The Memory Killer (32 page)

It said, “Do you want to see something really funny?”

A thousand years passed. Patrick opened his eyes. He was naked and bobbing in a gray ocean, the looming sky made of wood, and the stars were too bright to view.

“Hey, Patty boy,” a bright and familiar voice said, so loud it seemed inside his head. “How about you put on your swim suit? We’re going to Miami Beach tonight.”

Patrick spun his head to see Billy at the end of the room. “Billy, help me,” Patrick screamed. The room answered with a soft echo: “
Bu-uh h’me
.” Billy smiled, pirouetted, and his face disappeared, replaced by quivering tendons.

He’s not real,
Patrick thought, swallowing his horror.
Don’t get lost in the hallucinations. Stay calm and think. First, check your systems …

Patrick looked down and saw his wrists crossing his belly and bound by handcuffs. His legs felt heavy, but mobile. He closed his eyes and scanned for his heart rate: elevated, one-fifteen, one-twenty. BP had to be high as well. Pain radiated through his abdomen and his head throbbed. Dry mouth. Occasional muscle spasms, currently minor. Probable pupillary dilation.

How much had the stolen mixture helped? A blunting effect hopefully, on both the robinia and datura. The dieffenbachia had to wear off. The other victims had reported visions so potent it was all they could remember. Patrick had hallucinations, but if he kept telling himself they weren’t real, he might stay in control. There was also limited muscular function.

The floor began to ripple like a waterbed and he made himself ignore it,
not real
. He closed his eyes and focused. The madman was Derek Scott. It had to be. But all the photos, all the descriptions … they were someone else. Were there two madmen? The Donnie one and Derek Scott?

He heard the sound of a door opening. Derek Scott entered the room. Except for a slight glow he didn’t look like a hallucination.
What am I supposed to look like to him?
Patrick asked himself.
How should I act to keep the monster from knowing I’m still in me, at least for now?

Patrick stared into the air as if seeing a terrible vision. He choked out a scream and began knocking the back of his head on the floor …
easy,
not too hard
. Scott looked pleased and approached, slipping from his clothes as he went.
You will be raped,
Patrick told himself, a flashing glance seeing Scott kneeling beside him, naked and aroused and twisting the cap from a tube of lubricant.

If you fight,
Patrick’s mind said
, he’ll administer more poison. You can’t fight.

He didn’t.

I overnighted at the Palace, which was getting tiresome. At home I looked out over water; the vista here was steel and brick and glass, nice for a couple days, but I needed deck time beside the cove, Mix-up cleaving the water like a furry, bobbing barge. But that could only happen when Donnie Ocampo was behind bars or in the ground. After yesterday’s events at the shop, I would have been delighted to shovel dirt over the monster.

I slept all the way to seven a.m. before the phone rang, Vivian. “I’m sorry to wake you, Carson. I’m at the hospital. I think there may be a problem … I’m not sure.”

My heart dropped. “Another victim?”

“No. It’s, well … nothing, maybe.”

I said I was on my way, arriving at the hospital twenty minutes later. Morningstar was standing by Marjorie, the Rubenesque nurse.

“It’s Patrick White,” the nurse said, her hands twisting in one another. “He didn’t come in for work this morning. I thought maybe it was the emotional toll of his friend, but he has a major exam today. It’s not like Patrick.”

Patrick had told me of his aspirations and I knew that even with the death of Billy Prestwick, White would follow through on the exam.

“I’m worried,” Marjorie said. “This is the first time he’s ever—”

“Give me his address.”

I met Gershwin at White’s rental house, a shabby little bungalow in a neighborhood of the same. I saw a small red Honda in the drive, his. Gershwin got to the front door first.

“Not good,” was all he said.

The door had been opened inward by force, wood shards littering the carpet. A desk by the front window held open books and pads, like he’d been there minutes ago. I saw a dark stain on the rug and leaned low to realize my worst suspicions: blood. I heard Gershwin call from a hall.

“The bedroom door, Jefé. It’s busted down, too.”

After issuing the BOLO, we had spent two hours talking to White’s friends and colleagues, but just because I knew the victim made me no less impotent in finding Donnie Ocampo. We returned to the department where I was lying on my couch with my hands over my eyes, empty. Gershwin was on the floor, case files spread around him like fall leaves. We both had nothing left.

Gershwin’s desk phone rang. He jogged to his office and I heard mumbled conversation. He was back in a minute.

I kept my hand over my eyes. “And?”

“You wanted me to query medical facilities in country locales about possible plant-related poisonings. That was Dr Clark in Hardee County. Says he saw an incident a couple years back. Robinia. Black locust.”

Morningstar had said black locust poisoning in humans was rare. I sat up, feeling a tingle in my spine.

“How far is Hardee?”

“Three-hour drive. There’s no direct route.”

“Not by car.”

One of the perks of being in the law-enforcement elite was fingersnap chopper service. Forty-five minutes later we were a half-mile above western Okeechobee and following Highway 27 until we veered to a locale just below Placid Lakes. It was farm country, dotted with cattle and horses and citrus groves.

We landed in the lot of a single-story brick clinic, TriCounty Medical Services. Dr Clark was in his late sixties, medium height and weight, his thinning gray hair counterbalanced by a bristle-brush mustache. Clark took us through a waiting room jammed with sad-looking people of all shapes, sizes, and ethnic backgrounds, leading to an office crammed with files. He sat atop the small desk, Gershwin and I in folding chairs.

“It was maybe three years ago,” Clark said, gnawing the arm of his reading glasses. “A man presented at my clinic, too sick to walk. He was brought in by a friend, himself barely able to stand. They said a third man was back at their camp, unconscious.”

“Camp?”

“They were migrants, cutting brush, repairing fences. We dispatched an ambulance and discovered a dead male, age forty-three. When the body was autopsied, the pathologist suspected a toxic substance, and sent tissue to the FBI lab.”

“What about the others?”

“I ran activated charcoal through them and kept them hydrated and nourished until they recovered. The Sheriff found no foul play and it was assumed they’d been in contact with either a natural toxin or man-made one, like a pesticide. Six weeks later the FBI results indicated robinia. I’ve seen equine and bovine black locust poisoning, but I grew up on a farm. Never saw it in humans.”

“The surviving workers have any idea how it got in their systems?”

“They had finished their suppers a while before and started vomiting and having trouble standing.”

“Where can I get in touch with them?”

He shook his head. “They were
indocumentados
, Detective. Illegals. They’re somewhere between Chihuahua and Seattle.”

Long gone. “You know most people around here, Doc?” I said.

“Been here twenty-two years. I’ve seen or treated about everyone in the county.”

I pulled my increasingly worn sheet of photos and held it up. “How about this guy? Ever see him?”

Clark slipped on the glasses. “Looks like a lot of folks. But no, doesn’t ring a bell.”

Out of politeness I didn’t kick anything. “Any other crimes of note around that time?” I asked.

Clark gnawed the glasses for a few seconds. “Nope … unless you want to include a disappearance: José Abaca, low-level thief, con artist, pimp, dope dealer, whatever made fast money. No one misses him.”

A nurse opened the door and wanted Clark to take a look at something. He said he’d be right back. I turned to Gershwin. “You thinking what I’m thinking, Zigs? About the three poisonings?”

He held up three fingers. “Three doses: low, medium, high. Papa Bear’s moving, Baby Bear’s dead, Mama Bear’s passed out on the floor. Mama Bear becomes the benchmark dosage.”

It looked like Ava had called it, dead-on, so to speak. Clark returned and I asked him if there was anyone we could talk to who knew the poisoned men.

“There’s a camp for the migrants. A few older guys are always there, sort of like permanent uncles. They probably won’t talk.”

“Can you come and make introductions?”

“Did you see my waiting room?”

Clark directed us to the camp. We passed several miles of pasture before seeing a cluster of graying wooden houses with small porches. A fiftyish Hispanic man sat on one porch, sipping beer from a can as chickens pecked in the sparse grass. When we pulled into the dirt drive his head turned away, like if he didn’t see us, we weren’t there.

“Excuse me,” I said. “May we speak?”

His eyes went blank. “No Ingles, señor.”

“Uh, Big Ryde …” Gershwin said, stepping in front of me. “How about you go reorganize the glove box and I’ll call you in a few.”

I headed to the car as Gershwin sat on the steps. I watched him pull his badge and ID, point to the ID, likely explaining that we weren’t inmagracíon. The guy finally nodded, and they started talking. After a couple minutes Gershwin waved me from the car.

I discovered that Gershwin was a miracle worker; Señor Ronaldo Vasquez had learned English in under five minutes. After the requisite pleasantries, I asked what he’d heard about the illnesses and the death.

He thought a moment, like framing his words. “There were rumors about the sickness, about a man’s death. There are always rumors.”

“That the men had been purposely poisoned?”

“That is a likely thing to think.”

“By who? Was that speculated?”

“A greasy snake named Abaca. He had been visiting the men at their little camp. He was all smiles and brought beer and a bag of tacos for each man. Not long after, they were sickened.”

Abaca was the low-life Clark said would do anything for a price, a sociopath, I figured. No conscience, no qualms. I looked at Gershwin. Was Abaca our killer? Was Abaca Donnie? Feeling a surge in my heart rate, I pressed forward. “The workers knew this for certain, Don Vasquez? That Abaca had given them something bad?”

“They were eating and bad food is a problem always. Especially in this heat.”

“But weeks later, after the tests came back as poison? That’s when Abaca became a suspect?”

“When your soul is black, you open yourself to such thoughts.”

“What happened to Abaca? Do you know?” I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping the old man had an idea of Abaca’s whereabouts. I looked at Gershwin, he was staying cool, but thinking the same.

The man paused for a long moment, as if gauging internal distances. “You are not of the police here, Señor Ryder. That is what Señor Gershwin told me. Nor do you have any interest in the inmagracíon. Or even …
locale
crimes?”

“All true, Don Vasquez.”
Come on … please God let this man know where we can find José Abaca …

But Don Vasquez went another direction.

“One of the men was the son-in-law of the dead man,” he said. “The other was his good friend. Honor was involved and they went to … speak to Abaca.”

“But Abaca was gone by then, right? Perhaps to Miami?”

“You are sure, señor, that you have no interests here?”

“All we want is the truth, Don Vasquez.”

The man paused for a long moment, as if gauging internal distances. His eyes found mine. “No, Señor Ryder. Abaca had not disappeared. He was dead on his floor, his face a terrible thing to behold. He died while eating.”

I started to speak, but used my head instead of my mouth. The men had probably intended to injure or kill Abaca, revenge, but found him dead. Figuring they’d be prime suspects, they’d made the body disappear. I suspected Abaca was weighted down beneath four feet of Everglades water, a fate he likely deserved.

“Why did Abaca poison the men?” I asked. “Was it known?”

The man shrugged, at a loss. “It is strange, as they were very pleasant men, not given to making enemies.”

“You have lived in this area for long, Señor Vasquez?”

“For eighteen years. I know everyone here.”

For what had to have been the two-hundredth time in three weeks I pulled the photos of Ocampo from my jacket. Held them to a pair of eyes and held my breath. For the two-hundredth time the eyes scanned the pictures, thought carefully …

And a mouth said, “No.”

Before we lifted off, Gershwin phoned the department to check our calls. “Anything?” I said, dreading that Patrick White had appeared, injured in some hideous fashion.

“You had one call, Jefé. Someone named Folger.”

I frowned.
Alice Folger
? Four years passed like a blur and I was racing through Manhattan trying to get to my brother ahead of the NYPD, while simultaneously appearing to assist their manhunt. Lieutenant Alice Folger started as my adversary, ended up as what Ava might call a
brief thang
.

What could Alice Folger want?

We were edging toward Okeechobee when I put the air call through my helmet and dialed Bobby Erickson, the ex-FSP sergeant who handled 23rd-floor calls.

“Gershwin told me about a call, Bobby … Folger?”

“Yeah,” he said, chomping something as he spoke. “Name was Alice. With the NYPD.”

“She say what she wanted?”

“Only that an old friend of yours had finally surfaced.” He swallowed. “She sounded real happy, Carson.”

Debro stared through the window at his newest penitent, Patrick White. The man was lying on his back, his head slowly tapping the floor as his eyes rolled slowly in his head. White looked at Debro but, of course, could not see him. He was probably seeing dancing body parts. It was something he had said at the bar: “
I’ve got a test coming up tomorrow, anatomy. It’s a toughie and I’ve spent two weeks cramming my head full of body parts
.” He had pointed to his head with a laugh, “
They dance in there all day, livers, spleens, colons – ascending and decsending, you know – veins, arteries, capillaries …
”