Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (22 page)

"Name is Brian Collins," Sloan said. "His
mother reported him missing a couple of days ago. Said she woke up
and he was gone from the house. We found a bicycle further in the
woods. That same night a couple reported being held up while they
were parked down here. A lone gunman. The description fits. The man
was pistol-whipped and kicked around some. The kid made the woman
show herself to him but didn't touch her, just took their wallets. We
found them closer to the road. There was about a hundred and
twenty-five dollars on the body."

Mercanto knew what the boy was like, he had
first-hand experience. That was hardly the issue now. "Yeah, but
this . . . who . . . what did this to him?"

The M.E. looked at Sloan before answering. "It
was human," he said. "Damn strange human, but you can see
the teeth marks in the neck. We'll try for a mold at the lab. I'm
taking odds it's the same one who killed Hightower. Young male, very
strong, and in some kind of rage . . ."

"How do you know it was a male?"

"Because this one was alive when it happened.
You can tell by the blood. He wasn't shot first like Hightower.
Whoever did it jumped him from behind and ripped out the carotid
artery, plus a chunk of neck muscle. With his teeth. You know the kid
had to be fighting like hell while it was happening.

Tell me a woman, even a crazy one, who'd have that
kind of strength."

"What about his eyes?"

The Medical Examiner knelt beside the body. "Gouged
them out with his fingers, most likely."

Mercanto shook his head. Even feeling about the kid
like he did . . . nobody could wish that on anybody. He turned away
from the body and started back to the edge of the light where Captain
Zinkowsky and the woman detective were standing.

"We've got to get this son of a bitch," he
said to Sloan.

Sloan just looked at him. "One thing, this blows
away our theories about Hightower's death. No kinky sex, no
blackmail, no ex-wife. None of that stuff. A new ballgame but an old
diamond — the killer is in the park, we’ve got to find him . . .
and before he does it again. Jesus, like a fucking animal

"Wait a minute before you rule out drugs — "

The three of them looked at Mercanto. "I know,
I’ve been on leave but I’ve been nosing around and I’ve got a
name . . . Rashid, a Jamaican drug dealer working Germantown Avenue.
I’ve confirmed it from Hightower's ex-wife and a couple of friends.
He was the one selling to him. There could be a connection . .

Captain Zinkowsky and Sloan just looked at each
other, said nothing.

Mercanto hurried on. "I know it's weak . . . a
Germantown dealer who’s smart enough to sell almost fifty grand
worth of stuff to a Center City type like Hightower wouldn't be crazy
enough to do something like this himself, but maybe he hired it done.
Maybe the kid was somehow into him, too." Here he was going way
out on a limb. "Just looking at the Hightower case, I thought it
might be some sort of a ritual or a message we didn't understand,
something Jamaican like a cult or voodoo or something, so I went to
an expert on this stuff at the Braddon Museum — —"

"And . . . ?" Zinkowsky said tightly.

Mercanto knew he was running out of steam. "Nothing.
She said it wasn’t part of any ritual." He took a deep breath.
"But at least it's a place to start . . ."

At least Sloan didn't dismiss it. "We can’t
rule it out, said that all along. Drug people do crazy things."
He turned to the captain. "Does the name mean anything to you?"

"No," she said, "but he shouldn’t be
too hard to find. We’ll bring him in."

"Meanwhile," said Sloan, "here's what
we do. Until some real evidence, we assume Rashid isn’t our man,
that this guy is a psycho, a random killer on the loose in the park.
Time is everything now. I know you're on leave, Mercanto, but
tomorrow morning you be at the Roundhouse. We're going to powwow with
the shrink and see if he can develop some sort of profile on this
guy. Maybe we can match him up to some weirdo sex offender or someone
just out of the funny farm. A guy this sick can’t have slipped
through all the cracks unnoticed. Someone has got to know something
about him . . . After we finish here tonight Captain Zinkowsky and I
are going to meet with the Chief and the Mayor. It's already been
arranged, they're waiting for us. I’m going to tell 'em we got to
put every available man on this. Including a house-to-house canvass
of the neighborhood. Somebody must know something, or seen something
suspicious . . . Two-man patrols, undercover men and women as parked
couples, the works . . . even the granny squad if necessary. But I
want this S.O.B. caught. Clear?" He smacked his fist into his
other palm in punctuation. "I want him caught before he can do
it again," his voice rising.

Mercanto did a silent amen to that.
 

CHAPTER 18

MARGARET HURRIED back to the party to find Loring but
he'd vanished. She had to find him, what happened between them had to
have precipitated a crisis, at least she was sure of that.

Finally she located Adam still with Jennifer at one
of the bars. She ignored his guilty look and took him to one side.

"I have a splitting headache. Take me home.
Please" She turned and started for the door, and he followed,
reluctantly. On the ride home she sat silent, staring out the window,
smoking, thinking what a disaster the evening had turned into. Seeing
Adam with Jennifer topped by what had happened between her and
Loring. Her problem with Adam had to wait. Right now the priority was
to find Loring and deal with their crisis . . . yes, their’s . . .
before it had time to undo all the work they'd managed together.

At the house she didn’t wait for Adam, got out of
the car and went in alone. In the bedroom she began to undress. Below
she heard the front door open and close.

A moment later Adam was standing in the doorway, his
tie undone, a Heineken in his hand. "Look, I’m sorry about
tonight."

"Yes, I know," she said as she stripped off
her clothes. She was in a hurry but blurted out, "Tonight you
put me down in a way you’ve never done in this marriage. And that's
saying something."

"Hey, I know I’m not exactly the ideal husband
but — "

"Adam, I've known about you and that girl for
some time. I’m not stupid. She can fall for your line of crap, not
me. Not anymore."

She turned to the bureau and got out fresh panties.

As she pulled them on he said, "It's not what
you think, I’m not having  an affair with her. She's just one
of my students. My God, she’s young enough to be my daughter."

She didn’t bother with the obvious answer as she
turned back to the bureau for a bra —

He had her by the arms, turned her around. "Margaret,
believe me, there's no one else, never mind how it looks. God, I know
you’re not stupid. Neither am I . . . do you think I'd risk losing
you for a kid like — "

She pulled free, started to put on her bra. He ripped
it out of her hands. "Damn it, I’ll show you."

He pushed her down on the bed. She tried to move away
but he held her there, jerking her panties down. He pinned her hands
above her head, holding them with one hand, forced her legs open with
his knees.

In the stillness of the room she heard the sound of
his zipper, then felt him against her. When he entered her she
stopped struggling, willing it to be over. Her thoughts were not on
him, but . . . and it startled her. . . on what she would say to
Loring when she got to him.

He was quick, and when she felt him shudder it was as
if it was happening to someone else. Then he lay quietly, his weight
on her. "There, damn it, that should tell you something"

It does, she thought, as she pushed him off, got up
and silently dressed in slacks and a sweater. He watched her closely,
and when he saw her pull on boots he said, "Wait a minute, where
are you going?"

"
Out."

"When will you be back?"

She picked up her purse and started for the door. "I
don't know."

He followed her downstairs. "I'll wait up for
you, we’ll have a drink, listen to some music like old times."

His smile was his most
winning. Right now, though, it made her faintly sick to her stomach.

* * *

On the drive she tried to son; things out. What was
it Charles always said . . . that sex was the physical communication
of unspoken needs. The kindest interpretation of what Adam had done,
but that was for patients. Adam was her husband. Loring was the
patient, and in effect that was what he was doing, or trying to do,
at the party . . .

She stopped at her office long enough to get Loring's
address from her files. For a moment she thought about calling
instead, then decided it was better to see him in person. They had to
deal face-to-face with what he had done tonight. Yes, "they,"
both of them.

Admit it, she was angry, he had endangered the
therapy. Probably she should terminate his therapy with her, but she
was damned if she was going to. Too easy for her. And if she didn't
continue to try to help him, no one else would ever be able to. He
would never trust anyone again . . .

One good result had come from it. No matter what
happened between her and Adam, Loring, she was confident, was no
longer going to be a subject of her fantasies. He'd be another
patient, like all the others. She’d moved him several concentric
circles back from her center, she decided, remembering Charles' words
at lunch.

As she passed Wissahickon and Hortter she saw the
police cars alongside the road, lights flashing. Whatever had
happened, it had to have been something major to involve that many
blue-and-whites. God, not another murder, she hoped, like the
optometrist she'd read about. The parks were risky enough without
having people actually killed there. This was Philadelphia, not New
York . . .

After a few minutes she found Loring's cottage on the
edge of the woods facing Wissahickon Creek. There was a Mercedes in
the driveway. The house was dark but she thought she saw a light in
the rear.

No one answered the bell until the third ring. "Yes?"

"
Loring, it's me, Dr. Priest. I believe we
should talk."

"
Go away."

"No, Loring, we have to talk."

A long silence, then she heard the sound of the lock
being turned.

The door opened. As soon as she saw him she was even
more certain she’d made the right decision to come now, not to wait
or to phone. He still had on his tuxedo, minus the jacket, like he
was getting ready to go out, not coming home. But from his red eyes
she could tell he had been crying.

"Come in." A defeated voice.

He closed the door behind
her and she followed him into the living room. She'd wondered what
his home would look like. It was a very masculine room, more so than
he projected in his personality, with windows along one side, lots of
bookcases and a stone fireplace at one end.

* * *

He watched her sit down on the couch. The sight of
her sent a spasm of pain into his stomach. He had had fantasies of
her sitting there, but now that she was here, all he wanted was for
her to go, leave him in peace. Too much . . . "I want to talk
about what happened tonight," she said, just like he knew she
would when he let her in. Pandora. Open the box at all costs, no
matter what, damn you . . .

"Can I get you a drink?" Changing the
subject.

She hesitated, not exactly professional, but this
meeting was outside the canons too. "A small brandy, thank you."

In the kitchen he poured two drinks of Remy Martin,
then drew a glass of water for himself, took out the bottle of
belladonna from the cabinet and squeezed the dropper into the glass,
counting the drops like he always did, this time not stopping until
he reached fifty, five times the prescribed dosage. His need had long
ago passed that point. He drank it down in a gulp. The familiar
bitter taste of the deadly nightshade sometimes seemed the only thing
still real in his life. Back in the living room he handed her her
drink. "Sit down," she said. "What happened tonight
was serious, important. So much so that I did not want to let it wait
until our next session."

Watching her, he felt it begin to happen, the change,
the double-vision of his perception . . . oh yes, he was there and
she was there, but she had now assumed with increasing force and
sharpness, as it had before, the outlines and then the substance of
another, the image of someone so terribly, frighteningly familiar,
superimposed on, gradually blotting out, the image of Margaret . . .
it couldn't be, he didn't want it to be, even tried to will it away
but failed . . . mother . . . it was she and no mistaking, emerging
out of the features of what once had been Margaret. The sound of the
voice, the tone, were the same. And so was the deceit, but he would
defeat it, it would not destroy him . . .

Margaret felt more than saw what was happening. She
felt his remoteness, his defensiveness. She tried to apply what she
could to relieve him of what she was sure was his guilt over what had
happened this evening . . . "Please understand that you are not
at fault here. What happened is not all your responsibility. But it
is your responsibility to care about your therapy, to understand that
it matters more than anything else to you now, but it is you that we
are working to reveal and understand and so make you well . . . "
My God, his pupils, they’re so dilated, has he taken something. . .
?