Perfect Victim, The (41 page)

They reached the end of the hall and Adrian bent to unlock a door painted an institutional blue. "We keep the rooms locked after dark," he said in a conspiratorial voice. "To keep the folks from wandering off." He swung open the door and turned to them with the uneasy smile of a realtor about to show a filthy house. "Albert! You have company!"

The single
-
room efficiency was small, cold, and poorly lit
.
Addison held her breath as the stench of dirty linens and bathroom mildew permeated her nostrils. A single, grimy window faced the street
.
The sight of Christmas lights beyond made her feel like she'd just stepped into a prison.

A gaunt man with a day's growth of white stubble sat on a rumpled bed staring at a small black-and-white television. He raised his head when they entered, acknowledged their presence with a glazed scowl, then turned his attention back to the rerun of
M.A
.
S.H.

"He hasn't had his shower yet today," Adrian said, ducking into the bathroom to scoop up a pile of towels littering the floor
.
"We've been short-handed because of the holidays."

"I'll bet," Randall grumbled.

Saddened and disgusted, Addison could
only stare at the old man sitting on the bed,
.
hoping this charade wouldn't harm him in any way.

Having collected the soiled towels, Adrian headed for the door
.
"Visiting hours are over at eight P.M.," he said over his shoulder
.
"But you can stay a few extra minutes if you like."

She forced a smile. "Thank you
.
"

A few feet away, Randall took a chair and pulled it close to the bed. "Mr. Stukins?"

The old man raised his head and regarded Randall through cloudy blue eyes. "Are you the fella from the service station?"

"I'm Randall Talbot
.
" He extended his hand. "I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

Stukins stared at him blankly before accepting the handshake. "Questions
,
" he repeated and turned his attention back
to the television. "I don't have time for questions."

Needing to move, to be involved, Addison stepped forward and switched off the TV. "Mr. Stukins, we need to ask you some questions about a story you wrote for the
County Crier
."

"I was a reporter for thirty-two years. Worked my way up from the printing press." For a moment, he looked lucid. ''The master cylinder went bad on my Chevy." He turned his gaze back to Randall. "Are you the fella from the gas station?"

Addison didn't miss the frustration on Randall's face, and she wondered if he had the patience for such a delicate interrogation.

"You were a reporter for the
County Crier
," he said.

The old man smiled, revealing a set of pearly white dentures. "Thirty-two years."

Addison slipped into the chair beside Randall. "You did a story back in 1974 about a young woman who was raped," he said.

"I bought my Chevy in '68," Stukins said argumentatively.

Randall leaned forward, caught the older man's gaze, and held it. "You wrote a story for the
County Crier
in November of 1974 about a young woman by the name of Agnes Beckett. Do you remember Agnes Beckett? Do you remember what happened to her?"

Stukins's eyes widened. His mouth quivered. "They killed my dog."

To anyone else the statement might have seemed like an Alzheimer patient's rantings. To Addison, the old man's words made terrible sense.

"Who killed your dog?" Randall prodded.

"They were going to kill my family."

"Because of the story?"

The old man began to shake. Alarm skittered through Addison when his eyes rolled back. For a moment, she thought he would faint. He looked frail. Unable to keep herself from
it, she rose and put her hand gently on his shoulder. "You're doing fine, Mr. Stukins."

His eyes focused on her. "Yale ..." he mumbled.

"Yale?" Randall repeated.

"He graduated the same year he hurt that girl
.
"

"Who hurt her? Who are you talking about?"

"They were going to kill my family." Stukins looked over his shoulder as if he were expecting someone to come through the door. For the first time
,
Addison saw fear in his eyes. "I did what they told me to do," he said, his gaunt hands wav
i
ng in agitation.

Randall cast her an uneasy look, then focused on the old man
.
"Who threatened your family?"

"That son of a bitch was guilty as sin
.
"

"Who?"

'
'
Tate beat the hell out of that girl
.
Did terrible things to her
.
Put her in the hospital
.
"

The words went through Addison like a knife. She shivered, knowing he was talking about her birth mother
.
A sixteen
-
year
-
old girl
.
Beaten and raped. The thought sickened her. Was it possible she'd been conceived through such a vile act? Had someone threatened Stukins to keep the crime from coming to l
i
ght? Had the people of Siloam Springs swept the entire ordeal under the rug?

"Tate? Is that his last name?" Randall asked urgently.

A string of drool stretched from the comer of Stukins's mouth to a stain on his pajama shirt
.
"Are you the fella from the garage?" he asked.
"
I
'
m stuck here until you fix my Chevy
.
"

Frustration billowed through Addison
.
Rising, she went to the sink and dampened a paper towel and knelt before Stukins.
"
Who is Tate?
"
she asked, blotting the saliva from his ch
i
n.

He swatted her hand away
.
"If you're not from the garage
,
I don't want to talk to you. I want my master cylinder fixed." The old man
'
s eyes turned toward the blank TV
.
"I don't like it here."

Grimacing, Randall rose and laid his hand lightly on Stukins's gaunt shoulder. "Thanks, old man." He looked at Addison. "I think that's it."

"But he remembered a name," she protested.

"At this point, we don't know if Tate is the first name or the last name," he pointed out.

Addison started to resist, but he stopped her. "What we did find out is that Tate may have graduated from Yale in 1974. That's something Jack can help us with." He cast a final look at the stooped old man sitting on the bed watching the blank TV. "Let's go."

Randall had just pulled the rental car onto Route 40 when the pager clipped to his belt chirped twice. Shifting, he reached for it, expecting to see the office number. Instead, he found himself squinting at a Denver number he wasn't familiar with.

"Is it Jack?" Addison asked.

"No." An inexplicable jab of anxiety rushed through him. Recalling a telephone booth nearby, he made a U-turn and sped toward it.

Addison remained silent, but he felt her eyes on him as he stomped the car to a screeching halt at the curb next to the phone booth. Without speaking, he swung open the door and sprinted to the phone. Pulling his gloves off with his teeth, he snatched up the receiver and punched the phone and credit card numbers from memory.

"Van-Dyne."

Randall's heart pumped hard. "This is Talbot," he said, knowing instinctively something was wrong.

"Mr. Talbot, I had one of your business cards and thought I should let you know what happened."

"What the hell are you talking about?" He didn't want to think about who was vulnerable back in Denver.

“
There was a fire at your office," the detective said.

''Where's Jack?"

"Paramedics took him to St
.
Joe's with burns."

Randall braced, his heart freezing in his chest
.
"How is he?"

"Critical."

The word echoed in his head, its meaning punching him like a giant billy club. The roar of blood through his veins deafened him.

"Mr. Talbot
,
your brother also suffered a gunshot wound."

Another punch, harder, more vicious, twisted his guts into knots. Randall closed his eyes, trying not to imagine how helpless Jack must have felt
.
"Did you catch the son of a bitch?" he hissed through clenched teeth as rage and fear took turns pounding him.

"We're investigating. So far we don't have a lot to go on." There was no urgency in the detective's voice. No drive behind the words. He was a cop doing his job. Nothing at stake except his reputation. His quota
.
His paycheck.

"Jesus Christ
.
" A sickening realization plowed through him. "It's about the case."

"The case you're working on?"

"Addison Fox is involved." He wanted to explain but knew there wasn't time. He had to get to Denver. "It's complicated."

He looked down at his watch, felt the panic slither more deeply into him. "I'll stop by your office when I get there
.
"

He slammed the receiver down hard, jerked open the door of the booth, and stepped into the wind. He felt as if his entire world had just careened out of control
.
For a full minute he stood in the cold, trembling inside and out, trying to pull himself together.

By the time he reached the car, the shaking had eased enough for him to yank open the door and wedge himself behind the wheel
.
Battling the impotent emotions, the helplessness and rage, he started the engine and put the car in gear.

"What is it? What happened?" Addison's voice reached in
through the iciness surrounding him, offering him refuge from the cold.