Carrion Comfort (49 page)

Haines touched his chin where the butterfly ban dage was visible against a broad, yellowish bruise. Flesh-colored makeup failed to conceal it. He smiled ruefully. “No purple heart for this one, Sheriff. I slipped getting out of the tub on Christmas Day and slammed my chin against a towel rack. Lucky I didn’t kill myself.”

“Yeah, they say most accidents happen in the home,” drawled Gentry. Haines nodded and glanced at his wristwatch. “Say,” said Gentry, “did you get the picture we sent you?”

“Picture?” said Haines. “Oh, the one of the missing woman. Mrs. Fuller. Yes, thanks, Sheriff. It’s gone out to all of our agents in the field.”

“Good, good,” said Gentry. “Haven’t heard anymore about where she might be, have you?”

“The Fuller woman? No. I still think she’s dead. My guess is that we’ll never find the body.”

“Probably right,” agreed Gentry. “Say, Dick, I passed the Capitol on the bus comin’ over here, and right catty-corner across the street was this big building with some police barricades outside and a second-story window being worked on. Is that the whatchamacallit . . .”

“Senate Office Building,” said Haines. “Yeah, isn’t that where the terrorists blew up the senator about a week ago?”

“Terrorist,” said Haines. “Just one. And the senator from Maine wasn’t even in town when it happened. His po liti cal adviser— fairly important guy in the G.O.P. by the name of Trask— was killed. Nobody else who was important.”

“I imagine you’re involved in that case, huh?”

Haines sighed and put down his papers. “It’s a pretty large office here, Sheriff. Quite a few agents.”

“Yeah,” said Gentry. “Sure are. They say that the terrorist was a Puerto Rican fellow. That right?”

“Sorry, Sheriff. We can’t comment on ongoing investigations.”

“Sure,” said Gentry. “Say, remember that New York psychiatrist, Dr. Laski?”

“Saul Laski,” said Haines. “Teaches at Columbia. Yes, we checked on his whereabouts during the weekend of the thirteenth. He was on that panel, just as your sources suggested. He probably came down to Charleston to get some publicity for his next book.”

“Could be,” said Gentry. “Thing is, though, he was gonna send me some information on this mass murder stuff and now I can’t get hold of him anywhere. You haven’t kept track of him, have you?”

“No,” said Haines and glanced at his watch again. “Why should we have?”

“No reason. But I think Laski was coming here to Washington. Last Saturday, I think it was. Same day you had that terrorist thing over to the Senate Office Building.”

“So?” said Haines.

Gentry shrugged. “Just had a feeling this fella was trying to solve things on his own. Thought he might’ve showed up here.”

“He didn’t,” said Haines. “Sheriff, I’d like to chat with you, but I’ve got another appointment in a couple of minutes.”

“Sure, sure,” said Gentry, rising and tugging on his cap. “You ought to have somebody see to that.”

“What’s that?” asked Haines. “Your chin,” said Gentry. “That’s a real nasty bruise.”

Gentry wandered down Ninth Street toward the mall, crossing Pennsylvania Avenue and passing the Department of Justice. He went right on Constitution, up Tenth past the I.R.S. building, left on Pennsylvania again, and jogged up to the steps of the Old Post Office. No one seemed to be following him. He continued on up Pennsylvania Avenue to Pershing Park and peered across the street at the roof of the White House. He wondered if Jimmy Carter was in there now, brooding about the hostages and blaming the Iranians for his defeat.

Gentry sat on a park bench and took his notebook out of his pocket. He flipped through the pages with their tightly scrawled script, closed the notebook, and sighed.

Dead end.

What if Saul was a fraud? A paranoid nutso?

No.

Why not?

Just no.

Okay, then where the hell is he? Walk over to the Congressional library and check the last week’s papers, death notices, accident reports. Call the hospitals.

And what if he’s in the morgue under a Puerto Rican John Doe?

Doesn’t make sense. What does the Oberst have to do with a senator’s adviser?

What did he have to do with Kennedy and Ruby?

Gentry rubbed his eyes. The thing had almost made sense back in Charleston when he was sitting at Natalie Preston’s kitchen table listening to Saul’s story. Things had clicked into place; the apparently random murders becoming a series of feints and thrusts from two or three old opponents with truly incredible powers. But now nothing made any sense. Unless . . .

Unless there were more of them.

Gentry sat straight up. Saul had to talk to someone here in Washington. Despite all of the recently shared confidences, he would not reveal who he was meeting.
Family.
For what reason? Gentry remembered the pain with which Saul had discussed the disappearance of his hired detective— Francis Harrington. So maybe Saul had asked for help. From a nephew in the Israeli Embassy? But maybe someone else also got involved.
Who?
The government? Saul could think of no reason the federal government would be in the business of protecting an aging ex-Nazi. But what if there were more like the Oberst, Fuller, and Drayton?

The sheriff shivered and pulled his coat tighter. It was a clear, bright day. The temperature was in the thirties. Weak winter light added a golden tint to the brown and brittle grass in the park.

He found a pay phone on the corner near the Washington Hotel and used his credit card to call Charleston. There still was no message from Natalie. Gentry found the number he had copied from his hotel room directory and called the Israeli Embassy. He wondered if anyone would be there on their Sabbath day.

A woman answered. “Hello,” said Gentry, stifling the sudden urge to say “Shalom.”

“Could I speak to Aaron Eshkol.”

There was a brief hesitation and the woman said, “Who is calling, please?”

“This is Sheriff Robert Gentry.”

“One second please.”

The second was more like two minutes. Gentry stood cradling the phone and stared at the Treasury building across the street.

If there were more people . . . mind vampires . . . like the Oberst, it might explain a lot. Such as why the Oberst felt it necessary to fake his own death. And why the Charleston County Sheriff had been followed for a week and a half. And why everything a certain FBI agent said made Gentry want to smash his teeth in. And what happened to a certain scrap-book of grisly newspaper clippings last seen at the scene of a murder . . .

“Hello.”

“Oh, hi, Mr. Eshkol, this is Sheriff Bobby Gentry . . .”

“No, this is Jack Cohen speaking.”

“Oh. Well, Mr. Cohen, I’m calling for Aaron Eshkol.”

“I am the supervisor of Mr. Eshkol’s department. Please tell me your business, Sheriff.”

“Actually, Mr. Cohen, this is sort of a personal call.”

“Are you a friend of Aaron’s, Sheriff Gentry?”

Gentry knew something was wrong, but could not put his finger on what it was. “No, sir,” he said. “I’m more a friend of Aaron’s uncle, Saul Laski. I need to speak to Aaron.”

There was a brief silence. “It would be best if you were to come here in person, Sheriff.”

Gentry glanced at his watch. “I’m not sure if I’ll have time, Mr. Cohen. If you could put me in touch with Aaron, I’ll see if it’s necessary.”

“Very well. Where are you calling from, Sheriff? Here in Washington?”

“Yeah,” said Gentry. “A pay phone.”

“Are you in the city itself? Someone can give you directions to the embassy.”

Gentry tried to control his rising anger. “I’m right near the Washington Hotel,” he said. “Just put Aaron Eshkol on or give me his home phone number. If I need to see him at the embassy, I’ll grab a cab.”

“Very well, Sheriff. Please call back in ten minutes.” Cohen hung up before Gentry could protest.

He paced back and forth in front of the hotel, irritated, tempted to pick up his stuff at the hotel and fly straight to Philadelphia. This was ridiculous. He knew how hard it was to find a missing person in Charleston, where he had six deputies and ten times that many contacts. This was absurd.

He called back two minutes before the ten minutes were up. The woman answered again. “Yes, Sheriff. One second please.”

Gentry sighed and leaned against the metal frame of the telephone stand. Something sharp poked him in the side. Gentry turned, saw the two men standing close, too close, saw the taller of the two smiling broadly at him. Then Gentry looked down and saw the barrel of the small-caliber automatic touching his side.

“We’re going to walk to that car and get in,” said the big man with a hearty grin. He clapped Gentry on the back as if they were two old friends meeting after a long absence. The barrel dug deeper.

The tall man was too close, Gentry thought. There was a better than even chance that he could slap away the weapon before the man could fire. But his partner had stepped back five feet, his right hand in his raincoat pocket, and no matter what Gentry might do, the second man would have a clear field of fire.

“Walk now,” said the tall man. Gentry walked.

It was not a bad tour. They drove around the Ellipse, west to the Lincoln Memorial, around the Tidal Basin, then up Jefferson Drive to the Capitol, past Union Station, and back around again. No one called out the sights. The limousine was plush, wide, and soundless. The windows were opaque from the outside, the doors locked automatically from the driver’s seat, there was a Plexiglas partition behind the driver, and the two men from the corner sat on either side of Gentry. Across from him sprawled on a jump seat sat a man with poorly cut white hair, sad eyes, and a lumpy, pockmarked face that somehow managed to be handsome.

“I’ll let you guys in on something,” said Gentry. “Kidnapping’s against the law in this country.”

The white-haired man said softly, “Could I see some identification, Mr. Gentry?”

Gentry considered several self-righteous and indignant protests. He shrugged and handed over his wallet. No one jumped when he reached for it; the two men had frisked him as he entered the car. “You sound like Jack Cohen,” said Gentry.

“I am Jack Cohen,” said the other, rifling through Gentry’s wallet, “and you have all the proper identification, credit cards, and miscellanea of a Southern sheriff named Robert Joseph Gentry.”

“Bobby Joe to my friends and constituents,” said Gentry. “There is no place in the world where I.D. means less than in America,” said Cohen.

Gentry shrugged. His instinct was to explain to them precisely how little he cared and to suggest certain airborne carnal acts that they could perform on themselves. He said, “Can I see your identification?”

“I am Jack Cohen.”

“Uh-huh. And are you really Aaron Eshkol’s boss?”

“I am head of the Communications and Interpretations section of the embassy,” said Cohen.

“Is that Aaron’s department?”

“Yes,” said Cohen. “Is this news to you?”

“As far as I know, one of you three is Aaron Eshkol,” said Gentry. “I’ve never met the man. And from the sound of things, I’m not going to.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Gentry?” Cohen’s voice was as flat and cold as a killing blade.

“Call it a guess,” said Gentry. “I phone asking for Aaron and the entire embassy puts me on hold while you guys leap into the nearest limousine and burn rubber to take me on a tour by gunpoint. Now if you
are
who you say you are . . . and who the hell knows at this point . . . you’re acting a little out of character for ambassadors of our loyal and dependent ally in the Middle East. My guess is that Aaron Eshkol is dead or missing and you’re a bit upset . . . even to the point of sticking guns in the ribs of duly elected law enforcement officers.”

“Go on,” said Cohen. “Get fucked,” said Gentry. “I’ve said my say. Tell me what’s going on and I’ll tell you why I called Aaron Eshkol.”

“We could invite your participation in this discussion by . . . ah . . . other means,” said Cohen. The absence of threat in his tone served as a threat.

“I doubt it,” said Gentry. “Unless you’re not who you say you are. Either way, I’m saying nothing else until
you
tell
me
something worth learning.”

Cohen glanced out at the passing marble scenery and looked back at Gentry. “Aaron Eshkol is dead,” he said. “Murdered. Him, his wife, and two daughters.”

“When?” said Gentry.

“Two days ago.”

“Christmas Day,” muttered Gentry. “This has been a hell of a holiday season. How were they killed?”

“Someone pushed a wire into their brains,” said Cohen. From the tone of his voice, he might have been describing a new way to fix an auto engine.

“Ah, Jesus,” breathed Gentry. “Why didn’t I read about this?”

“There was an explosion and fire,” said Cohen. “The Virginia coroner ruled accidental death . . . a gas leak. Aaron’s association with the embassy has not been picked up by the news ser vices.”

“Your own doctors found the true cause of death?”

“Yes,” said Cohen. “Yesterday.”

“But why go apeshit when I call?” asked Gentry. “Aaron must have had . . . no, wait. I mentioned Saul Laski. You think Saul is connected to Aaron’s death in some way.”

“Yes,” said Cohen. “All right,” breathed Gentry. “Who killed Aaron Eshkol?”

Cohen shook his head. “Your turn, Sheriff Gentry.”

Gentry paused to gather his thoughts. “You should realize,” continued Cohen, “that it would indeed be disastrous for Israel to offend American taxpayers at this sensitive period in our countries’ histories. We are willing to risk the embarrassment when you convince us of your innocence and we release you. If you fail to convince us, it would be much easier for everyone involved if you just disappear.”

“Shut up,” said Gentry. “I’m thinking.” They passed the Jefferson Memorial for the third time and crossed a bridge. The Washington Monument loomed ahead of them. “Saul Laski came to Charleston ten days ago to inquire about the Mansard House murders . . . CBS called the mess the Charleston Massacre . . . you heard about our little trouble?”