Steel Breeze (13 page)

Chapter 12

It rained all
the way down Route 495 and showed no signs of letting up in South Walpole. Cedar
Junction Correctional Facility came up on the left, looking like it had been in
the rain since the day it was built. The white limestone façade and concrete
steps were stained with rust trails running from every iron light fixture and
handrail. A pair of flags, limp and drenched, flanked the path. Razor wire
spilled over the walls like rampant vines.

Climbing
the steps with his notebook in hand, Desmond peeled a sticker off the thigh of
the khakis he had bought for the visit (he had learned from the website that
jeans weren’t allowed). Dark raindrops speckled the fabric in pinpoints,
exploding outward in a way that faintly reminded him of the flashbulbs that had
left purple splotches on his field of vision the last time he’d been this close
to Greg Harwood, at the sentencing.

Desmond
had avoided most of the trial. He’d told himself at the time that grieving or
not, he had a child to support and had to go to work. But Principal Rosenbaum would
have understood if he’d taken the time off to attend. Instead, he had immersed
himself in work and kept the TV off during the news hour every night. As a
writer, Desmond knew that conflict and confrontation were the twin engines of
character building. In life, he did his damnedest to avoid both.

Now
he was finally going to see the man condemned for killing his wife, and where
was his righteous rage? Where was his personal breakthrough to a new stratum of
courage? He wasn’t here to finally face a monster. He was entering this dungeon
with pen, not sword, because of his growing certainty that the monster wasn’t
sequestered within its walls after all, and he supposed that made him still a
coward. He dropped his hand into his pocket where the fountain pen rested (tip
up to avoid staining the new pants) and jabbed his thumb on its sharp point, a
self-punishing jolt that snapped him into the present moment.

Inside,
the prison reminded him of every public school he’d ever worked in—all cinderblock
and tile, iron radiators and plenty of clocks, every surface covered with
industrial gray or blue paint that was probably applied annually to cover the
grime. Not a soft surface in the place or a scrap of fabric that wasn’t on
someone’s body. All bright, echoing spaces.

Desmond
hoped the guards wouldn’t confiscate his pen and notebook, but it was the first
thing they did before they led him to the visitors’ room and left him standing
beside a plastic chair in front of a window and a metal box that cradled a
beige phone connected by a flexible steel cable. Desmond sat down as Harwood
entered through a door beyond the glass. The prisoner kept his eyes fixed on
the floor until he was settled in his seat. He shot a nervous glance at Desmond
and then looked down at his hands, folded in front of him on the counter. He
was dressed in an orange DOC smock that reminded Desmond of doctor’s scrubs. His
short gray hair, glasses, and slim frame completed the association. If life had
dealt Harwood a different hand, if he hadn’t fallen on hard times and hard
liquor, maybe he would have ended up in a different institution, working as an
orderly or a nurse, in a hospital, taking his smock off at the end of the day,
and leaving echoing halls of human suffering behind. It was a habit for Desmond
to free associate like this, a writer’s game, placing people in imaginary
scenarios inspired by details. He couldn’t help it.

Harwood
picked up the phone and listened, but didn’t look up. Desmond thought he looked
like he was bracing himself to hear whatever the husband of the victim needed
to say, had resigned himself out of duty to give Desmond a target for whatever
that might be, but was limiting the interaction to simply taking the blow. He
didn’t have to make eye contact, didn’t have to speak. He just had to show up,
sit down, and take it.

“Do
you know who I am?” Desmond said into the phone.

“You’re
the husband,” Harwood said without looking up.

“
Whose
husband?”

Harwood’s
eyelids fluttered. “You want me say I’m sorry?”

“Are
you?”

“If
you want.”

“Don’t
tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me what you remember about that
night, now that you’re cleaned up and you’ve had time to think about it.”

“Don’t
remember much.”

“Did
you break into my house and then kill my wife in the backyard?”

Harwood’s
fingers tightened around the phone, and his eyes met Desmond’s. “You tell me. You
were there, you tell me. Did I do those things? Did I kill her?”

“I
was sleeping.”

“Maybe
I was too. ‘Member waking up with that sword in my hand, all sticky from blood….”

“Where
were you when you woke up?”

“My
camp.”

“Is
that all you remember?”

Harwood
looked down again, a faraway look in his eyes. He scratched the chest of his
orange smock.

“Did
you see anyone else? Anyone who didn’t live in the camp?”

“Used
to see all kinds of things when I was using. Don’t anymore.”

“What
did you see…when you woke up, what did you see?”

“I
think I told the police about it back then. Don’t ‘member much now.”

“Tell
me.
Please.
”

“Mister
Carmichael, if I killed your wife, I’m sorry. I don’t think I woulda meant to
hurt a woman like that. I musta mistaken her for somethin’ else. I have a
daughter, you know.”

“I
know. They told me she visits you.”

Harwood
nodded. His skin was as pale as paper, laced with a filigree of blown blood
vessels like some indecipherable script, but now it flushed scarlet. He said,
“Been good for me in that one way. I don’t think she’d know me if I wasn’t in
here.”

“Who
did you see when you woke up holding the sword?”

“Reapers,”
Harwood
whispered fiercely.

“Reapers?”

“Death
angels in black skirts, faces like…all clouds and teeth. Like what you call
wrath
o’ God.
”

“Angels.
There was more than one?”

Harwood
nodded. “Don’t angels come in pairs? Other one stood back from the firelight,
in the shadows.”

“Did
they say anything to you?”

“Said
I done the deed, killed a lady. He had my Bible in his hand; only thing I kept
from my mother. Angel handed it to me, told me I should repent, confess it,
else they was gonna do my kin like I done that lady.”

“You’re
sure there were two of them?” Desmond felt the fingers on the phone going cold.

Harwood’s
face twisted with a wry smile. “People say drunks see double…but I never did.”

* * *

When
Desmond got back to the car, his cell phone was vibrating in the glove box. There
was a missed call and a voice message. At first he thought it might be the
Parsons or their lawyer trying to establish the rules of engagement, but the
number wasn’t from a local area code. He played the voicemail.

“Mr.
Carmichael, my name is Erin Drelick and I’m a Special Agent with the FBI. I
have a question for you related to a case I’m working on. Please call me at
your earliest convenience.”

Desmond
took the recently confiscated and returned pen from his pocket, played the
message again, and jotted down the number she spoke at the end, just in case. Then
he checked it against the one in the phone’s memory and hit SEND. The same
soft, professional voice greeted him after one ring. “Mr. Carmichael. Thanks
for getting back to me so soon.”

“Sure.
How can I help you?”

“Ordinarily
I like to have this sort of conversation in person, but I’m with the bureau in
California, so you’ll understand why that’s not possible.”

“Okay….”

“I’m
working on a case that has some similarity to that of your wife. Are you
familiar with the murder of a California man named Geoff Lamprey?”

“I
can’t say I am.”

“It’s
been in the national news lately because of the gruesome nature of the crime. Same
as your wife’s…. I’m sorry.”

“He
was decapitated?” The word came out in a whisper. It still hurt to say it. An abominable
word.

“Yes.
Forgive me if this is painful for you, but your cooperation would be quite
helpful with regard to a technical detail I’m pursuing. I only need a minute of
your time.”

“I
don’t understand why you’re calling me instead of the detectives in Sandy’s
case.”

“I
understand you were the owner of the sword that was used for the crime, that it
was a weapon of convenience, stolen from your home and used on your wife when
she confronted the intruder.”

“That
was the verdict, yes.”

“You
have doubts?”

“I
was asleep. The sword was found in the possession of a local homeless man. Blood,
fingerprints…I’m sure you know all about it.” He looked at the squat limestone
building through sheets of rain and wondered what this Agent Drelick would
think if she knew he was talking to her from the current residence of said
psycho killer. It wouldn’t be difficult for her to find out that he’d just sat
down for a little chat with the man, not if she was looking into Sandy’s case
with the resources of the FBI at her disposal.

“Yes,
I’ve been over the case file. There’s a detail in there that matches a finding
from Lamprey’s autopsy—a type of sword oil. I’m trying to track down a
commercial source. You should understand that you are not a suspect in the
Lamprey case.”

“I
should hope not. I’ve never even heard of him.”

“I’ll
get to the point. Before your wife was murdered, did you ever apply oil to the
blade? For preservation, maintenance, that sort of thing?”

“No.
I took it out of the sheath once or twice just to look at it when my
father-in-law gave it to me. Then I hung it on my office wall and more or less
forgot about it.”

“It
was a gift?”

“Sort
of. It belonged to Sandy’s grandfather. When he passed away, her father didn’t
want it, so he gave it to me.”

“Do
you remember if the blade was oiled when you first received it? Maybe your
father-in-law had oiled it to prevent rust?”

“I
don’t know, you’d have to ask him. He takes good care of tools, so maybe he
would know to do that.”

“I’d
like you to think about the first time you unsheathed the sword. Was there a
scent?”

“A
scent?”

“Try
to remember.”

Desmond
closed his eyes. He was enveloped by the sound of rain on the roof and windshield.
“I don’t remember it smelling like anything. The oil would have a scent?”

“Common
machine oil would have a smell, yes. And traditional sword oil would have a
different smell.”

“Like
what?”

“Cloves.”

A
memory flared in Desmond’s mind—a park bench, the day it all came back to haunt
them, an old Japanese man smoking a cigarette, and the too sweet smell of clove
smoke on the breeze. The rain reached a crescendo, pounding on the car and
sending the crackle and hiss of static down the line.

“Mr.
Carmichael? Are you still there?”

Chapter 13

Shaun Bell
tilted the
katana
. The
hamon
line glowed in the diffuse morning
light. Outside, the sound of rain pattering on the rocks, dripping from the
leaves. He had been meditating through the morning, listening to the rhythm of
the rain, the rhythm of his breath. There was rhythm in everything. A time to
watch, a time to strike, a time to withdraw. A time to reap. This was a
universal
dharma
, written in the bible, written in Musashi’s
Book of
Five Rings
. He examined the steel, watched the play of the light along the
temper line like a slow-moving wave lapping at a riverbank in the moonlight, or
plasma undulating in a dying neon tube.

Musashi
wrote that one must have no attachment to a particular weapon or to anything in
life. If a warrior’s ability depended upon his preferences, he would be lost
when circumstance took them away. Sensei had demonstrated this when he used the
crude infantry officer’s sword to kill the woman. That weapon had symbolic and
circumstantial value. Today, however, Shaun would enjoy the beauty and poetry
of a true
nihonto
. Despite the council of Musashi, it was well known
that swords forged by master smiths possessed souls of their own, and this was
such a blade, his master’s blade. To untie the silk bag was to feel it awaken. To
draw it from the
saya
was to hear it breathe. To watch the light run
along the
hamon
was to witness sentience in steel.

The
warrior had risen at dawn. He had bathed and dressed, wound the straps around
his waist over and under, tied the knots, arranged the folds, felt the board
pressing into the small of his back. He had reached between his knees and
slapped the fabric out to the sides, had kneeled in
seiza
, set his hands
in his lap, and focused his mind. His stomach growled from fasting.

Now
he wiped a few drops of
choji
oil along the length of the blade with a
folded square of rice paper as the last wisp of incense smoke curled in the
still air. He laid the sword on the mat and pounded the blade with the powder
ball, then re-sheathed it, and examined the hilt—checked the fit of the bamboo
retaining pegs, the tightness of the silk wrap, the snug fit of the silver
dragon ornaments in the hand grip.

He
set the sword down in front of his knees in the ceremonial manner, and bowed to
it, left hand touching the floor first, then right. Rhythm in everything. A
time to reap.

* * *

Vance
Garrett popped a piece of chalk into his mouth, folded the extra foil under his
thumb, and dropped the roll of antacid wafers into the pocket of his golf
shorts. He selected an iron from his bag and swung it back and forth like a
pendulum, loosening up, letting the weight of the head do the work. He scanned
the putting green where the caddies were congregating around the door of the
pro shop. No sign of Parsons yet. He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked
up at the cloud cover. It was starting to burn off. Grass was still wet, but he
was better at putting on wet grass than Phil Parsons was. Maybe it wouldn’t dry
too fast.

His
swing was fluid and easy this morning, nice and straight. He grinned and put
the club back in the bag. The grin stretched into a yawn and he covered his
mouth with the back of his white-gloved hand. Funny, how fatigue improved his
form. He wondered if other athletes—pro baseball players for instance—played a
better game when they were hung over and tired because it loosened them up. Probably
not. Most games called for more cardio stamina than this one. Golf was supposed
to be relaxing, but he knew that few of his peers would say it was. It brought
out the competitive temperament, and even the bucolic rolling hills and
glistening water couldn’t pacify that. Heartburn and hangover could. He thought
of those twin antagonists as occupational hazards for a judge.

This
morning the hangover was from a late night of brandy and cigars with a Masonic
brother who had insisted on picking his brain about zoning law loopholes, and
the heartburn was from the too large brunch he’d been treated to by a town
selectman’s niece who wanted to know how her husband might argue for a lesser
charge when his DUI court date came up.

The
clubhouse door opened, and Phil Parsons strolled out. He spotted Garrett right
away and touched the brim of his tweed derby hat in salute. Garrett raised his
hand—not quite a wave—then fished his cell phone out of his pocket and shut it
off so no one else could pester him for advice and favors while he tried to
sink nine holes to a soundtrack of carefully worded custody questions.

* * *

Lucas
liked his new sneakers. They had Iron Man on them, and they lit up red and blue
when he stomped his feet. Nana liked how he liked them, but she didn’t like how
he kept running ahead of her in them. Lucas thought that was funny. Too bad
there were no puddles in the mall to splash in with the new sneakers. Maybe in
the parking lot there would be some from the rain. Or the playground! Nana said
they would go if he was good, and he
was
good. “I was good, right Nana?”

“Hmm?”

“I
was good in the store so we can go to the Castle Playground and eat ice cream,
right?”

“We’ll
see. And not if you keep running ahead.”

“But
I’m Iron Man!”

“Help
an old lady out, Iron Man. Walk beside me.”

“You’re
not an old lady, Nana.”

“Already
figured out how to play the ladies to get what you want, huh?”

Lucas
did the thing with his eyebrows, the serious face, the Daddy face that he made
when he didn’t like or understand something. Nana brushed her fingers through
his hair while they walked. Everyone was always touching his hair. He couldn’t
wait until he was tall so he could do it to them and see how they liked it. “We
need to get this trimmed,” Nana said.

“I
don’t want to.”

“It’s
getting hot, Lucas. Don’t you want short hair for summer, so you can keep
cool?”

“No.”

“But
you look so handsome with short hair.”

“Like
Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“When
will I see him?”

“Sometime
soon. We’ll see.”

“When?”

“I
don’t know, honey. Just sometime soon.”

“If
I get a haircut will I see Mommy soon, too?”

“Oh,
baby….” Nana stopped walking, knelt down, and put her hands on his cheeks. “My
boy. If your mother could come back she would.”

“Why
doesn’t she?”

“She’s
in heaven now. But she’s watching you, dear. And she still loves you so very
much.”

That
was what they always said. Lucas broke away and ran as fast as his new sneakers
could carry him to the carousel in the middle of the mall. He heard Nana
yelling and looked down at the flashing lights on his sneakers. He wanted to
know where heaven was. When he found out, he would run there.

* * *

Garrett
made a short putt and watched the ball roll up to the edge of the hole. Right
up to the edge but not in. His earlier calm was gone, wrecked by the barrage of
questions Parsons didn’t have the courtesy to dole out at a pace that was
sensitive to a man’s game. He popped another tab of chalk and answered the
latest query with an edge in his voice. “No, I don’t think it’ll hold. Not if
he gets an even halfway decent lawyer. You can’t show a pattern of reckless
behavior.”

“But
he was fired for drinking.”

“He’s
a writer, for Chrissake. They practically get paid to drink. Still gainfully
employed at that?”

“Barely.”

“You
said he’s been off the sauce for almost a year. If he was bringing whores home,
you might have a leg to stand on.”

“Desmond
says
he stopped drinking, but he didn’t join a program. He doesn’t have
a sponsor who can vouch for him or a six-month medallion to show for it.”

Garrett
knocked the ball into the hole and marked his card. “He’s the child’s only living
parent, Phil, and he’s never raised a hand to him. That’s what’s going to carry
the day with a judge.”

“With
any
judge?”

Garrett
took a long look at Phil Parsons and didn’t like what he saw. He bent and
plucked his ball out of the hole.

* * *

The
sound of thundering
taiko
drums rolled out of the car stereo speakers,
just loud enough to mask the gravel crunching under the tires. Tree branches
cast shadows over the dusty dashboard as the car rolled to a stop in the tunnel
of oaks. The driver climbed out and unclipped a rusty chain with a weathered,
illegible steel plate sign suspended from the middle. He tossed the chain into
the bushes, got back in the car, swept the hem of his
hakama
clear of
the door as he pulled it shut, and then continued up the road, which was now
little more than a double-rut dirt path. He parked the car deep enough into the
woods that it couldn’t be seen from the road, yet close enough that he could
get out fast.

With
the car engine and the music off, silence settled on the woods, punctuated only
by the ticking of the cooling engine and the chatter of birds. The rain was
burning off of the trees now, rising in little wisps of steam. The air was
still. The sword slept in an aluminum gun case in the trunk, waiting to wake,
and hiss, and sing a song of blood, the
tachikaze
, the sword-wind song. A
song for him alone, as the blade would travel too fast for that sound to reach
living ears.

* * *

Lucas
walked beside Nana and let her pet the back of his head, his shaggy hair. They were
looking for the shortcut to the barbershop—the gap in the fence where the
litter-strewn path cut through the woods that separated the Big Mall from the
Little Mall. The Little Mall didn’t really seem like a mall to Lucas because
the stores weren’t connected inside, but Nana said she always parked there
because you could always find a good spot, and Nana liked to stop in and have
coffee at the barbershop where Mary worked. Mary was okay. She cut his hair
before and gave him a lollipop when he was little and used to have more days
with Nana like today.

Lucas
was worried. He didn’t know if he’d still be allowed to have ice cream later if
he had a lollipop.

Once
they were on the trail, in the shade of the trees, Lucas could see the lights
on his sneakers better. They were away from the cars now, so he asked Nana,
“Can I run in my new sneakers?”

“Okay,
but not too far.”  

He
stomped two times and watched the lights chase each other around his soles, then
he tore through the tunnel of trees toward the lattice of sunlight on the brick
wall of a store-back ahead, beyond the black shadows of the low hanging
branches.

The
air smelled smoky and sweet.

* * *

Phil
Parsons tugged on his glove and said, “You know Tom Carter, right? Isn’t he one
of your Masonic brothers?”

“That’s
right.”

“Do
you think he’d rule in favor of caution where a young boy’s welfare is at
stake?”

“That’s
not the only measure a judge goes by in a case like this; he has to cleave to
the law. What rights does the father have? Have there been transgressions of
his parental role and so forth.”

“But
you know him. How do you think he’ll go?” Phil said, placing his ball on the
tee.

Garrett
was pulling various irons from his bag, examining each one before dropping it
back in, buying a little time, and doing his best to avoid looking at Parsons’
haggard face. Parsons who had served on the force, who had lost his beautiful
daughter to an act of supreme brutality. Parsons, once a fearless man, who now
kept a house like a fortress and feared for his grandson’s life. Garrett had
tried to read one of Desmond Carmichael’s novels, even though fantasy wasn’t
his cup of tea—he preferred thrillers. There had been swords, yes, but it was
no more violent than other books he admired. Violence drove plot. Just because
a book was violent didn’t mean…well, he doubted that Harlan Coben or Dennis
Lehane had ever killed anyone. He hadn’t finished the Carmichael book because
he couldn’t keep track of all the weird names, but he’d read far enough to
appreciate the author’s sense of compassion for his characters. Even the bad
ones. He supposed judges and authors needed to have that in common if they were
to be any good at their jobs.

“I’ll
tell him you’re a friend and that I’m interested in hearing how it turns out,”
he said. “But that’s all I can do for you, Phil. I can’t pull any strings. You
know that.”

“Thanks,
Vance, I appreciate it.”

Parsons
tested his alignment with two practice strokes, then brought the club back and
made his drive. The ball soared over the fairway far enough off center to fall
prey to the crosswind that was presently scattering the cloud cover, and sliced
into the scrub.