Ivory and the Horn (24 page)

Macaulay had a squat in the same abandoned tenement where Robbie lived, just a few blocks north of Angel’s office on the edge of the Tombs. Angel squinted at the building, then made her way across the rubble-strewn lot that sided the tenement. The front door was boarded shut, so she went around the side and climbed in through a window the way the building’s illegal inhabitants did. Taking a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside, she listened to the silence that surrounded her. Whoever was here today, was obviously asleep.

She knew Macaulay’s squat was on the top floor, so she found the stairwell by the boarded-up entrance and climbed the two flights to the third floor. She looked in through the doorways as she passed by the rooms, heart aching with what she saw. Squatters, mostly kids, were curled up in sleeping bags, under blankets or in nests of newspaper. What were they going to do when winter came and the coolness of late summer nights dropped below the freezing mark?

Macaulay’s room was at the end of the hall, but he wasn’t in. His squat had a door, unlike most of the other rooms, but it stood ajar. Inside it was tidier than Angel had expected. Clean, too. There was a mattress in one corner with a neatly-folded sleeping bag and pillow on top. Beside it was an oil lamp, sitting on the wooden floor, and a tidy pile of spare clothes. Two crates by the door held a number of water-swelled paperbacks with their covers removed. On another crate stood a Coleman stove, a frying pan and some utensils. Inside the crate was a row of canned goods while a cardboard box beside it served to hold garbage.

And then there were the shoes.

Although Angel didn’t know Macaulay’s shoe size, she doubted that any of them would fit him. She counted fifteen pairs, in all shapes and sizes, from a toddler’s tiny sneakers to a woman’s spike-heeled pumps. They were lined up against the wall in a neat row, a miniature mountain range, rising and falling in height, with Everett’s bizarre boots standing like paired peaks at the end closest to the door.

It was a perfectly innocent sight, but Angel felt sick to her stomach as she stood there looking at them. They were all the shoes of children and women—except for Everett’s. Had Macaulay killed all of their—

“Angel.”

She turned to find him standing in the doorway. With the sun coming through the window, making his blonde hair look like a halo, he might have been describing himself as much as calling her name. Her gaze shifted to the line of shoes along the wall, then back to his face. His blue eyes were guileless.

Angel forwent the amenities.

“These… these shoes… ?” she began.

“Shoes carry the imprint of our souls upon their own,” he replied. He paused, then added, “Get it?”

All she was getting was a severe case of the creeps. What had she been thinking to come here on her own? She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Her own hightops could be joining that line of shoes, set in place beside Everett’s.

Get out while you can, she told herself, but all she could do was ask, “Did you kill him?”

“Who? Everett?”

Angel nodded.

“Do I look like a killer to you?”

No, he looked as though he was on his way to mass—not to confess, but to sing in the choir. But the shoes, something about the way the shoes stood in their tidy, innocuous line, said differently.

“Why did you take them?”

“You’re thinking they’re souvenirs?”

“I… I don’t know what to think.”

“So don’t,” he said with a shrug, then disconcertingly changed the subject. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here. I was just going out to look for you.”

“Why?”

“Something terrible’s happened to Robbie.”

The flatness of his voice was completely at odds with his choir-boy appearance. Angel’s gaze dropped to his hands,

but they were empty. She’d been expecting to see him holding Robbie’s shoes.

“What… ?”

“You’d better come see.”

He led the way down to the second floor, on the other side of the building, then stood aside at the open door to Robbie’s room. It was as cluttered as Macaulay’s was tidy, but Angel didn’t notice that as she stepped inside. Her gaze was drawn and riveted to the small body hanging by a rope from the overhead light fixture. It turned slowly, as though Robbie’s death throes were just moments past. On the floor under him, a chair lay on its side.

Angel turned to confront Macaulay, but he was gone. She stepped out into the hallway to find it empty. Part of her wanted to run him down, to shake the angelic smugness from his features, but she made herself go back into Robbie’s room. She righted the chair and stood on it. Taking her pen knife from the back pocket of her jeans, she held Robbie against her as she sawed away at the rope. When the rope finally gave, Robbie’s dead weight proved to be too much for her and he slipped from her arms, landing with a thud on the floor.

She jumped down and straightened his limbs. Forcing a finger between the rope and his neck, she slowly managed to loosen the pressure and remove the rope. Then, though she knew it was too late, though his skin was already cooling, she attempted CPR. While silently counting between breaths, she called for help, but no one stirred in the building around her. Either they were sleeping too soundly, or they just didn’t want to get involved. Or maybe, a macabre part of her mind suggested, Macaulay’s already killed them all. Maybe she hadn’t walked by sleeping runaways and street kids on her way to Macaulay’s room, but by their corpses….

She forced the thought out of her mind, refusing to let it take hold.

She worked until she had no more strength left. Slumping against a nearby wall, she stared at the body, but couldn’t see it for the tears in her eyes.

It was a long time before she could get to her feet. When she left Robbie’s room, she. didn’t go downstairs and leave the building to call the police. She went upstairs, to Macaulay’s room. Every room she passed was empty, the sleeping figures all woken and fled. Macaulay’s room was empty as well. It looked the same as it had earlier, with one difference. The sleeping bag and the clothes were gone. The line of shoes remained.

Angel stared at them for a long time before she picked up Everett’s boots. She carried them with her when she left the building and stopped at the nearest pay phone to call the police.

There was no note, but the coroner ruled it a suicide. But there was still an APB out on Macaulay, and no longer only in connection with Everett’s death. Two of the pairs of shoes found in his squat were identified as belonging to recent murder victims; they could only assume that the rest did as well. The police had never connected the various killings, Lou told Angel later, because the investigations were handled by so many different precincts and, other than the missing footwear, the M.O. in each case was completely different.

Behind his cherubic features, Macaulay proved to have been a monster.

What Angel didn’t understand was Robbie’s suicide. She wouldn’t let it go and finally, after a week of tracking down and talking to various street kids, she began to put together another picture of Macaulay. He wasn’t just a killer; he’d also made a habit of molesting the street kids with whom he kept company. Their sex made no difference—just the younger the better. Coming from his background, Macaulay was a classic case of “today’s victim becoming tomorrow’s predator”—a theorem put forth by Andrew Vachss, a New York lawyer specializing in juvenile justice and child abuse with whom Angel had been in correspondence.

Even more startling was the realization that Macaulay probably hadn’t killed Everett for whatever his usual reasons were, but because Everett had tried to help Robbie stand up to Macaulay. In a number of recent conversations Angel had with runaways, she discovered that Everett had often given them money he’d panhandled, or shown them safe places to flop for a night.

Why Everett had needed to hide this philanthropic side of himself, no one was ever going to find out, but Angel thought she now knew why Robbie had killed himself: It wasn’t just the shame of being abused—a shame that kept too many victims silent—but because Everett had died trying to protect him. For the sweet soul that Robbie had been, Angel could see how he would be unable to five with himself after what had happened that night.

But the worst was that Macaulay was still free. Two weeks after Everett’s death, he still hadn’t been apprehended. Lou didn’t hold out much hope of finding him.

“A kid like that,” he told Angel over lunch the following Saturday, “he can just disappear into the underbelly of any big city. Unless he gets picked up someplace and they run his sheet, we might never hear from him again.”

Angel couldn’t face the idea of Macaulay in some other city, killing, sexually abusing the runaways on its streets, protected by his cherubic features, his easy smile, his guileless eyes.

“All we can hope,” Lou added, “is that he picks himself the wrong victim next time—someone meaner than he is, someone quicker with a knife—so that when we do hear about him again, he’ll be a number on an ID tag in some morgue.”

“But this business of his taking his victims’ shoes,” Angel said..

“We’ve put it on the wire. By this time, every cop in the country has had their duty sergeant read it to them at roll call.”

And that was it. People were dead. Kids already feeling hopeless carried new scars. She had a dead man visiting her in her dreams, demanding she do she didn’t know what. And Macaulay went free.

Angel couldn’t let it go at that, but there didn’t seem to be anything more that she could do.

All week long, as soon as she goes to sleep, Everett haunts her dreams.

“I know what you were really like,” she tells him. “I know you were trying to help the kids in your own way.”

For the children.

“And I know why Macaulay killed you.”

He stands in the misting’ rain, the need still plain in his eyes, the curious bundle held against his chest. He doesn’t try to approach her anymore. He just stands there, half swallowed in mist and shadow, watching her.

“What I don’t know is what you want from me.”

The rain runs down his cheeks like tears.

“For God’s sake,
talk
to me.”

But all he says is, “Do it for the children. Not for me. For the children.”

“Do
what?”

But then she wakes up.

Angel dropped by Jilly’s studio on that Sunday night. Telling Jilly she just wanted some company, for a long time she simply sat on the Murphy bed and watched Jilly paint.

“It’s driving me insane,” she finally said. “And the worst thing is, I don’t even believe in this crap.”

Jilly looked up from her work and pushed her hair back from her eyes, leaving a steak of Prussian blue on the errant locks.

“Even when you dream about him every night?” she asked.

Angel sighed. “Who knows what I’m dreaming, or why.”

“Everett does,” Jilly said.

“Everett’s dead.”

“True.”

“And he’s not telling.”

Jilly laid down her brush and came over to the bed. Sitting down beside Angel, she put an arm around Angel’s shoulders and gave her a comforting hug.

“This doesn’t have to be scary,” she said.