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Authors: Bill Pronzini

Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (19 page)

BOOK: Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

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I
dreamed the answer to the locked-room trick.

Feed your subconscious enough data and set it to work on a problem before you go to sleep, and sometimes you’ll wake up with the solution. That had happened to me before, but this was the first time my subconscious had kicked one up in a jumble of sleep images and metaphor.

In my dream I was in Gregory Pollexfen’s brightly lit library. Others were there, too, Pollexfen and his wife and Jeremy Cullrane, and I seemed to be watching them from an elevated position, as if from the top of one of the bookshelf ladders. At first I couldn’t tell what was going on, but the longer I stared down the clearer the scene became. Then there was a sudden flash and a burst of silent noise, like you sometimes get in a dream, and all at once I was out of it and sitting up in bed wide awake, the images still clear and sharp.

I must have done some thrashing around or made an
involuntary sound because Kerry woke up and rolled over and said with groggy alarm, “What? What is it, what’s the matter?”

“Got it,” I said. “I know how it was done.”

“How what was done?”

“The murder. How Pollexfen worked it—the only way it could’ve been done. Drugging the two of them, that’s the key. Ingenious, simple—and as nasty as it gets. A sick new way of killing somebody. He can even pretend there’s no blood on his hands because technically it’s not a homicide at all.”

“What’re you talking about? How can a homicide not be a homicide?”

“When it’s murder by suicide.”

JAKE RUNYON

H
e was awake as soon as the bedside phone rang. Alert, with the receiver in his hand before a second ring. Product of self-training when he was on the Seattle PD, so any late-night calls wouldn’t disturb Colleen.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:29. He registered that before he said, “Runyon.”

“I know it’s late, Mr. Runyon, I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I’ve been half out of my mind.” Woman’s voice, distraught, breathless. Tracy Henderson. “The police, Lieutenant St. John, they don’t seem able to do anything and I thought you might have some idea—”

“Slow down, Mrs. Henderson. What’s happened?”

“It’s Cliff. He … oh God, he went to bowl in his league tonight like he does every Thursday. I begged him not to, I begged him to stay home, but he said he’d be with people, friends, nothing could happen—”

“Slow,” Runyon said again.

Stuttery inhale, whistling exhale. “He didn’t come home. I called the police when he wasn’t here by eleven and they … his truck was still at the lanes but they can’t find him anywhere.”

“Last seen when?”

“Right after he finished bowling. He told his teammates he was going straight home.”

“What time was that?”

“Quarter of ten.”

“Was there anything wrong with the truck?” Acid, he was thinking, but he didn’t want to use the word.

“No, it was just parked there, unlocked. Cliff wouldn’t have left it like that, he always locks it, always. His bag and ball were in the back.”

Caught by surprise as he was about to get into the pickup. Hurt in some way? Possibly, but not with any weapon that would cause noise, bring attention.

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Henderson said. Sobs in her voice; she was on the ragged edge of hysteria. “All those other terrible things that madman Devries did, the attack on Damon, and now this …”

Escalation, sure, but not the expected kind. Kidnapping instead of hit-and-run assault. Change in Devries’s pattern. Why?

He said, “The police know about Devries, the kind of vehicle he drives—”

“A white Dodge van, yes, Cliff told me. Lieutenant St. John said he already knew about it from you.”

“Did he put out an APB on Devries and the van?”

“APB? I don’t …”

“All points bulletin. To police agencies statewide.”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say anything about that.”

Maybe St. John had, maybe he hadn’t. He was the extra-cautious type. Even if Henderson’s sudden disappearance had convinced him that Devries was the perp, it might be too late.

“I asked him what they were doing,” she said, “but all he’d say was everything possible, everything possible. What does that
mean
?”

It didn’t mean anything. Copspeak. Synonym for frustration and lack of clear direction. Whatever Runyon could say would be more of the same, so he left her question unanswered.

“Why would Devries kidnap Cliff? Where would he take him?”

The cemetery was one possibility. Put the son down with the father, burn him the way he’d burned Lloyd Henderson’s ashes. But Cliff was only one son. Devries was after both.

Runyon said, “Have you talked to Damon?”

“Yes, before the lieutenant came and again afterward.”

“He and his family all right? No trouble at their home?”

“No, they’re fine. Cliff … only Cliff …”

One at a time, then, rather than both brothers together. The cemetery was definitely out. Besides, St. John would have had the same line of thought, ordered the cemetery checked out first thing; he was cautious and defensive and hard to convince, but he was no dummy.

“Where?” Mrs. Henderson said again. “Why? What does he want with Cliff?”

To kill him. Maybe torture him with acid first. It had reached that point. Psychos were unpredictable for the most part, but an escalation of a monomaniacal psychosis like Devries’s was something you could calculate with reasonable certainty.

“I don’t know,” he lied.

“Is there anything you can do, Mr. Runyon? You’ve done so much for us already, I hate to ask any more of you, but I feel so helpless … .”

What could he do? Talk to St. John, and if an APB hadn’t been put out on Devries and the Dodge van, try again to persuade him? St. John wouldn’t like that. Further infringement on his territory. It was even possible he’d dislike the interference enough to make trouble with the state licensing board.

“Anything? Please?”

Begging him now. He couldn’t say no. Couldn’t put her off, either. The hell with St. John and the possible consequences.

Right back in it, like it or not.

“I’ll drive up,” he said, “talk to St. John.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can.” He wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore, and he couldn’t lie in bed or rattle around the apartment until dawn waiting for news. The restlessness, the need for movement, was already sharp in him. “If you have any word about your husband before I contact you, call me on my cell phone.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you, Mr. Runyon. Thank you!”

For nothing, probably. Except wasted effort.

He put the teakettle on, showered in cold water to get the grit out of his eyes and sharpen his mind. Two quick cups of tea helped, too. He’d never needed much sleep. Four hours, which was about what he’d gotten tonight, was enough for him to function normally.

Out of the apartment, through the mostly empty late-night streets, across the fog-cloaked span of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Why the change in Devries’s pattern? Acid in all the other attacks except for the one on Damon Henderson, but the blows with the tire iron had been the result of circumstance, not planning. What was he up to this time?

Through the MacArthur tunnel, down the winding expanse of Waldo Grade.

Where would he take Henderson? Not somewhere in or close to Los Alegres, that didn’t fit Devries’s profile or motives.

Where?

TUCKER DEVRIES

H
e adjusted the focus on his Nikkormat, checked the light meter, made another adjustment. The dawn light coming through the broken window and open door was just right—kind of pearly, like an oyster shell. But it wasn’t strong enough yet—he’d still have to use the Vivitar flash. Better try to make these last few snaps as perfect as he could.

This was the second roll of film he’d shot. The first roll, last night after they got here, had been all handheld with little or no light—a dozen pix in and out of the van, the rest in here. No way to know how well they’d turn out until he developed them, but he was good at estimating distances and exposure needs under those conditions; he had a feeling they’d be pretty good. This second roll he
knew
would be good. As soon as it was daylight he’d carried the tripod in and set the Nikkormat up on it. Every shot since had been calculated, meticulously framed and lighted.

One more adjustment. Okay, ready. No, not just yet. When he squinted through the viewfinder, his vision was a little smeary. Lack of sleep. Twenty-four hours without it now and he was bone-tired. But there was still a lot to do. He’d sleep when he was done. He’d sleep real good then.

He wiped his eye on his jacket sleeve. It still felt sticky with mucus. Henderson was watching him. Well, let him watch, let him wait, he wasn’t going anywhere with two rolls of duct tape around him and the big wooden chair.

Devries went outside into the chill morning hush, then around the cabin to the stream that ran murmuring along the edge of the woods. The water was so cold it made him shudder, numbed his hands and cheeks. But clean, sweet, free of pollutants. So much better than city water. His vision was clear when he finished, and his skin tingled.

Inside the cabin again, he dried off on the towel from the van. Now he was ready. He rechecked the light meter, took another squint through the viewfinder. Henderson was framed in the exact center. Red eyes, cracked lips, gray-flecked beard stubble, animal scowl. Perfect.

“Smile,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

Henderson had said that before, at least a dozen times since he’d dragged him in here from the van. Didn’t bother Devries. He’d expected whining, begging, but all he’d gotten so far was anger and abuse. Give the devil’s spawn his due. Henderson had plenty of guts. He wouldn’t die screaming, the way Mother must have. The way Lloyd Henderson should have.

Okay, set up another shot. Use the timer this time, so
he could be in it, too. He’d taken a few of those two-shots before, but one more wouldn’t hurt. The gun to Henderson’s head again? The closed jar of acid tilted above his face? No, something different. Maybe open the jar, dribble a little of the acid on Henderson’s leg, capture the vapor from sizzling flesh and what was sure to be an openmouthed yell of pain? No, the pain would make him thrash around and spoil the shot. Save the acid for later, when Henderson was dead. Burn what was left of him, the way he’d burned the father’s ashes.

Make it the gun again, then, only from another perspective. Kneel down behind him, tuck the muzzle up under his throat. Good! The composition would be just right.

The automatic was on the table by the door, with his camera bag and briefcase. When he had the camera ready, he went and got the gun and thumbed off the safety. Henderson watched him with his hard, fearless eyes.

“You going to finish it now?”

“No. Sit still.”

Devries set the timer for twenty seconds, went around behind Henderson and into the pose he’d decided on, smiling a little, not too much—a grim executioner’s smile. Henderson moved his head and his eyes, the only parts of his body he could move, trussed up the way he was. It was so quiet inside and outside that the sound of the shutter tripping was like the pop of a small pistol.

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

Henderson had said that before, too. Devries gave back the same answer as he got to his feet: “Not yet.”

“Sadistic son of a bitch.”

“I’m not sadistic.”

“Hell you’re not. All those pictures, keeping me wrapped up like a goddamn mummy, torturing me.”

“Torture? I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

“Making me wait before you kill me. Like a fucking terrorist.”

“No! Executioner.”

“Bullshit, man. How many times do I have to tell you my father didn’t kill your mother?”

“The evidence says he did. Evidence doesn’t lie.”

“Evidence. Christ.”

“Her own words, her own testimony.”

“I don’t care what she wrote in her diary or whatever it is. He didn’t kill her. He never hurt anyone in his life.”

“You want me to read it to you again? All the evidence?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He went and got the notebook from his briefcase, handling it carefully as he always did. Not a diary or a journal, just a random collection of notes Mother had made—dates, names, events, impressions, reminders. He was in there, many times until the last few pages. “My sweet baby, Tucker. My handsome boy, Tucker.” His miserable damn father a few times, the sentences bitter and angry. Men she’d dated, casual affairs, you couldn’t blame her for seeking love and comfort after Anthony Noakes abandoned the two of them. And then Lloyd Henderson. Nine entries, right at the end, five happy and hopeful, three infuriating and terrible. Evidence. Irrefutable testimony.

The notebook opened in his hands, as if by itself, to that last section. Mother’s round, cramped handwriting in faded purple ink. The smeared word at the bottom of the last page: teardrop, tearstain. Mother’s tears.

He stood next to Henderson, loomed over him, and read the passages aloud again, the same ones in the same order.

“‘I love Lloyd. More than I ever loved Anthony. I know he’s married and he’s never made any promises, never said he loves me, but I feel his love when we’re in bed. It’s not just sex. He loves me as much as I love him.’

“‘Went to his camp today, I just needed to see him for a few minutes. But I shouldn’t have. He was there with his friends and he made me leave. He was so angry, like Anthony used to get sometimes. It’s a side to Lloyd I hope I never see again.’

“‘I’m going to have Lloyd’s baby. Our love child. I didn’t do it on purpose, it was an accident, but he’ll be happy when I tell him. I know he will.’

“‘He was furious, that awful angry side of him. He said the baby’s not his. He said he doesn’t want to see me anymore, it’s over between us. How can he say that after what we’ve been to each other?’

“‘I drove down to Los Alegres, I saw his wife, I saw him at his office. He called me a dirty little slut. He said he’d kill me if I told anybody he was the father of my baby. The way he looked at me … like he really did want me dead. God, how could I have been so stupid?’”

And the last entry, the final damning piece of testimony, written the day before she disappeared. “‘Lloyd
drove up this afternoon alone. I saw his truck go by the store. After work tomorrow I’m going to his camp. I don’t care if he doesn’t want me, he has to help me with the baby. He has to. He used me and now he has to pay. I’ll make him pay.’”

Devries closed the notebook. His eyes were wet again, like hers were when she wrote those last words. “You see?” he said. “You see? She didn’t make him pay, he made her pay. That night, right here. Her and the baby both. Strangled her and then dumped her in the woods for the animals … the animals …”

“It wasn’t my father. She wasn’t killed here.”

“She was. I know she was.”

“Somebody else …”

“That same night? Attacked her, strangled her, that same night? Coincidence? No, Henderson. No, no, no!”

“I’ll never believe my father did it. He had an affair with your mother; all right, he wasn’t a saint. But he wasn’t a murderer, either.”

“He was! He’s dead, I can’t punish him, but I’ve got you and I’ll get your brother, too, devil’s sons, bastards, you’ll both die in his place, right here where he killed my mother and my baby brother or sister!”

He realized he was screaming. His temples were pounding, his face was hot and running sweat. Control. Don’t lose it now, it’s not finished yet, there’s still the other one, Damon. Take deep breaths. Get a grip.

“Go ahead then,” Henderson said. “Shoot me, get it over with.”

“No.”

“Do it, damn you.”

“No. Not yet.”

Now he felt dirty all over. Crawly, as if bugs had come up out of the floor, dropped off the ceiling, and were trying to burrow beneath his skin. Scrub them off, get clean for the execution. You had to be clean. For Mother’s sake. She’d drummed that into his head so many times. Be clean, Tucker. Always keep yourself
clean.

He went outside, stood sucking in the chill mountain air until it cooled him and his head quit pounding. He made himself walk slowly around the cabin to the stream. When he knelt down on the bank, he realized he was still holding the gun; he put the safety on, shoved the automatic inside his belt. In the splashes and scrubs of icy water, the bugs shriveled and died and his skin tingled and he was clean again. He stood, dripping, and went around the front of the cabin.

A man was standing there against the front wall.

Devries stopped, staring in disbelief. At first he thought he must be hallucinating. But no, no, the man was real. Big, hard-looking, somebody he’d never seen before.

“Hello, Tucker.”

He reached for the gun, his fingers, still wet, slipsliding around the handle. But the stranger was already moving, fast. There was a slash of pain at the joining of his neck and shoulder and the entire right side of his body went numb. He stood there bent and swaying, confused. Left hand, get the gun with his left hand … but the gun wasn’t there anymore, the stranger had it now.

Another cut of pain, all through his left side this time.
And all at once he was down on the grass, writhing, numb all over, looking up at the hard face above him through a watery blur. He tried to say something, he wasn’t even sure what it was, but his throat muscles wouldn’t work. The noises he made sounded like a baby’s gurgle.

The man caught hold of his jacket collar and he felt himself being dragged through the dew-wet grass, pulled up the porch steps, slammed back against a support post. He couldn’t prevent any of it, couldn’t move his arms, could barely feel his legs. Paralyzed.
What did he do to me?

Something cold and hard snapped around one wrist. Through the blur he saw that it was a ring of steel. Handcuff. The other ring clicked around a railing post. Hard footsteps thudded in his ears, across the porch, into the cabin. Voices, then, like noisy fish swimming in the confusion inside his head.

“Runyon! My God, I’d given up hope—”

“You all right? He hurt you, burn you?”

“No, no. Just numb, cramped … Where’s Devries?”

“Handcuffed outside.”

“How did you—?”

“Judo. He won’t give us any trouble.”

Sounds of tape being torn loose. And the voices, still swimming.

“I thought for sure I was dead. How’d you know where he took me?”

“I was here before, three days ago. Figured it out when I remembered the chair and the table over there, the only things he hadn’t wrecked and burned. I had to park down
the road so he wouldn’t hear me coming. Wasn’t sure I’d make it in time.”

“You almost didn’t. He’s crazy … he thinks my father killed his mother. It’s not true. I don’t care what kind of proof he thinks he’s got.”

It is true, Devries thought. It is,
it is.
Lloyd Henderson. Dead, and his sons both alive. I’m sorry, Mother. I tried. For you and the baby. I tried so hard but I waited too long.

Tears in his eyes, deepening the blur. Like her tears that last night, the droplet on the smeared purple ink.

He felt dirty. He felt as if now, no matter what he did, he would never be clean again.

BOOK: Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

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