City of the Snakes (15 page)

The file didn’t tell how it ended. A page had been ripped out, and at the top of the next lay a single, perplexing, seemingly unconnected line. “Margaret Crowe is back safe with her family.” After that it skipped a few years, recommencing with the news that Bill had joined the police. The rest of the file followed his early career. I think it continued in another file, but I found no trace of that one.

I ran “Margaret Crowe” through the computer, along with the dates, and came up with a high-profile media story of a nine-year-old who’d been kidnapped, tied up and held in darkness for a couple of days, then released without harm. I don’t know how that ties in with Bill and the ordeal he underwent at the hands of Paucar Wami, but I’m on my way to find a man who might.

Leo Casey’s led a troubled life, judging by the short entry at Party Central. In counseling of one kind or another since he was a teenager. He’s been arrested for shoplifting, for fighting, on drunk and disorderly charges
several times, and he’s served two years for selling narcotics while on parole. He hasn’t had any run-ins with the law since then, but that has a lot to do with the fact that he’s spent most of that time in a rehabilitation clinic, St. Augustine’s, in a town called Curlap, 240 miles north of the city.

There wasn’t a direct train to Curlap until Wednesday—I didn’t like the idea of driving—but the 11:14 on Monday goes to Shefferton, which is only twenty-two miles from the town. I booked my ticket over the Internet, went home to grab some sleep and pack a bag, and here I am, on my way north on a rare rural excursion.

The train pulls into Shefferton on time. I disembark and take in the locale—a tiny town, sleepy, deserted-looking. I feel dizzy—I need the grime of a big city!—but I quell my sense of unease by concentrating on my mission.

I hire a taxi from Shefferton to Curlap. The driver’s inquisitive—asks about my job and where I live—but I say little, grunt in answer to his questions, and sit on my fingers so they don’t creep to my scalp to scratch beneath my wig. It always itches in the heat, and today is set-your-hair-on-fire hot.

The driver doesn’t know St. Augustine’s, but stops in Curlap and gets directions. I ask him to wait, even though I don’t know how long I’ll be. “Take all the time you like,” he smiles. “I’m the most patient man in the world when the meter’s running.”

St. Augustine’s has the appearance of a children’s school. White walls, a blue, tiled roof, fairy-tale windows, picket fences, carefully maintained trees set far enough back from the building not to cause damage should they fall. There’s even a play area, partly visible from the front path, with swings and slides.

A bell tinkles softly as I enter. A woman in a baggy T-shirt and shorts stands up behind the reception desk and smiles welcomingly. “Help you, sir?”

I walk over, noting the brightly painted walls and childlike drawings pinned to them. “Hi. I’m Neil Blair. I was hoping to have a few words with a patient of yours.”

“We call them ‘guests’ here,” the woman corrects me.

“I’d like to see a ‘guest’ then.” I grin as warmly as possible.

“Are you a relative?” she asks, then sticks out a hand before I can answer. “My name’s Nora.”

“Pleased to meet you, Nora,” I respond, shaking her hand. “No, the man I’d like to see is the brother of a close friend of mine. I’ve lost contact with this friend and I’m hoping Leo can help me track—”

“Leo Casey?” she interrupts brightly.

“Yes.” I get ready for the curtain to come crashing down but Nora isn’t the least bit suspicious.

“Gosh, it’s been a long time since Leo had any visitors. He’ll be delighted. Have you known each other long?”

“Actually, we’ve never met.” It always pays to stick close to the truth when spinning a lie. “I don’t even know if his brother told him about me. But I was in the neighborhood—I’m a basketball scout—and I recalled Bill telling me this was where Leo lives, so I thought—”

“A scout!” Nora gasps. “I’m a
huge
fan. Ever discover anyone famous?”

“No,” I chuckle ruefully. “I feed the smaller teams and universities.”

“I know a guy you
have
to check out,” she says, scrabbling for a pen and paper. “He’s a bit on the mature side—twenty-three—but he’s brilliant. Would have turned pro years ago except for an injury.”

“I’ll have a look at him,” I lie, taking the scrap of paper from her and squinting at the name as if genuinely interested. “Now, how about Leo? Is it possible to see him, or do I have to book an appointment or check with his doctor?”

“Goodness no,” she laughs. “Most of our guests stay with us voluntarily. They can have all the visitors they like. Besides, Leo’s an orderly.”

“I thought he was here for treatment.”

“He was—is—but he likes to keep busy, and he’s utterly trustworthy. He started helping out a few months after arriving. He fit in so well, it wasn’t long before we put him on the payroll.”

Nora has a free tongue, so I work on her some more. “What exactly was Leo treated for?”

“Now
that
I can’t reveal,” she says regretfully.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“That’s OK.” She purses her lips. “I can say that we specialize in depression. We tend not to take on those who are seriously disturbed, just
those who feel confused, a little lost or sad. We make them feel part of a family.”

“Does Leo ever talk about his real family?”

“Yes,” she answers hesitantly. “But I probably shouldn’t speak too much about that.”

“I understand.” A young woman with a troubled look passes through reception and waves curtly at Nora. I note gold rings and a necklace with small diamonds embedded in it. “Does it cost much to stay here?”

“Oh yes,” Nora chuckles. “We make special arrangements for certain individuals, but by and large you don’t come to St. Augustine’s unless you’re rolling in it!”

“Bill pays for Leo, doesn’t he?” I chance the query, expecting her to say she can’t discuss such matters.

“No,” she surprises me. “I’m not sure who sponsored him when he arrived, but he pays his own way now, out of the money he earns. He’s one of the special cases—having been with us so long, and having served so capably, we cut him a serious discount.”

“Has Bill ever come to visit Leo?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“No.” She frowns. “Actually, I believe Leo told me his brother was dead. Didn’t he die in an accident some years ago?”

“That was an uncle,” I lie smoothly. “Same name. A freak explosion.”

“Yes, I remember the explosion. Could have sworn it was…” She shakes her head. “Never could trust this brain of mine. Do you want me to page Leo?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Nora presses a button, then stands again, peeling the folds of her T-shirt from her armpits. She’s sweating, even though the reception’s air-conditioned. I’m sweating too, but at the prospect of learning about Bill Casey.

“All our staff wear electronic wristbands,” she says, wriggling her left wrist. “They vibrate when activated. Much more convenient than a PA system.”

When Leo finally shows—ten minutes after his first summons, and having been paged twice more by the good-natured Nora—he takes me by surprise. He’s not much older than me but he looks like a man of eighty.
An exhausted, trembling wreck, bald on top and white at the sides, gray, wrinkled skin, stooped and slow.

“Sorry it took so long,” he apologizes. “I was with Jacqueline. She was talking about her son. I couldn’t leave in the middle.”

“Of course not.” Nora points me out. “Leo, this is Neil Blair, a friend of your brother’s.”

“Bill?” Leo asks, regarding me uncertainly.

“I knew Bill years ago,” I say, offering my hand—which he takes—and lowering my voice so that Nora can’t hear. “I’ve been out of the country a long time. I only learned of his death a few months ago. I was hoping I could talk about him with you, if that’s OK?”

“Sure,” Leo says. “I like to talk. Do you want to come through and sit out back? It’s a lovely day—be a shame to waste it indoors.”

“I was thinking the exact same thing myself.” I turn to Nora. “Thanks for the assistance.”

“Don’t mention it. Look in and say goodbye before you go.”

I follow Leo to the garden. He circles around the play area to a bench in the shade of a tree. “Who are the swings and slides for?” I ask as we sit.

“The guests,” he says. “Mrs. Kaye—she runs St. Augustine’s—is a great believer in the power of play. She thinks it’s necessary to revert to the joys of childhood if the tribulations of adulthood prove too much to take.” He smiles ruefully. “I spent a lot of time on those swings when I first came. Didn’t go on the slides too much. Never did like slides.”

There’s a pause. Leo checks me over, no wariness in his eyes, merely curiosity. “I don’t recall Bill mentioning your name.”

“Were you close to your brother?” I counter.

“Yes. We didn’t see as much of each other as we’d have liked—Bill’s job kept him city-bound, while I’ve always preferred open spaces. Actually,” he coughs, “I have a phobia about that city. Not cities in general, just that one. But we kept in touch. Bill was great for writing. Sent me a couple of letters and, later, dozens of e-mails every week. I miss him terribly.”

Leo’s grief would be hard to fake. I suspect he knows nothing of his brother’s possible survival, but I press ahead regardless. I have no room for sympathy where Bill Casey’s concerned.

“I want to come clean with you, Leo,” I say softly, not entirely sure how best to proceed, playing it by ear. “The reason you don’t recognize my name is that it’s an alias. I didn’t want anyone knowing my real reason for being here.”

“Oh?” His forehead crinkles. “I’m intrigued.”

“My real name’s Al Jeery.” I watch closely for how he takes that.

Leo scratches the dry, wrinkled skin of his chin. “That name I
do
recall. You were one of Bill’s best friends. He wrote about you a lot. The way he went on, you could have been his son.” He chuckles. “Bill was like that. If he developed a warm spot for someone, he loved them completely.”

“Yeah.” I force a sick laugh, recalling the deathly pale faces of Nicola Hornyak and Ellen, how Bill calmly and coldly destroyed my life.

“I don’t get it,” Leo says. “Why the subterfuge?”

“Did Bill ever tell you what I did for a living?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. But my memory’s not the strongest.”

“I’m a private detective.”

“Really? How exciting. Is it glamorous, like in the films and on TV?”

“No. Long, tedious hours and you never get seduced by beautiful
femmes fatales.
” Not true. I was taken for a ride by a chic bitch on my only previous case. But I’d rather not dwell on that.

“Are you on a job now?” Leo asks.

“Kind of,” I answer slowly. “It’s personal, and I’m sure there’s nothing to it, but…” I clear my throat and nudge closer. “I’ve heard rumors that Bill’s alive.”

Leo blinks. “Alive? No. Bill died in an explosion. The police said terrible things, that he killed people, that it was suicide. I never believed them—he couldn’t have murdered, not after what happened to Jane—but I know he’s dead. They found his body. Bits of it. He was blown to pieces and burned. He…”

Tears form in Leo Casey’s tired old eyes and drip down his coarse cheeks. If he’s putting on an act, he’s a master performer, even better than his brother, who played the part of my friend to perfection while all the time planning to strip me of everything that made me human in order to sic me on my father. “He can’t be alive,” Leo croaks. “He’d have come to see me. He’d have written.”

“Easy,” I soothe him, taking his hands and massaging them. His fingers are like a witch’s, long, thin, bony. “It’s just a rumor, but I had to check it out.”

“Who’s saying such things?” Leo snarls, anger getting the better of his sorrow. “Who’s making up lies about my brother?”

“A dirtbag. You don’t know him. He’s scum, but as I said, I had to check, to be certain. Now I can go back and deal with him.”

“I don’t understand,” Leo moans, his anger fading as swiftly as it rose. “Why would anyone make up something like that?”

“Bill had enemies. They’re trying to pin the blame for more deaths on him. I’m determined to expose their lies, stop them insulting Bill’s memory.”

“Bastards!” Leo spits, then looks contrite for having sworn. I don’t like playing this broken man—I’d feel more comfortable if he weren’t so trusting—but I’ve come too far to back off. I’m sure he doesn’t know where Bill is, but he mentioned their sister and I want to find out what he meant by “he couldn’t have murdered, not after what happened to Jane.”

“Bill didn’t talk much about his past,” I say as Leo dabs at his eyes with a large handkerchief. “Barely mentioned you and Jane—she was your sister, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.” Leo sighs miserably. “I’m not surprised he didn’t talk about it. None of us liked remembering those horrible days. Our mother—God rest her soul—made us swear never to talk of it in her presence.”

“Could you tell me what happened?” I ask gently, buzzing with curiosity.

Leo’s face darkens. “I don’t want to.”

I bite down on a furious grimace. “I understand.”