much left of this one. As you can see . . .”

Samson stared at the photo of the dead man. Both eyes had been eaten from the sockets, his nose was gone, as were his lips. Although Caucasian, he was black from the water, and bloated so much he looked like someone had pumped him full of helium. Samson flipped the photo face down and looked at the next one. This was a close-up showing striations on the victim's heels.

“The ME say how he got these?”

“It's in his report in the top folder. He thinks someone dragged the corpse over rough ground after death. There were still bits of gravel imbedded in the skin.”

Samson closed the folder. He'd study it later. “I wonder if this one hung out around Montrose.”

Epstein shook his head. “I don't know. That's something you'll have to find out. What do you think so far? What's going on?”

Samson was careful. “I don't have anything solid yet. The other two were in clubs all up and down the streets. I have a feeling it has something to do with dancers. Maybe a crazy boyfriend, someone jealous of his ole lady.”

“Fucking poison, though, seems a boyfriend would just shoot the bastards. Well, get on it. The broadcast news tonight's going to do a five-minute report. They know about the poison. They might nickname the killer any day now.”

“Do you want me to gather some people, get some help?”

“Up to you. At this point you may not need it. Draft someone if you do. I don't want to get anything official-looking started yet, gives the case too much attention, makes it too easy for the reporters to camp on our doorstep.”

Samson took the folder to his desk. Picked up the phone. Needed to find out if the victim had been identified yet through his fingerprints.

“They already got it,” Dod said, swiveling in his chair to the portable TV sitting on a sideboard against the wall.

Samson put down the phone again. He looked up to see the mid-day newsman on Channel 2 speaking from the scene in Kemah. It was a video tape taken earlier when the body was found. “Turn it up.”

Dod rolled across the room in his chair and turned up the volume.

Mitchell watched the news spot while his stomach started to roil. The heat was on, the media was all over it. When that happened, it was always a real mess. The boss was right. The second he formed a task force, reporters would crawl over him, ants on a carcass, breathing down his neck, asking for updates, trying to follow him around, and getting in the way.

“Fuck,” he swore softly. Picked up the phone again and made his call.

~*~

That night, with the moon in full regalia and the stars more plentiful than other nights of recent recall, Son slipped out Sherilee's door and down the steps to the street. If he turned he knew he'd see her standing, watching him go, and she would give him a little wave goodbye.

Most of the time that kind of domestic scene would have warmed him. Tonight it just made him more nervous. These connections with people dragged him down. Sherilee. His mother. Women, fucking women. Even though you paid them for something, they started thinking they owned you.

He stopped at his car door, key in his hand. He didn't like women. Funny how he could miss a thing like that for so many years. Oh, he knew he would never marry one. He'd never have a regular honest relationship. But he'd never thought about it beyond that. Until now, with Sherilee standing on the porch in the moonlight watching him go, and that uneasiness creeping up from his back to his neck making him feel spied upon.

He didn't like women at all. He used Sherilee for sex, he needed that, but look at her. She was black. She was old—at least for her line of work. She was without any principles whatsoever. She'd do anything for money, anything he asked of her, do anything with anybody anytime.

Fucking whore dog.

And he didn't like his mother, either. He loved her, had to, he was her son, but he didn't like her. She was too rich in spirit, too accepting of what life handed her, too . . . good for him, oh, wasn't she now, too good . . .

He unlocked the car door and slid inside. Hot. Suffocating. Humidity, even at this time of night, in the nineties. He started the car and got the air conditioning going. Angled the vents on his face and shut his eyes. He hoped Sherilee had gone inside now. He'd hate to think she was still looking after him.

A lake of moonlight lay over the interior of the car, almost blinding in its brilliance. Son put the car into gear and screeched the tires as he left the curb.

He couldn't go home yet. Too bent out of shape. Pretzelized. That was a good word for how he felt.

Bent into figure eights, baked hard and lightly salted.

He drove slowly down the inner city streets. A patrol car passed him. A cab. Two cars empty except for lone drivers. Both men. Women didn't drive through Houston late at night, alone. Wasn't done except during an emergency of some sort. There were too many “bump and robs” where guys bumped into the rear of a woman driver, waited until she got out to check for damage, then took her car or took her and the car. Too many drive-by shootings. Too many dope dealers high on their own products crazy enough to jerk a woman out of the driver's seat at a stoplight and beat her face in just for kicks.

Too many of everything!

Son pounded at the dash. Damned air conditioning didn't blow cool enough. Needed to get it fixed. You couldn't buy your own cans of freon to fill up a leaking compressor anymore. EPA had outlawed the stuff because of the damaged ozone layer. Now you had to go in to a repair shop and pay hundreds of dollars to get the fucker fixed. What would they think of next to persecute honest, hard-working citizens?

An entrance ramp came up for the Loop. Son took it, driving aimlessly. He circled around the city until he came to the I-45 South exit, took it. Maybe it would be cooler down by the ocean.

He wanted to get a look at the channel anyway, the one that separated Kemah and Seabrook, the one where they brought in the bodies.

None of the restaurants were open this late. He parked on a spit of land outside the little town of Seabrook where the channel flowed on the right and ahead lay the bay. He got out of the car and walked over to the bulkhead. A dozing gull flew off with a squawk.

The wind was blowing here, smelling briny. It ruffled his hair back from his forehead and caressed his cheeks. He saw a freighter out in the bay, its lights outlining the ship's body. A moon path stretched wide from the horizon to the bulkhead, like a silver highway.

Four dead men had walked it lately. From somewhere out there, where they slipped beneath the waves, they rolled and tumbled and were nudged by currents and fish back toward land.

It would soon be morning and the moon hidden.

Son turned abruptly and hurried to the car. He had to get home, he'd forgotten. His mother shouldn't be alone, not all night this way. What if she needed to go to the bathroom? What if she tried it by herself and fell? Or stayed in bed and wet herself? What if her heart gave out and she'd called for him?

Jesus God, all he thought about was himself Having sex, finding a cool breeze, driving all the fuck the way down I-45 to SeaForsakenBrook just to look at the water.

He had to get home. Now.

~*~

“Mother? Mother?” He came into the house calling her name. He got her bedroom door open, panicking, still calling for her, “Mother?”

“Son! What is it?”

She turned on the bedside lamp and the room exploded into light. She was up on one elbow, squinting at him, frowning at him.

He was shaking all over, trembling so badly his teeth chattered uncontrollably. All the way home across the city he had let his imagination run wild until he was sure, sure she had died while he'd been gone.

“Oh, Mother, I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't mean to wake you . . . I was . . .”

“Son, what's the matter? You're shaking. Sit down right this minute. You look awful.”

She tried to rise from bed. Her color was bad. She looked yellow in the lamplight. Her eyes were watery and there were blue hollows underneath them. He put out his hands, “Don't move, just stay there. I'm all right. I'll sit down.” He collapsed in the chair and put his hands over his face.

“Son? Honey, what's wrong?”

“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I was out, we played cards too late, and I didn't notice the time. I got scared, that's all. It was silly.”

“Sweetheart. You were worried about me. You needn't do that. I sleep all night, you know that. I never call for you on your card nights. You always make sure I have everything I need.”

I'm a good son, he thought. I really am.

“Do you want me to sit up with you a while? Would you like to talk?”

He lowered his hands from his face. “We need to get you to that appointment,” he said. “We've put it off too long already.”

“I'm going to be fine.” She adjusted the covers over her chest.

“You haven't been doing so well lately. You need a checkup. They should see about your medications, maybe they aren't strong enough.”

“You can't fix this old heart, Son. No one can. Worrying about things you can't change will only waste your time.”

“You don't want to die, do you?” He hadn't meant to raise his voice. He was out of control and hated that, hated it.

“Please don't shout, Son. I'll go to the doctor if that's what you want. Just don't get worked up so.”

“I'm sorry. I told you I was scared. I'll call for an appointment tomorrow, or rather today, after I get a nap.” He stood shakily. “I'll let you rest now. I really didn't mean to disturb you.”

“Get some sleep, darling. Tomorrow things will look brighter, mark my words.” She reached and turned out the lamp.

Son shut the door quietly. He moved through the dark hall to his own room, her scent in his nostrils. Baby powder, cotton gowns ironed and crisp, old paperskin, old denture-breath.

His mother was dying. This time she was going to die.

But what would he do without her, what would he do if he didn't have her to care for?

What would he do if he was left alone, all alone, in the world?

 

Twenty-Five

 

Shadow knew she was taking him home with her.

“I'd like to see where you live. Not many people know, do they?” Samson looked around the club as if someone might have overheard him.

“I don't talk about my personal life at work. Most of us lie, anyway, to the customers.”

“I've always wondered about that. It makes you work at being fraudulent, doesn't it? I don't mean to imply there's anything wrong with lying to customers about where you live or your name. Hell, it would be a big mistake to let most of these guys know any details. But it just seems lying all the time could make you . . . well, forget what the truth is.”

Shadow thought it over. She didn't like the word “fraudulent” applied to her and that must have shown on her face. “Everyone's a fraud anyway, what's the big deal?”

“I said I didn't mean it was so bad.” He sipped at the Irish coffee. “Like you say, everyone's a fraud when you come right down to it. For instance, I'm a cop so I'm supposed to be brave, upright, and civic-minded.”

“It sounds like the Boy Scout oath. But I suppose you're right. Tell lies long enough and the truth fades out.” She paused. “Which one of those things are wrong? You're not brave? Upright? Civic-minded?”

“Rarely any of the above,” he said, smiling that smile she liked so much. “Will you tell me your real name then?”

She hesitated. “Kay. But I'm not the same person I was when that was my name. Shadow suits me better now.”

“Kay.” He stared into his coffee, mulling over the sound of it. “Katherine?” She nodded slightly. “Kay what?”

“Mandel. My married name. Mandel.” He was the first person in over a year, outside of Charlene, who knew her real name. Why was there such power in a person's name? Under the name of Shadow she was free to be anyone and act in any way she pleased. As Kay Mandel she was held responsible for her actions. That was the magic of a nickname.

“Why don't you call me Mitch?”