The Nature of the Beast (22 page)
He thanked her again.
She said it was nothing.
Standing in the grass in his bare feet he watched as she drove around the circle and rolled back out through the gate.
He stood without moving until even the sound of her car had faded to nothing and then walked over and closed the gate.
Audrey Williams slid into the booth opposite Jackson Craig. Her breathing was shallow, her face flushed. “Have you seen it?” she asked.
“Seen what?”
“The news. CNN, FOX, ABC… everybody.”
Craig frowned. “I thought you went to the loo.”
“I had to walk past the lounge. It’s on every damn TV.”
“What’s on every TV?”
“NCMAC went public,” Audrey hissed.
“You don’t say?” Craig offered.
“Not just the Colin Satterwaite DNA sample,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “About everything. Harry Joyce, the missing Fowles kids, the whole damn history of the thing. They know the whole story. Government cover-up, the whole nine yards.”
Craig met her excited gaze with a puzzled expression. “How could they possibly know about the Harry Joyce affair?” he asked. “That’s a highly classified matter.”
Audrey shrugged. “CNN’s comparing it to the Elizabeth Smart and Jaycee Lee Dugard kidnapping stories. Rehashing everything. Showing all the old footage. The Smart family, the tents in the backyard. Everything. And get this… Colin’s mother and sister are on their way from upstate New York. Harvey Winter is going to have them on his show later in the week. This thing’s going to play out on national television.”
For the past twenty-two years, Harvey Winter had hosted a syndicated daytime TV show emanating from Chicago, wherein his guests, often as not, engaged in bouts of profane screaming and finger pointing, immediately prior to brief but spirited bouts of grappling, hair pulling and clumsy fisticuffs.
“Is that scandal-monger still on TV?” Craig asked in amazement.
“Still going strong,” Audrey assured him.
“Kinda makes you feel like a great many of your fellow citizens might not be the sharpest tools in the shed, if you know what I mean.”
“With my history,” she quipped, “I probably shouldn’t comment on that.”
She sat quietly and looked around the nearly empty restaurant. “You certainly don’t seem overly concerned about it,” she said after a moment.
He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe it will shake something loose.”
“Presuming our quarry reads the papers, and the literature suggest that he does, he’s about to discover the unvarnished truth about Harry Joyce,” she said.
“I’m more concerned about the time frame. He’s had Michael for three full days.” He took a sip of water. “Scares the hell out of me,” he added.
“Seventy-five percent of kidnap victims are dead after the first hour. Ninety percent after the first twenty-four hours. After that, the chances of getting them back alive are astronomically bad,” Audrey recited. “And I for one am not convinced that being on page one is going to help us find him.”
Craig shrugged, seemingly still unfazed. “Once it’s out, the toothpaste won’t go back into the tube.”
“And you’re not worried he might harm Michael,” she pressed. “That the true story of his life may push him over the edge. The only person we know who’s seen him in person says he appears to be in a semi-dissociative state. In all probability he’s experiencing some sort of major episode.”
“Why take the boy then? All that does is make things harder,” Craig said.
“You know what I’m thinking?” Audrey asked.
“Almost never,” Craig said.
“I think he’s trying to prove something to himself.”
“Prove what?”
Audrey considered the matter for a moment. “I think the operant emotion is shame,” she said. “Shame over what happened to him, over the things Harry Joyce made him do, over having capitulated…perhaps what he now thinks was too easily.” She raised a finger. “The only explanation I can think of is that he’s trying to prove to himself that any kid put in a similar situation would have done the same thing he did. That he wasn’t weak. That he didn’t capitulate too easily.”
Jackson Craig was still mulling the idea when the waiter reappeared. He ordered the roasted sea bass, Williams the shrimp and scallop risotto. By the time the meal arrived, however, fatigue had swallowed hunger alive, leaving neither of them with much of an appetite.
After twenty minutes of pushing food around their plates, they called for the waiter. Craig gave him ten dollars in cash and the company MasterCard for the dinner.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” Craig advised, after the waiter had once again come and gone.
“I feel like I haven’t slept in a real bed for a week,” Audrey said.
Craig pocketed the company credit card. “Now that the proverbial cat’s out of the equally proverbial bag, perhaps we can conduct a proper investigation,” he said.
Audrey Williams eyed Craig closely. Something about the formality of his tone and the sudden economy of his motions screamed of control. Like he finally had the pieces arranged exactly the way he wanted them. Audrey pretended to stifle a yawn.
Harriet Lopresi eased up to the front gate with her headlights off.
She killed the engine and left the keys in the ignition, hoping to eliminate fumbling, thus facilitating a fast and silent getaway.
Bad enough she
’
d forgotten something, no sense in bothering the reclusive Mr. Brown twice in one night.
Lord knew that poor man was skittish enough as it was.
She used her Postal Service key card on the gate and hurried across the lawn, rising on tip toes to mount the front stairs and then to creep around to the side where she
’
d left her glove atop the porch rail.
As she crept noiselessly across the boards, her eyes fell upon the cake box, still sitting on the porch rail, right where he
’
d set it twenty minutes ago.
He must have forgotten, she thought.
Or maybe something had come up with Michael and he
’
d had to hurry off, leaving the cake behind.
Nobody, after all, didn
’
t like her prize-winning chocolate cake.
Absolutely nobody.
Her first inclination was to deliver the cake a second time, but she quickly thought better of the idea.
Heck it was cold enough out here to keep it for a week.
Instead, she plucked her glove from the rail, stuffed it into her jacket pocket and tip-toed back around the front of the house.
As she cat-footed past the front door, she noticed a shaft of light angling away from her, a trapezoid, glowing golden.
The muted sound of voices stopped her feet.
Harriet stood at the top of the stairs and strained to listen.
After a moment,
curiosity pulled her toward the front door like a magnet to a refrigerator.
She slid over to the door and listened again. A child
’
s voice reached her ears, plaintive or in pain she imagined.
And then again.
The pull of the voice was irresistible.
She moved to the edge of the window shade, pressing her eye to the glass, trying to peek into the room.
As she bent forward an alarm began to sound. Any notion of stealthy getaways immediately dissolved in the cold night air. Harriet made a mad break for the car.
On shaking legs, she turned and ran, clomping down the stairs and across the lawn toward the safety of her Honda, sitting dark and sentinel silent just outside the gate.
A high-pitched keening sound flowed from her open mouth as she stretched her legs and ran for the first time in years.
Ten yards from safety, her right leg mysteriously ceased to function, sending her sprawling face first across the icy grass.
It wasn
’
t until she tried to rise that the pain began, a terrible burning sensation in the back of her leg, a flame searing her as she tried to force herself to her feet.
She heard his voice.
“
Come here,
”
he ordered.
The boy didn
’
t move.
Harriet whimpered as she crabbed forward, crawling toward the safety of her car, her leg burning like an ember, as the man strode to the porch and
grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him down onto ground level.
When she looked back, the man was standing next to her on the grass; the boy stood shivering by his side.
When he boy tried to turn his face away, the man used his free hand to turn the boy
’
s head forward.
“
Watch,
”
he ordered.
A scream rose in her throat.
He shot her in the head three times and then handed the gun to the boy.
Daniel Rosen sat slumped in his chair, his tie loose, his stubby legs thrust out onto the plush carpet. He ran a hand through his wiry hair and looked over at Bobby Duggan who stood by the window gazing out over L.A. at night. Bobby’d shed his jacket, pocketed his gold cuff links, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
“Justice is determined to fry somebody’s ass over this Harry Joyce thing,” Rosen said. “They want to know where the damn leak came from.”
“Too many agencies involved,” Bobby Duggan scoffed. “Too many big mouths. Too many opportunities for a leak.” He turned from the window and wandered back into the room. “They’re lucky Harry Joyce stayed sub-rosa for as long as it did.”
“You think it was Craig?” Rosen asked.
Bobby didn’t have to think about it. “Undoubtedly,” he said. “But I’ll tell you one thing…if it was Jackson Craig, Justice will never be able to pin the tail on him.”
“But just the implication that it might have been one of ours who was responsible for the release of classified information,” Rosen began, but Bobby cut him off. “His service record will deflect any sort of half-assed implications. The man’s earned two Presidential citations. He’s killed in the service of his country. Lost a hand. Been decorated no less than nine times. They don’t catch him with the smoking gun, they don’t catch him at all.” He made a Boy Scouts Honor sign with his fingers. His drawl was suddenly thicker. “And believe you me partner, they ain’t gonna catch
that
old boy standing on the rug with his johnson in his hand. Just ain’t gonna happen. Not in this lifetime anyways.”
Rosen seemed to relax. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember the last time Justice sent investigators over here, back when I first started. Not exactly awe inspiring investigative work as I recall.”
“Looked like two monkeys trying to fuck a football,” Bobby said.
He
’
d locked the kitchen door and slung his backpack over his shoulder when the rough voice nearly jolted him from his boots.
“
Goin
’
somewhere?
”
Illinois State Police Officer, cruiser and all, standing in the back yard. Silly little trooper
’
s hat perched atop his big bullet head like a peanut shell on a watermelon. Sergeant
’
s stripes and insignia. Name tag read: Trooper Severs. Apparently, the cop had driven through the open gate, gotten all the way around to the back of the house while he
’
d been busy inside, closing up for the final time.
The trooper kept his right hand resting on the butt of his holstered nine- millimeter. The little leather safety strap was undone and pushed out of the way.
“
Wha...what?
”
he stammered.
“
Takin
’
a trip?
”
He pointed at the car.
“
My nephew. We
’
re gonna visit some relatives in Michigan.
”
“
Where in Michigan?
”
“
Calumet.
”
“
Cold up there this time of year,
”
Trooper Severs said with a mock shiver.
He picked up the conversational cue. Cue number nine. They were supposed to talk about the weather now.
“
What can I do for you?
”
he asked instead.
The unexpected segue annoyed the trooper. This was an old fashioned bull- necked state cop, a man accustomed to asking the questions and having them answered.
“
You know a lady named Harriet Lopresi?
”
he tried.
“
She delivers my mail.
”
“
Didn
’
t report to work this morning. Her car
’
s not in her garage either.
”
“
Huh.
”
“
Real outta character for her,
”
the cop said.
“
Wouldn
’
t know,
”
the man said.
“
Woman
’
s regular as rain,
”
the big cop assured him.
“
First work day she missed in eight or nine years. Been so long nobody knew exactly.
”