Sandy had never heard of the man but didn't want to look dumb. "Sounds familiar but I can't place him."
The Savior sipped from his Gatorade bottle. "You may have heard it on the news this morning: he was murdered last night."
"Oh, man! And you were supposed to protect him!" Sandy put two and two together. "Is that why you were poisoned?"
The Savior nodded. "Fielding wouldn't tell me why, but for some reason he was afraid of a former patient named Terrence Holdstock. He said he didn't have enough to go to the police, but he feared for his life."
"Some sort of malpractice thing?"
"I'm not sure. I did a little investigating—in fact I was on my way back from doing just that when our friend on the Nine started shooting. What I learned is that this Holdstock is the leader of some sort of cult."
"A cult? I helped research a feature we did on local cults a while back but I never heard of him."
"It's a small cult, and relatively new. And get this: all members are former patients of Dr. Fielding."
"Oh, that's weird. That's really weird."
"Wait. It gets weirder. They drew lots and Holdstock won: he got the honor of murdering Fielding. And not by just any means—by strangulation."
Sandy leaned back and stared at this man. Yes, he'd saved Sandy's life, but he'd also lied to him. Was he lying again? Sandy prayed not. Few things on earth were sexier—news-wise, of course—than a murder cult.
"How do you know all this?"
"I can fill you in on the how later. What matters is Holdstock succeeded, and damn near offed me in the process." He lifted his Gatorade bottle. "I tend to drink this like water. But yesterday they spiked it with something that was supposed to kill me."
"Why kill you?"
"Because I knew too much. And I stood between Fielding and the cult. But they must have miscalculated the dose because it only put me down, way down, but not out. I couldn't move but I could still see, and I watched Holdstock strangle Fielding with an electrical wire garrote."
"You're an eyewitness? Oh, man! Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man! You can put this guy away!"
Sandy's mind was ranging back and forth, inspecting the story from all angles. If it was true—and please, please, please, God, let it be true!—and if Sandy could break the story…
But the Savior was shaking his head. "Not me. I'm not putting anyone away."
"Why not?" And then he remembered. "Oh, shit, yes. You're wanted."
"Right. And as if that's not bad enough, I left the scene—dragged myself away is more like it—and didn't report it. If I open my mouth I'm open to even more charges. That's where you come in."
Sandy sensed what was coming and he liked it. Liked it a lot. He leaned forward. "What do you have in mind?"
"Holdstock goes down." His mouth tightened into a grim line. "I
took on a job and didn't get it done because of him. That hurts my rep. I work on referrals and this will be bad for business. But even worse, he damn near killed me in the process. So he's going down."
"Where do I come in?"
"You must know cops. You call one of them and tell him. I'll be a confidential source, someone who witnessed the murder but can't get involved. I saw your name in The Light and figured you're the one to call."
Something about this bothered Sandy. It was too easy, too pat. If this didn't pan he could end up looking like a gullible fool. But why would the Savior dupe him? What did that gain him?
Unless he was crazy, a complete paranoid who'd dreamed this whole thing up.
Which would make him an armed paranoid.
Or even worse, what if he'd killed this doctor himself?
Sandy felt his buttocks clench. He'd better be very careful what he said right now, and how he said it.
The murder was easily verifiable, but what about the rest?
He cleared his throat. "I'm all for helping you, but I can't just call up the NYPD and say, 'So-and-so did it.'"
"Holdstock. Terrence Holdstock. Lives in the Bronx. I'll give you his address."
"Great. But I'll need more."
"You can tell them about the electrical wire garrote. I'll bet they've figured that out by now but haven't released it."
"That'll help. But if there's no known motive, what do we have to connect Holdstock to this doctor, besides being his patient?"
"How about a handprint at the scene of the crime?"
Sandy straightened in his chair. "You're sure about that?"
The Savior nodded. "Holdstock covered his tracks, very careful not to touch anything in the house, but I saw him lean on the dining room table right after he finished with Fielding."
"Now you're talking."
Sandy's thoughts raced ahead. Worst case scenario: This is all a load of bullshit. If so, the worst that can happen is the cops think I'm just a reporter who got a bum steer from a wacked-out source. I can live with that.
How about best case scenario? If it's all true…
Sandy had to grip the edge of the table to keep from soaring away. If it's all true it means he'll be instrumental in exposing not only a murderer but a murder cult. He'll be all over the front page again. But more than a brighter spotlight, this new story will earn him real credibility. His amnesty campaign for the Savior will make his bones in advocacy journalism while this murder cult story will simultaneously establish him as a major investigative reporter. No one will be able to call him a flash in the pan or a lucky one-hit wonder. Sandy Palmer will have arrived.
Harvey Weinstein can develop the subway massacre into a studio property, but Sandy could see the murder cult story going up for auction.
Hold on, he thought, reining in his fantasies. We're not even to first base here yet.
"All right," Sandy said. "I'll run it up the flagpole with some cops I know and see if they salute."
The Savior squinted at him. "You're going to what?"''
"I'm going to run with it. But I've got to ask: what do you want out of this?"
"Besides anonymity? I want Holdstock in Rikers getting passed around the showers like a party favor."
Sandy shuddered. "You have to know this might mean I can't devote as much time as I'd like to your amnesty cause."
"Told you I'm not interested in that."
Maybe not, but I am.
But even if the Savior should skip town as Sandy had feared this morning, he still had this murder cult to keep him hot.
"You should be, but right now I guess we've got a hotter fish to fry." He pulled out his notepad. "Okay, let's get some of these details down so I have my facts straight when I call the cops…"
5
Kate came out of Jack's kitchen when she heard the door open. He looked terrible as he stumbled across the front room like an exhausted homing pigeon flapping toward its roost. She followed and watched as he tumbled face first onto the bed she'd just made up. She'd opened the window to freshen the stale, sick air.
"Jack, are you all right?"
"Just swell," he said, his words muffled by the bedspread against his face.
"You could have fooled me."
"Imagine what's left of the Hindenberg on the Lakehurst tarmac after burning and crashing and you have the beginning of a hint."
"I was worried about you."
Those words startled her, not because they weren't what she'd intended, but because she wasn't saying them. A stormwave of terror smashed against her.
Someone else had control of her voice.
The words were true—he'd been gone awhile and she'd waited with growing concern—but the words weren't hers, and she couldn't stop them.
"Where did you go?"
Of course. That's what the Unity wanted to know. It had overheard him mention a countermove.