I placed one hand on the wall to secure myself and climbed along the stones to get to the very end. Here, beneath the archway, there was another barrier, but this one was more permanent. Instead of wooden boards, this hole had been bricked in ages ago.
I turned back to Mercer and crept along on the rubble until I reached the area that had been cleared.
“Dead end?”
“Totally.”
Mercer crouched down and asked me to focus the beam of light in front of him. He ran his forefinger over the rough stones and back again. “You could sweep all day, but the dust just keeps on coming. It seeps down from the ceiling and blows in through the cracks.”
“I hear you.”
I was studying every inch of the space.
“See this?” he asked me. “Let me hold the flashlight.”
When he angled the light, I could almost make out footprints in the gray sand that had once been a concrete block.
“And there,” he said, pointing to the far wall. “It looks like the outline of a-well, like a sleeping bag.”
“No need for us to guess,” I said, “when somebody right here knows more than we do.”
I wanted to get my hands on Cormac Lonigan. I balanced myself on the uneven debris on the flooring and lowered my head to get back to the others. Mercer followed.
“We’re out of here,” I said to Jimmy and Walter. “Mercer, why don’t you throw some cuffs on Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“I didn’t do nothing. I don’t know what’s going on.”
Pete Fitzgerald was the weaker link. I was pretty sure of that. I’d always found there was a direct correlation between notching the cuffs a little tighter on the dumb accomplice-the guy along for the free drinks and the ride-and successfully squeezing some nuggets of information out of him.
“Jimmy,” I said. “You go back to Walter’s office and take Fitzgerald with you. Get whatever you can from him, and then I’ll give you a plan for their phones.”
“Done.”
“Walter, if you even think of opening your mouth to anyone about what we got going on here, there’ll be nothing I can do to save your sorry ass,” I said. “You can read about it in tomorrow’s news if you want to keep your job.”
“Whatever you say, Detective,” Walter said as he started up the steps after Jimmy.
Cormac Lonigan, alone with us, was looking to Mercer Wallace for protection. “What about me?”
“Mercer’s not about to help you, kid,” I said. “Forget about him. After all, you and I haven’t finished our conversation.”
I pushed Lonigan backward until he fell against the staircase and righted himself, sitting on the third step from the bottom.
“Let’s begin with what you dragged your friend back over here to get-or do-about an hour ago.”
He didn’t answer.
Mercer reached for the backpack and Cormac Lonigan groaned. He started to pull items out of it. First was a long-sleeved shirt and after that a pair of clean underpants. Then, rolled up in a ball, was a single bedsheet.
“I don’t have any gloves, Mike,” Mercer said.
“Just open it up.”
There was a sharp pain in my gut. I needed to see if there was any blood on the sheet.
Mercer laid the fabric on the stone floor and opened it up slowly. A white strip of plastic fell out of the ball and landed a few feet away from me.
Lonigan had his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
The sheet was faded beige cotton, sized for a twin bed. I didn’t see anything resembling a bloodstain as I glanced at it. There were other body fluids I was worried about, but they wouldn’t be visible to me anyway.
“You weren’t carrying a tarp,” I said to Lonigan. “There’s no tarp in the shed that you came back to pick up. It was this sheet.”
I wanted to grab him by the throat and choke him till he spit out the truth about Coop, but that would reduce me to the level of the beasts who had her.
I took a step toward him. He recoiled at my approach. I stopped to pick up the plastic strip by its tip.
“You are in one shitload of trouble, Lonigan,” I said. I was trying to control my voice so he couldn’t hear the quiver in it. “Chicago Single Loop Riot Cuffs. Available online for what? Like three dollars a pop.”
The half-inch-wide disposable strips of choice for temporary restraints. They were favored by police who had to arrest protestors or nonviolent criminals and by amateurs for more shades of gray than I could count.
If this sheet had been used to conceal or cover Coop, then this strip had been on her wrists, in all likelihood. I passed it to Mercer and watched him pocket it. The lab could provide the answer to that question.
I wanted my hands to be free.
“You better talk now,” Mercer said. “My partner is not a patient man.”
“Take off your jacket and hand it to Detective Wallace,” I said.
He slowly removed the denim garment and passed it over to Mercer.
“Check the pockets,” I said. “Then we’re going to help you put on your clean shirt and shorts so we can keep the ones you’ve got on. Sorry I can’t help you with a pair of pants, but you won’t feel a chill till the sun goes down.”
I wanted the lab to have everything.
“This is crazy,” Lonigan said, closer to tears than I seemed to be. “I didn’t do nothing. I don’t even know what was supposed to go on.”
“Pockets are empty,” Mercer said.
But I wasn’t paying attention to him. I was totally absorbed by the body art that covered the kid’s arms from the shirtsleeves to his wrists.
These were not tattoos. They were full-on tableaux of vibrant designs, chilling in their imagery of weapons and blood. But that was only Lonigan’s left arm.
“Every picture tells a story,” I said to Mercer.
From just beneath the short sleeve of Lonigan’s T-shirt on his right arm was a soft, wispy pattern that grew larger in size as it wound around and around his arm. Black and white tufts of hair, it looked like, with a dark tubular center.
It was a feather.
And when the feather came to a tapered end on Lonigan’s forearm, its point rested on a huge gray boulder.
A stone.
And just below that was the striking design of a compass, with each direction inked in a red color as bold as blood.
The arrow in the center of the compass pointed due west.
“That damn psychiatrist was right,” I said to Mercer. “This has nothing to do with Alexandra Cooper.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Featherstone. Due west,” I said, reading Lonigan’s art aloud to Mercer. “The Westies. Mickey Featherstone and the fucking Westies.”
Cormac Lonigan glared at me.
“Then this is about your father,” Mercer said to me. “About your father and about revenge. It’s not about Alex and some demented rapist.”
“A little too early to celebrate, Mercer. The Westies aren’t sexual predators,” I said. “All the Westies like to do is kill.”
FORTY
“Do you know who I am?” I asked Cormac Lonigan.
“You’re a cop, is all I know.”
“What was your mother’s name? Before she married.”
“Shauna. Same as it is now.” He was back to smirking at me.
“I’m Chapman. Mike Chapman. My father was Brian,” I said. “Does that mean anything to you?”
He looked me in the eye and spit, intentionally missing me by less than an inch.
We were standing where the end of the dock met Liberty Island. He had removed his jeans and underwear-torn boxer shorts-when Mercer had pointed a gun at him. Now he was dressed only in the long-sleeved shirt and jockeys that had been in his backpack.
“You put the bracelets on,” I said to Mercer. “I’m afraid I might pinch him.”
“What’s the order of play?” Mercer asked me as I heard his metal cuffs click into place.
“There’s a head on that boat.”