Shimmer (24 page)

‘Not for money,' he said. ‘Not this. For payback.'

They were below now on
Baby
, and he wished he could at least sit down, but she was still standing, stooping a little too, since she was as tall as he was. And maybe not quite as physically strong, but with a viciousness deep within her soul that he doubted he could ever really beat.

Not that he'd ever tried.

‘Where is the baby?' Roxanne asked.

‘If I tell you,' Cal said, ‘you have to promise—'

She backhanded him, a silver ring on her right hand cutting his nose.

‘What did you do with that goddamned
baby
?'

‘What do you think I did?' he said.

Still standing, not cowering, and this was something new, at least, something left to be proud of, after all.

‘You killed a baby?'

Not just knives in her eyes now, daggers.

‘You killed
their
baby?'

And not the same height as him, after all,
taller
.

And Cal knew what was coming now.

‘Lie down,' his mother said.

‘No,' he said.

‘Do it,' she told him.

And she shoved him with both hands, palms out towards him, so hard that he struck the door to the head and
Baby
rocked.

‘
Do
it,' Jewel-the-white-witch-bitch ordered him.

And Cal had believed that was what he wanted, her punishment, to be flayed, for his flesh to be ripped and burned.

He knew different now.

And the knife was still in his waistband under his T-shirt.

‘Lie the fuck
down
, imbecile,' his mother screamed at him.

‘
You
lie the fuck down,' Cal the Hater told her.

And pulled out the knife.

And stuck it through her ribcage and into her heart.

89

Martinez had already been to the office, had worked some Adobe magic to turn Cooper's photograph into a version that transformed him into the probable silver dude of Mildred's description. Hard evidence and a real
lead
on the sonofabitch's possible whereabouts were what they most needed to consolidate the manhunt – to which end he and Sam were now in his Chevy heading to Hot-Hot-Hot and Menagerie, the two clubs most likely to have been where Cooper had picked up the man Mildred had seen him with. Because maybe their killer was a regular, and maybe someone
knew
him, and maybe, just
maybe
, this kind of plain, slogging detective work might get them someplace.

Helpful people at the first club, but not so much as a whisker of recognition.

Menagerie was winding down, no one exactly unfriendly, but most people too drunk or stoned or just too tired to tax their brains. The bartender
not
the guy who would have been on duty in the early hours of yesterday morning.

It took time to rustle up the manager to find the off-duty bartender's address.

‘But you won't find him there,' the guy told them. ‘He's on vacation, told me he was going home for two hours' sleep, then heading out to the airport.'

‘Where'd he go?' asked Martinez.

Sam was already on his way out the door, knowing a dead-end when he saw one, not willing to waste one more minute.

Black-and-whites were everywhere, cruising slowly, Miami Beach's finest all looking for Cooper, for any thin young guy, drab or silver, on foot, in a car, on a bus or on a tandem, all galvanized by their most urgent and earnest desire to find Joshua Becket alive and well.

‘Where next?' asked his partner, joining him on the sidewalk.

The first splashes of rain began to mark the concrete, striking the car roof with enough clatter to promise heavier stuff to come.

Sam's brain felt like it was dying, but he willed it to kick-start.

Enough cops out here already, aimlessly searching.

Direction still what they needed.

‘Back to Satin.' The nightclub where Adani's boyfriend had worked. ‘Maybe our guy was a regular there.'

‘Then let's go wake up Lopéz,' Martinez said, getting back in the car. ‘Show him the photos, just in case.'

90

Three in the morning, and nothing left here in Flamingo Marina for Cal.

Except horror.

Nothing for him any other place either. Not now that he had committed the worst crime in the world.

Matricide.

He'd probably use that word in the Epistle some day, he thought, liking the sound of it inside his head, but he'd left his writings in the dump in the alleyway, and there could be no going back there ever again.

Cal supposed that ultimately the cops – and maybe their shrinks too, maybe even some FBI profiler – would pore over his words, and that was fine with him. He had, he guessed, always half wanted the Epistle to be read, his writing analysed, maybe even admired.

Maybe one day, if he survived this, he'd start over, write some more.

But for now, all he could do was sit on top of the steps on
Baby
, raindrops falling on his sinful head, trying not to think about his dead mother down below.

Wondering which would be worse.

Going to hell right off, or being sent there via a fucking lethal injection for being a multiple killer.

‘Imbecile,' Jewel had called him.

Not altogether wrong.

He hadn't shown her the kid, had balked at that.

Hell, he figured, was maybe the one thing stopping him from killing himself right away.

Though maybe he ought to at least start planning how to do it.

Not quite yet though.

Things to do.

91

There were still police officers in the Beckets' kitchen, ready to monitor and trace phone calls. Mary Cutter was with them now, Sam's colleague sent over by Alvarez to help support Joshua's mom, but for the time being Cutter was feeling redundant and useless.

Grace was alone, huddled on the couch in the den, the phone beside her.

Joshua's favourite little blue stuffed bear was clutched in her right hand, close to her face, up against her nose, her son's scent on it, so that if she shut her eyes . . .

She'd been rocking herself, back and forth, back and forth.

Just enough self-control left to stop that when people came in to check on her, to offer her cups of tea, shoulders to cry on, a listening ear, something to eat.

‘No, thank you,' she'd say, then ask them to shut the door.

As soon as they'd gone, she started rocking again.

Not that it comforted her, yet she felt compelled to do it.

The storm seemed to be making it even worse, magnifying her fears with each successive thunder roll, her baby out there in
that
, with a man whose appearance had been utterly ordinary, but who had turned out to be worse than a blackmailer or even a kidnapper, who was almost certainly a killer, a
beast
 . . .

Claudia had called a while ago, but Grace had asked Saul to speak to her.

She just couldn't do that herself.

Not that she blamed Claudia for what had happened.

She mustn't do that, must not . . .

She just couldn't speak to her or anyone else, neither Claudia nor Mary Cutter nor Cathy, who would probably call from California in the morning and, who Grace was determined would remain in blissful ignorance until it was over.

Until Sam came home with Joshua.

92

Satin was closed, and Eddie Lopéz was not home.

‘No point trying to hunt him down tonight,' Sam said.

They went to Lummus Park, to Mildred's home, now a crime scene.

Her bench was gone, had been removed from its base and taken to the ME's office, the area around cordoned off, two officers keeping watch.

Nothing here to help them find Joshua.

No word, either, on the whereabouts of Roxanne Lucca.

‘You need to go home,' Martinez told Sam.

‘Not yet,' Sam said.

Despair felt like ice-cold iron squeezing his heart.

‘We got no place to look,' his friend said.

‘We need to look everywhere,' Sam said.

‘Plenty of people doing that already,' Martinez said. ‘You gotta go home, man. You need to be with Grace.'

‘Boats,' said Sam.

Two bodies, two boats. Stood to reason.

‘We should be searching
boats
,' he said.

‘All kinds of people on that too,' Martinez said patiently, though he knew he'd told Sam that earlier. ‘Every marina, every anchorage, every mooring. It's going to take time.'

Sam wanted to go out and personally rip apart every last boat in Florida.

Frustration rose like sickness in his chest.

‘One more thing before I do go home,' he said.

He wanted to see Mildred.

93

Cal woke with a jolt a little after four.

Still sitting on top of the steps on
Baby
.

Human remains below.

The storm was closer than it had been, rain falling steadily, no deluge yet; the sounds the drops made as they tumbled on to the water in the quiet marina were almost comforting, the cruiser rocking, bumping against . . .

Sirens.

In the distance.

Not yet.

Things to do.

He thought that came from a poem, one he'd come across a long time ago during one of his reading periods when he'd devoured poems, newspapers, Bible stories,
Playboy
, cereal packs, Jewel's
National Enquirer
and
Readers Digest
, TV Guides, whatever was there . . .

He stood up and cracked his head on the door frame.

‘Fuck,' he said.

Time to sharpen up.

Things to do.

94

Mildred was in the Critical Care Unit, the same place in which Sam had spent a whole lot of hours last year.

A nurse told him that Mildred was holding her own.

She looked very different in the bed, in the hospital gown. So much smaller without her layers yet, despite her fragility, somehow not really as diminished as she might have been.

Strong lady, God willing.

Sam wondered how she would react, if she made it through, to being in this place, to being inside, being cared for. He remembered her telling him that since Donny's death she had not been able to endure walls around her.

The people within these walls were kindly, were doing their best to save her life, but Sam didn't know if Mildred would be able to feel gratitude or any measure of relief, or if she might be frustrated or even angry at being penned in.

He hoped she wouldn't be too afraid.

He hoped that she would, above all, have the will to go on living.

‘It's Samuel,' he told her, squeezing her right hand gently. ‘You be strong.'

The machines beeped softly, continued on their way.

‘I got a bottle of Concord Grape with your name on it, Mildred,' he said, ‘just waiting for you to get out of here.'

Now he wanted to weep.

So he got the hell out before he started.

95

David came downstairs at ten to five.

Grace heard him, stopped rocking before the door opened.

‘You should be sleeping,' she told him.

Knowing suddenly, despite that, that he was one person to whom she could bear to speak.

‘I slept,' he said.

‘I don't suppose,' Grace said, ‘you'd consider going home to bed.'

‘You don't suppose right,' he said.

She patted the couch. ‘Join me?'

‘I may be infectious,' David said.

A thousand instant thoughts flew like sharp-billed birds through Grace's mind – all coming down to one that pecked right into her heart. The very worst thought. That she might never again have to worry about Joshua catching the flu or any other illness.

‘Sit with me,' she said. ‘Please.'

Saul appeared in the doorway.

‘You look worse than I do, son,' his father told him.

‘Mind if I join you guys?' Saul asked.

A second person she didn't mind.

‘Come,' Grace said.

The three of them sat in a line on the couch, not speaking much, not huddling together, just their arms touching lightly.

Small comfort, for a very little while.

96

In the darkness, Cal was taking
Baby
out of the marina.

Cal the Sailor again.

Liberating one more dinghy as he left Flamingo – easy as blinking, two slices with his knife and more than enough line left to lash her to
Baby's
cleat.

Cleat-clit.

The police activity inland was growing ever more audible, plenty more sirens, and if he'd gone ashore he imagined he'd have seen black-and-whites moving back and forth, spreading through Miami Beach and the city and beyond, maybe coming out to the marinas, large and small, all hands out there now, all looking for the cop's kid and for
him
 . . .

He was not going ashore, not for a long while, maybe never.

Heading north.

The rain was getting heavier, though the storm was not yet quite overhead, but still it was angry sounding, thunder and lightning coming in great clusters all around, rumbles and deeper, more violent claps, the flashes like ten thousand paparazzi cameras lighting up heaven . . .