“Let’s see if the lady of the house can help out here.”
They walked back to Elena and Seth.
“I’d like to talk to you,” Halloran said to her, “if you wouldn’t mind letting Detective Harriman keep an eye on your boy for a moment?”
Elena looked back at Frank.
“I’ll be right here,” he said, then added, “Do you know the name of the gardener who works in this part of the complex?”
“Gardener? It’s a whole team — a service that comes through once a week. They come here on Fridays.”
Frank looked toward where he had seen the white van parked. He was not surprised to find it gone.
27
Wednesday, July 12, 3:00 P.M.
A Private Home in Las Piernas
The Looking Glass Man stepped into the shower, feeling weak and sick to his stomach. Soon he would have to go up to his attic room and chronicle the unmitigated failures of this afternoon, but for now he must try to cleanse himself. For long minutes he stood beneath the spray, his head bent into the roaring rush of hot water. He closed his eyes to the glaring whiteness of the shower walls and allowed his other senses to become attuned solely to this enclosed world — the sting of the hot water pelting his scalp and shoulders, the wash of warmth and steam over his skin, the roaring of the water in his ears, the coolness of the tiles beneath his hands, the pressure of his own weight against his palms and the soles of his feet. He opened his mouth and let the water sluice across his lips and teeth and tongue and down his chin. But soon the water echoed the refrain inside his skull—
You fool! You fool! You fool!
Elena Rosario was in Las Piernas.
He had thought her long gone. A few months after Lefebvre’s death, she had left. But she must have returned, and now she had a child.
He did not understand it. He had never understood her. He had held various beliefs about her at various times, and always he ended up uncertain, unable to discard those beliefs and unable to cling to them.
He had put her out of his mind for years now, and here she was, back in Las Piernas. And living in Lefebvre’s home.
He had reacted to that out of fear. There had been so much to be afraid of.
When he had nearly been seen by Harriman at the cemetery, it was bad enough, but while eluding the motorcycle officer, his heart had almost given out. After changing the plates on the van, he had driven to the hospital just to see if there was some little thing he might be able to do for Bredloe. A little something to end the man’s suffering. But just as he entered the hallway near Bredloe’s room, he had caught a glimpse of Matt Arden going in to see the captain. The Looking Glass Man kept walking, hearing Arden’s voice say a dreaded name: Lefebvre.
Arden. Did Arden know? Had Lefebvre told Arden his secrets? He had always wondered about this, but when the years went by without a word from him or anyone else, he had decided that Lefebvre had not taken Arden into his confidence. Arden, he was certain, would have defended Lefebvre’s reputation — he had had an almost fatherly devotion to the man. Today, perhaps Arden had only mentioned Lefebvre’s name because of the funeral.
Or perhaps not.
In his present state, Bredloe would be of no use to Arden. But perhaps Arden was saying other things to other members of the department? Who was he staying with? Who was he seeing while he was here in town?
And so the Looking Glass Man had decided to follow Arden. And he did — right to Lefebvre’s former residence.
His shock had been profound.
For a few wild moments, he allowed himself to consider the possibility that Lefebvre was alive, that he had escaped from the wreckage of the plane, that his bones had never been found, that Harriman was involved in some elaborate scheme to trick the Looking Glass Man into revealing his secrets.
It was in this state of panic that he decided to set fire to the condominium. He quickly gathered the materials he had planned to use on Harriman’s home and changed into one of his most useful costumes — the green coveralls of a gardener, an outfit that would allow a person to come close to almost any residence without raising the least alarm from neighbors. A disguise that would let a man carry large green plastic bags full of materials without anyone suspecting him of anything untoward.
This time, the bag was full of gasoline-soaked rags.
He was out in the open, next to the building nearest the van, when he saw Harriman and Arden together. His level of panic skyrocketed. He quickly hid himself, cowering in a nearby stairwell, heart pounding, sure that in the next second Harriman would come running, would pull that gun from his shoulder holster and force him to surrender and confess, force him to fail to achieve his most important goals just as they were within his reach. The secrets would come out then. Everything would fall apart. Judge Lewis Kerr would undoubtedly preside over his case — and make an example of him.
Caught up in the horror of these visions, he had nearly missed seeing Arden drive off with a woman. The woman was a surprise. Was she his wife? Perhaps Arden had married. He disliked not knowing who Arden might have spoken to about Lefebvre.
Harriman was no longer in sight then. He was up in the condominium, perhaps reading some papers Arden had left with him or even talking to Lefebvre himself. Perhaps Lefebvre had built secret rooms in his condominium. He had not seen them when he went to Lefebvre’s home during the investigation into Seth Randolph’s murder. But he had been able to do only so much with half the department on hand at the same time. He disliked such crowds.
He had always approved of Lefebvre, and for many reasons. They had so much in common. They were intelligent and logical. They loved to fly. They both did their best work alone. That was why, for a time, he had done certain favors for Lefebvre — Lefebvre himself had never known the source of these favors. The Looking Glass Man would not be surprised to discover now that they had more than intelligence and a love of solitude in common. He could easily believe that Lefebvre had also created hidden places in his home. After Arden left the condominium, this possibility disturbed him greatly, until his skin itched from his nervousness. It would be best, he decided, to hurry up and destroy Harriman and any evidence he might be studying.
And so he had started the fires. Once he was sure they were going, he had hurriedly left, not so stupid as to stay and watch, as a true arsonist would have done. No, it was best to be far away in such situations. He had the means of learning the results of his work.
He had listened to the scanner and heard the call. But then had come the announcement that three persons had been in the condominium, including a female and a child. He had risked turning back then, unable to resist the temptation — as weak as any arsonist after all — and had caught a glimpse of Elena Rosario holding a child while Harriman spoke to firefighters.
He had driven away again, chastising himself for returning at all, while reeling from the implications. Elena Rosario, living in Lefebvre’s home.
He scrubbed himself until his skin was raw.
The water turned cold, and though he briefly considered punishing himself by remaining in the shower, he shut it off. The room seemed unusually quiet, which made him feel afraid, until he realized that he had forgotten to turn the fan on and the quiet was the absence of its noise. He dried himself and wiped down the shower stall and all the chrome before stepping out, carefully placing his feet on the perfectly aligned bathroom rug.
He looked up into the mirror and saw only the blur of steam and condensation.
As if he weren’t really there.
An omen, he decided, shivering where he stood.
But ultimately his faith in himself reasserted itself. Perhaps it was a sign of a different sort — a sign that he remained invisible to those who sought him.
He would need to be more careful, true, but the more he considered it, the fire was not such a foolish idea — after all, he had smoked Elena Rosario from her lair.