A Cup Full of Midnight (20 page)

I didn’t know what Keating’s motive for killing Razor might be, but I was sure he had one. Everybody else did. I ticked them off on my fingers. For Absinthe, it was being supplanted by Medea. For Byron, it was exploitation; for Barnabus, rivalry; for Medea, madness; for Chuck Weaver, revenge. Same for Elgin Mayers and the Hewitts. Even the victim’s brother had hated him.

When Elgin arrived twenty minutes before class, I was no closer to a solution than when I started. I turned off the radio, climbed out of the Silverado, and started toward his truck, a black Ford pickup with a camper top. I stopped short, the hairs on my arms prickling. On the side of the camper top was a Marine Special Forces design—an eagle with a rattlesnake in its beak.

It had one of those camper tops with a picture on the side
, Caitlin had said the day Josh had slashed his wrists.
Something with an eagle.

The door of the Ford swung open, and Elgin climbed languorously out of the driver’s seat, swollen lip curled upward in a smile, one eye bruised black and shot with blood.

“You son of a bitch.” I stepped closer, blood pounding in my ears, fists so tightly clenched my nails dug half-moons into my palms. “What did you do to Josh?”

“Josh?” He raised an eyebrow.

“You remember him. You picked him up on the street, gave him a ride home from school.”

“Kid jumped out in front of me. You’re lucky I didn’t run over him.” He slung the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and slammed the door of the truck. “Hell, you oughta be thanking me.”

I took a long calming breath and forced my fingers to uncurl. Storming the ramparts would get me nowhere with Elgin. “You just happened to be driving by.”

“Lucky for him.”

“Bullshit. You were stalking him.”

“Stalking’s an ugly word. I prefer ‘reconnaissance.’ ”

“Why were you doing reconnaissance on a sixteen-year-old boy?”

He jiggled the key impatiently in the lock. “I don’t know why you’re so bent out of shape. He needed a ride, I gave him one.”

I said, “Ten minutes in your truck, and he comes home and tries to kill himself. What’d you say to him?”

“You don’t put that on me. Kid was a mess.” He jiggled the key again, and this time it twisted in the lock and the door popped open. “Bawling like a little girl about how he’s no damn good, the world would be a better place without him.”

A dull ache started behind my eyes. “You try to talk him out of it?”

“Not my job, really.”

“Neither was giving him a ride.”

He grimaced, gestured for me to enter. “Guess I’m just a nice guy.”

I stepped past him into the front office, where a particleboard desk sat in the middle of a musty brown carpet that smelled of mold. Photographs covered the walls. Mayers in the jungle carrying an AK-47, Mayers shaking hands with an affluent-looking Latino man, Mayers sitting on the hood of an olive-drab jeep, Mayers brandishing a survival knife with serrated edges.

Much like the one that had gutted Razor.

“Nice,” I said.

He chucked the duffel onto an ugly green couch and crossed his arms. “So,” he said. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been gored by a bull.”

“Ambush. Some chicken-shit bastard hid in the shadows and took me by surprise.”

“Mm.” He grunted. “You should be more alert.”

“The guy who did this warned me off the Parker case. Can you figure why anybody’d want some poor confused kid to go to prison for a murder she didn’t commit?”

“You’re one of those bleeding heart liberals, aren’t you?”

“Are we talking politics now? Because politically speaking, I consider myself a moderate.”

“Most everybody does. But you . . . you’re no moderate. You live with a couple of homos. You a homo, McKean?”

“No,” I said, the back of my neck prickling. He knew where I lived. Of course he did. He’d put the note in my mailbox.

“That’s funny,” he said. “Because I figure any guy who shacks up with a couple of queers has got to be a little light in the loafers himself.”

“Haven’t you heard, Elgin? Homophobia is a sign of latent homosexuality.”

“Homophobia?” He snorted. Picked up an acrylic paperweight with a dead scorpion inside. “What’s that? Fear of queers? The faggot ain’t been born that I’m afraid of.”

“You didn’t consider Razor a threat?”

“Razor was a threat to everybody,” he said. “Ruined everything he touched.”

“He did. Including Judith.”

His expression darkened. “What do you know about Judith?”

“I know she told you what Razor did to her.”

“Razor and his crew.”

“Barnabus and Dark Knight.” I left Josh off the list. Elgin gave me a look I couldn’t read but didn’t correct me. I said, “You know what I find most amazing? That you let it go. No retaliation. Nada. None at all. That doesn’t seem like you.”

He gave an angry shrug, slapped the paperweight back onto the desk a little too hard. “She asked me not to.”

“That might have stopped you for a day or so.”

“You think I killed the little shit?”

“I think you care a lot about Judith. You wouldn’t let her rapist off scot-free.”

His lips parted in a chilly smile. “Everything in its time, McKean.”

“You were biding your time.”

“Biding. Watching. Learning.”

The thought of Josh sitting in Elgin’s front seat while Elgin watched and learned turned my stomach to lead. I told myself it meant something that he’d had Josh in his truck and hadn’t killed him. But maybe he’d thought Josh would save him the trouble.

“So you waited,” I said.

He nodded. “And then some other son of a bitch beat me to it.”

“That must have cheesed you off. Here you are, all ready to avenge your buddy’s wife, and somebody else gets to your target first. Any idea who that might have been?”

“No.” He pushed aside a sheaf of papers and slid his buttocks onto the edge of the desk. “Don’t care, either. As far as I’m concerned, whoever did it performed a public service.”

“That why you warned me off the case?”

“Did I do that?” He smiled. “Somehow I don’t think you have an iota of proof.”

I shook my head and forced the corners of my mouth up. “Not even a scintilla.”

“Then, if I
had
been the one to . . . re-educate you, it would be stupid of me to admit it.”

I decided he probably did do his own writing. Smart guy. Dangerous. What Chuck Weaver might have described as a shark in a people suit.

“I don’t back off,” I said.

He nodded, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “I can see you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I do admire tenacity, but I won’t let you ruin a good man’s life over scum like Parker.”

“Which good man would that be?”

“Whoever killed Sebastian Parker.” He reached into the stack of papers, came up with a newspaper clipping with a grainy black and white photo of Razor and his coterie. They looked like ghouls. It was an old photo, and my heart froze as I recognized Josh’s sullen face in the mix. Elgin waved the photo in my direction. “They’re vipers, McKean. You got to burn out the whole stinking nest.”

“They’re kids.”

“Old enough to know better.”

“Anything happens to the rest of Razor’s coterie, and you’ll be at the top of the suspect list.”

“So?” He pointed to the pictures on the wall and gave me a wisp of a smile. “I’m a ghost, man. You can’t catch a ghost.”

“I won’t let you hurt those kids,” I said.
I won’t let you hurt Josh.

He laughed and ran his thumb over the edge of an invisible knife. “You ever hear of the Son of Sam, McKean? You know what he said about his victims?”

He didn’t have to tell me. I’d heard the quote before.
I didn’t want to hurt them. I just wanted to kill them.

“Come near Josh again,” I said, “and a ghost is all you’ll ever be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
called Frank from the parking lot, and I must have sounded urgent, because Frank promised to put a tail on Elgin. Then I punched in Randall’s number.

“I need you to take Wendy and the kids and go somewhere,” I said when he answered. “Pick up the kids, rent a cabin. Don’t come back until I call you and say it’s okay.”

“What’s going on?”

I couldn’t tell him. Not all of it. Instead, I settled for a partial truth. That a former mercenary named Elgin Mayers had a beef with Razor’s whole coterie, of which he considered Josh a member. A lie of omission, maybe, but enough to scare him into keeping Josh close to him and far away from Elgin.

“Take your .45,” I said. “And do it now.”

He didn’t argue, and I wasn’t sure whether to be worried about that or relieved. I wanted to go with them, to be a part of keeping Josh safe, but he was still a suspect in Razor’s murder. He needed me here.

It was Friday afternoon, and I’d promised to pick up Paul. I considered calling Maria and asking to switch weekends, but with Frank on Elgin’s tail, Paul would be safe at my place. I could work on the case from my laptop.

My son was waiting for me on the front porch, his chubby arms around the neck of my thirteen-year-old Akita, Queenie. She endured the indignity with characteristic stoicism.

“Daddy!” Paul loosed his hold on the dog and flung himself off the porch and into my arms. “We made reindeer at school.”

He squirmed out of my grasp, clumped to his overnight bag, and rummaged through it. Emerged with a reindeer made of three wooden clothespins, a tiny red pom-pom, and a pair of plastic wiggly eyes.

“For you.” He held it out as if it were a Pulitzer Prize, and I took it with appropriate reverence. Then I tousled his hair and went inside for final instructions. Queenie hobbled after me.

Maria was in the kitchen, perched on a high stool in the breakfast nook. I felt a pang when I saw her. Remembered sitting beside her at that table a few days after our wedding, a set of 164 Crayola crayons spread in front of us as she quizzed me.

What color is this?

Blue.

Cobalt. And this?

Um . . . Dark blue?

Ultramarine. And this one?

Cobalt?

Cornflower.

I had never known there were so many colors in the world.

“Jared,” she said when she saw me, and started to get up. No easy feat, since, at eight months pregnant, she was at the stage she called Beached Whale.

“No, no, stay where you are.” I bent to kiss her cheek. She flushed with pleasure or embarrassment.

She reached up, straightened my collar, and smoothed the front of my shirt. Beneath her hand, my heart beat faster. She frowned and pressed her palm to my cheek. “What have you done to yourself now?”

“Technically, I didn’t do it.” I laid my hand briefly on Maria’s bulging belly. “How’s your girl?”

“Active.” She pressed my hand to her side, where I felt the pulse of a tiny kick. An intimate act, one we’d shared before Paul was born. My throat felt suddenly tight, the flesh of my palm hot.

I drew my hand away. “That’s quite a kick.”

“She’s more active than Paulie was. Do you think that’s a good sign?”

I looked into Maria’s anxious face and said, “She’s going to be fine.”

“I haven’t developed a photograph since I found out. Just in case the chemicals . . .” She gave me an anxious smile and stroked her stomach. “The ultrasound looked good. Perfect, the doctor said. But I wish she’d hurry up and get here. It will be such a relief to know.”

“You and D. W. been going to Lamaze?”

“Lamaze, Parenting classes, La Leche League. Birthing, Burping, and Breastfeeding, he calls it. To be perfectly honest, I think he’s scared out of his wits.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Were you worried? When Paul was born?”

“Petrified.”

“And look how well you did.”

She gave me the bottle with Queenie’s arthritis medicine in it, asked me when I’d be bringing Paul home, and gave my hand a squeeze. “I’ll call you if the baby comes,” she said. “In the meantime, you guys have a good time.”

In the morning, Paul helped me feed, water and turn out the horses. Then Jay and I bundled Dylan into his coat and the four of us headed out to the Dickens Christmas festival in Franklin’s historic district. It was a clear, mild day, and the temperature hovered in the low sixties. Tennessee weather. Snow and ice one day, outside without a jacket the next.

Jay unloaded a wheelchair from the trunk, and I carefully lifted Dylan into it and tucked his blanket around him. His breath was warm against my cheek. It smelled like boiled corn.

Paul gave Dylan a broad smile and clambered onto Dylan’s lap.

“Paul,” I said.

Dylan shook his head and edged over to give Paul more room. “He’s all right. Not hurting anything.”

He was no threat to Paul. I’d read enough books and articles to know the odds of Paul contracting the disease from Dylan were so slim as to be nonexistent. I’d watched my son climb into Jay’s lap a thousand times and never blinked an eye. So why was I all of a sudden having visions of killer viruses swarming across the blanket and into my son’s body? I gave Paul a quick once-over. No open sores. No scrapes. No scratches.

He was perfectly safe.