Just Take My Heart (12 page)

At nine p.m. Saturday night, Zach, settled in the small living room of his rented house, and sitting where he could see Emily's driveway, switched the channel so that he could now watch Fugitive Hunt. A couple of beers had helped to quiet his nerves, and he was physically tired from all the yard work and planting the mums. He wondered if Emily had noticed when she came home from work or when she went out again a little bit later how nice the yellow mums looked along his walkway.

The background music for Fugitive Hunt came on. "Tonight we will have three segments on old cases, the host, Bob Warner, began. "Our first segment is an update on the twoyear-old search for the man last known as Charley Muir. You may recall our prior two segments on him--one right after the multiple murders in Des Moines. Iowa, two years ago, and another follow-up segment last year.

"The police allege that Muir was very bitter about the divorce, and was incensed when the judge awarded their home to his wife. They say that was the motive for the murder of his wife, her children, and her mother. By the time the bodies were found, he was gone and has not been seen since.

"The continuing investigation has uncovered startling new evidence that he is responsible for the murders of two other women, whom we now know were his first and second wives. The first one, Lou Gunther, died in Minnesota ten years ago. The second one, Wilma Kraft, died in Massachusetts seven years ago. During each of his three known marriages, he used a different identity and continuously changed his appearance. In Minnesota he was known as Gus Olsen, and in Massachusetts he was known as Chad Rudd. We don't even know what his real name is."

Warner paused, the tone of his voice changing. "Stay with us for the rest of this incredible story. We'll be right back after these messages."

They're still at it, Zach thought, scornfully. But give them credit--they've now connected me to the other two. They didn't have that last time. But let's see how I'm supposed to look at this point.

As the commercials were playing, Zach got up to get another beer. He was all set to get a laugh at the upcoming pictures, but he couldn't help feeling uneasy. The fact that they had linked him to both Minnesota and Massachusetts worried him.

Beer in hand, he sat down again in front of the television. The program was coming back on. Warner began by showing pictures of Zach's third wife, Charlotte, with her children and her mother, followed by pictures of Lou and Wilma. He described the brutal nature of their deaths. Charlotte and her family had been shot. Lou and Wilma had both been strangled.

To Zach's growing dismay, Warner displayed pictures of him that had been provided by family members of his victims. The pictures over the ten-year span, between Minnesota, Massachusetts, and Iowa, demonstrated that at various times he had been bearded or clean-shaven, and had worn his hair long or in a crew cut. He was pictured wearing thick glasses, granny glasses, or no glasses at all. The pictures also revealed that his weight would fluctuate from very thin to chubby, then back again to very thin.

Warner continued by exhibiting computer age-enhanced images of Zach, which interchanged the various potential differences in his head and facial hair, weight, and glasses. To Zach's horror, one of them substantially resembled the way he looked now. But anyone watching the show is looking at all of those pictures at once, he tried to reassure himself--they'd never recognize him.

"FBI profilers believe that, based upon his known prior employ-ment, he could be working in a warehouse or a factory," Warner continued. "He also worked briefly as an electrician's helper. His only known hobby is that he enjoyed working in his yard and took pride in maintaining a garden. We have been provided pictures of his homes and will show them to you now. All three pictures were taken in autumn and as you can see, he was very partial to bright yel-low mums. He always lined his driveway or walkway with lots of them."

Like a shot out of a cannon, Zach leaped from his chair. Frantic, he raced outside, grabbed a shovel, and began digging up the plants. Realizing that the porch light substantially illuminated the walkway area, he hurried to turn it off. Working in near darkness, his breath coming in short gasps, he clawed at the plants, tossing them into heavy plastic bags. He realized that Emily could be turning into her driveway at any moment and he didn't want her to see him doing this.

He also realized that she must have noticed the plantings this afternoon and would wonder why they were gone. The first thing tomorrow morning he would buy different beds of flowers to replace them.

What would be going through Emily's head? Would she hear anybody in her office talking about this program? Would they talk about the mums? Would anybody at his job, or on this block, notice that one lousy picture and think about the fact that he had lived and worked here for two years -- exactly the right time frame for leaving Des Moines?

Zach had just finished pulling up the last of the flowers when Emily's car came up her driveway. He crouched down in the dark shadow of the house and watched as she got out of the car, hurried to her front door, and went inside. Is there any chance, wherever she had been, that she had seen this program? Even if she had only glanced at it, at some point her professional instincts would be bound to kick in. If not right away, then soon.

Zach knew that he had to step up his preparations and be ready to leave much sooner than he had planned.

Michael Gordon ended up spending most of his waking hours during the weekend with Gregg and Katie. At dinner at Neary's on Friday night, the usually reticent Gregg had been surprisingly open. Waving away Michael's repeated apologies for doubting his innocence, Gregg said: "Mike, I've been thinking a lot about something that happened to me when I was sixteen. I was in a horrible car crash and was in intensive care for six weeks. I don't remember a single moment of it. Afterwards, my mother told me that for the last three weeks, I was talking a blue streak, and begging them to take the tubes out of me. She told me that I thought the nurse was my grandmother, who died when I was six."

"You never talked about that," Mike said.

"Who wants to talk about being in a near-death experience?" Gregg had smiled --a wry smile--as he added, "For that matter, who wants to hear about it? There's enough doom and gloom in the world to go around without someone filling your ear with his hard-luck tale from twenty-six years ago. Anyway, let's change the subject."

"As long as you keep eating," Mike replied. "Gregg, how much weight have you lost?"

"Just enough to make my clothes fit better."

Early Saturday morning, Mike had picked up Gregg and Katie and they had driven to his ski lodge in Vermont. It was almost two months too early for skiing but in the afternoon, Gregg and Katie had gone for a long walk together, while Mike worked on his book about major crimes of the twentieth century.

For dinner, they drove into Manchester. As usual, Vermont was significantly cooler than New York and the fire blazing in the dining room of the cozy inn was warming, both emotionally and physically, for each of them.

Late that evening, after Katie, with a book under her arm, had gone to bed, Gregg went into Mike's study where he had resumed working after dinner. "I think I remember you telling me that you're doing a chapter on Harry Thaw, the millionaire who shot Stanford White, the architect, at Madison Square Garden in New York?"

"That's right."

"He shot him in front of a crowd of people and then got off on an insanity plea, didn't he?"

Michael wondered what Gregg was driving at. "Yes, but Thaw did have to spend some time in an asylum," he said.

"Then, when he got out of the asylum not very long afterward, he moved into a nice big house on Lake George, as I remember?"

"Gregg, come on. What are you getting at?"

Gregg shoved his hands in his pockets. To Mike he looked curiously vulnerable. "Mike, after that accident when I was a kid, I had long stretches where I couldn't remember things that had happened. That all passed, but what hasn't passed is my concept of time. I can get so engrossed that I don't realize if a couple of hours have gone by."

"That's called the ability to concentrate," Mike said.

"Thanks. But it happened the morning Natalie died. That was a March day. The weather was lousy. It's one thing to be sitting at your desk and be unaware of time. It's another when you're outside in crummy weather. The point is, I know I couldn't have killed Natalie. God, how much I loved her! But I wish I could remember those two hours. I do remember turning in that rented car. If I'd been running for two hours, was I in that deep a funk that I didn't feel cold or out of breath?"

Heartsick at the doubt and confusion he saw on his friend's face, Michael got up and grasped Gregg's shoulders. "Gregg, listen to me. You came off great on the stand yesterday. I believed you about that Jimmy Easton character and about the reason you called Natalie frequently. I remember being with you when in the middle of a conversation, you'd push the button on your cell phone and have a ten-second conversation with her."

"Natalie, I love you," Gregg said, his voice emotionless. "End of message."

Emily allowed herself to sleep until seven thirty on Sunday morning. She planned to get to the office by eight thirty and spend the day there. "Bess, you've been very patient with me. I know I've been neglecting you," she apologized as she plucked Bess from the other pillow. She was longing for a cup of coffee but seeing the plaintive look in the eyes of her little dog, she threw on jeans and a jacket and announced, "Bess, you're not just going out in the backyard this morning. I'm taking you for a walk."

Bess's tail was wagging furiously as they went downstairs, and Emily grabbed the leash and fastened it to her collar. She slipped a key in her jacket pocket and headed for the front door. Since she had put the bolt on the porch door, it was easier to go out that way.

With Bess excitedly pulling at the leash, they started down the walk to the driveway. Then Emily stopped abruptly and stared in amazement. "What in God's name is going on?" she asked aloud as she saw the freshly dug dirt where only late yesterday she had admired the newly planted mums.

Were they loaded with bugs? she wondered. Is that possible? I mean, that is really strange. He lined his whole walkway with them just yesterday. And when did he pull them up? They were there when I left to go to the Wesleys' last evening. I didn't notice one way or the other if they were gone when I got home. That was sometime after ten o'clock.

She felt a tug on the leash and looked down. "Sorry, Bess. Okay, we'll start moving."

Bess elected to turn left at the sidewalk which took Emily past Zach's house. He has to be home, she thought, because his car is parked in the driveway. If that guy wasn't so creepy, I'd ring his doorbell later and ask him what happened. But I don't want to give him an excuse to latch onto me again.

The image of Zach rocking in the chair in her enclosed porch once again permeated her thoughts. It was more than a feeling of discomfort, she concluded. He scared me.

And he still does, she acknowledged, as she passed his house again on the way back fifteen minutes later. I've been so wrapped up in this case that I don't think it hit me right away.

This is the day the Lord has made," Gregg Aldrich thought grimly as he looked out his bedroom window at six o'clock on Monday morning. It was pouring outside, but even if it had not been, he would not have gone for a run. I would hope I wouldn't be stupid enough to lose track of time on this of all days, he thought, but I'm not taking any chances.

He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. Last night he'd taken a low-dose sleeping pill and had slept for seven hours without waking up. But he didn't feel rested, and if anything was even a little groggy. Strong coffee will take care of that, he promised himself.

He reached into the closet for a robe and, as he was putting it on, stuffed his feet into slippers, then walked down the carpeted hallway to the kitchen. As he approached it, the fragrance of the brewing cof-fee lifted his spirits.

The weekend with Mike in Vermont was a life preserver, he thought, as he took his favorite mug from the cabinet over the coffeemaker. Talking to Mike about the morning Natalie died, when I hadn't even been aware of the cold after jogging for two hours, had been reassuring. And then Mike had reminded him he had to do as well today on the witness stand as he had on Friday.

On the drive home from Vermont yesterday afternoon, Mike had talked about that again.

"Gregg, show the same resolve that you showed on Friday. Your answers came across as completely credible. You heard Judge Reilly on my show say that if he was at a bar and had a conversation with some stranger, it would be his word against the other guy that he didn't make a deal with him to kill his wife. A nationwide audience heard Reilly say that, and I really believe that plenty of people out there thought the same thing."

Mike had paused and than continued. "These were the kind of circumstances where anybody can accuse anybody else of anything. And don't forget, Jimmy Easton is getting a big reward for testifying against you. He doesn't have to sweat about growing old in prison."

I pointed out to Mike the one little factor he was forgetting, Gregg thought. The judge's wife didn't end up shot to death.

Confidence, he thought bitterly. I don't have any. He poured cof-fee into the mug and carried it into the living room. Kathleen and he had bought the apartment when they were expecting Katie. I re-ally was taking a leap to sign up for the maintenance, Gregg thought. But in those days I was sure I was going to make it big as an agent. Well, I did, and where has it gotten me?

Kathleen had been like a little kid choosing paint colors and furniture and carpets. She had instinctive good taste and a genuine talent for hunting down bargains. She'd always joked that like him. she'd grown up with the silver spoon in someone else's mouth. He stood in the living room, remembering.

If she had lived, Gregg thought, I never would have become involved with Natalie. And I wouldn't be on my way to court to try to persuade a jury that I'm not a murderer. A tidal wave of nostalgia washed over him. In that instant he longed for her physically and emotionally. "Kathleen," he whispered, "watch over me today. I'm frightened. And if I'm convicted, who will take care of our Katie?"

For a long moment, he swallowed against the lump in his throat, then bit his lip. Stop it, he told himself. Stop it! Go back in there and start fixing some breakfast for Katie. If she sees you feeling like this, she'll be a wreck.

On the way to the kitchen he passed the table with the drawer where Jimmy Easton had claimed he'd kept the five-thousand-dollar advance for killing Natalie. He stopped, reached for the handle of the drawer, and yanked it open. As he did so, the raucous squeak that Jimmy Easton had accurately described assailed his senses. With bit-ter anger, Gregg slammed the drawer shut.