“Nobody,” Jessup agreed. He was a wiry, curly-haired man with eyes the color of tea. “We would've seen them.”
“The door's right there.” MacHeath observed.
“And we were here all night.”
“You know us, Sheriff,” MacHeath said.
“You know we aren't slackers,” Jessup said.
“When we're supposed to be on duty—”
“—we are on duty,” Jessup finished.
“Damn it” Bryce said, “Wargle's body is gone. It didn't just climb off that table and walk through a wall!”
“It didn't just climb off that table and walk through that door, either,” MacHeath insisted.
“Sir", Jessup said, “Wargle was dead. I didn't see the body myself, but from what I bear, he was very dead. Dead men stay where you put them.”
“Not necessarily,” Bryce said, “Not in this town. Not tonight.”
In the utility room with Tal, Bryce said, “There's just not another way out of here but the door.”
They walked slowly around the room, studying it.
The leaky faucet drooled out a drop of water that struck the pan of the metal sink with a soft ping.
“The heating vent,” Tal said, pointing to a grille in one wall, directly under the ceiling. “What about that?”
“Are you serious?”
“Better have a look.”
“It's not big enough for a man to pass through.”
“Remember the burglary at Krybinsky's Jewelry Store?”
“How could I forget? It's still unsolved, as Alex Krybinsky so pointedly reminds me every time we meet.”
“That guy entered Krybinsky's basement through an unlocked window almost as small as that grille.”
Bryce knew, as did any cop who handled burglaries, that a man of ordinary build required a surprisingly small opening to gain entrance to a building. Any hole large enough to accept a man's head was also large enough to provide an entrance for his entire body. The shoulders were wider than the head, of course, but they could be collapsed forward or otherwise contorted enough to be squeezed through; likewise, the breadth of the hips was nearly always sufficiently alterable to follow where the shoulders had gone. But Stu Wargle hadn't been a man of ordinary build.
“Stu's belly would've stuck in there like a cork in a bottle,” Bryce said.
Nevertheless, he pulled up a stepstool that had been standing in one corner, climbed onto it, and took a closer look at the vent.
“The grille's not held in place by screws,” he told Tal, “It's a spring-clip model, so it could conceivably have been snapped into place from inside the duct, once Wargle went through, so long as he wriggled in feet-first.”
He pulled the grille off the wall.
Tal handed him a flashlight.
Bryce directed the hewn into the dark heating duct and frowned. The narrow, metal passageway ran only a short distance before taking a ninety-degree upward turn.
Switching off the flashlight and passing it down to Tal Bryce said, “Impossible. To get through there, Wargle would have to've been no bigger than Sammy Davis, Jr., and as flexible as the rubber man in a carnival sideshow.”
Frank Autry approached Bryce Hammond at the operations desk in the middle of the lobby, where the sheriff was seated, reading over the messages that had come in during the night.
“Sir, there's something you ought to know about Wargle.”
Bryce looked up. “What's that?”
“Well… I don't like to have to speak ill of the dead.”
“None of us cared much for him,” Bryce said flatly, “Any attempt to honor his memory would be hypocritical. So if you know something that'll help me, spill it, Frank.”
Frank smiled. “You'd have done real well for yourself in the army.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “Last night, when Wargle and I were dismantling the radio over at the substation, he made several disgusting remarks about Dr. Paige and Lisa.”
“Sex stuff?”
“Yeah.”
Frank recounted the conversation that he'd had with Wargle.
“Christ,” Bryce said, shaking his head.
Frank said, “The thing about the girl was what bothered me most. Wargle was half serious when he talked about maybe making a move on her if the opportunity arose. I don't think he'd have gone as far as rape, but he was capable of making a very heavy pass and using his authority, his badge, to coerce her. I don't think that kid could be coerced; she's too spunky. But I think Wargle might've tried it.”
The sheriff tapped a pencil on the desk, staring thoughtfully into the air.
“But Lisa couldn't have known,” Frank said.
“She couldn't have overheard any of your conversation?”
“Not a word.”
“She might have suspected what kind of man Wargle was from the way he looked at her.”
“But she couldn't have known,” Frank said, “Do you see what I'm driving at?”
“Yes.”
“Most kids,” Frank said, “if they were going to make up a tall tale, they would be satisfied just to say they'd been chased by a dead man. They wouldn't ordinarily embellish it by saying the dead man wanted to molest them.”
Bryce tended to agree. “Kids' minds aren't that baroque. Their lies are usually simple, not elaborate.”
“Exactly,” Frank said, “The fact that she said Wargle was naked and wanted to molest her… well… to me, that seems to add credibility to her story. Now, we'd all like to believe that someone sneaked into the utility room and stole Wargle's body. And we'd like to believe they put the body in the ladies' room, that Lisa saw it, that she panicked, and that she imagined all the rest. And we'd like to believe that after she fainted, someone got the corpse out of there by some incredibly clever means. But that explanation is full of holes. What happened was a lot stranger than that.”
Bryce dropped his pencil and leaned back in his chair. “Shit. You believe in ghosts, Frank? The living dead?”
“No. There's a real explanation for this,” Frank said, “Not a bunch of superstitious mumbo-jumbo. A real explanation.”
“I agree,” Bryce said, “But Wargle's face was…”
“I know. I saw it.”
“How could his face have been put back together?”
“I don't know.”
“And Lisa said his eyes.”
“Yeah. I heard what she said.”
Bryce sighed. “You ever worked Rubik's Cube?”
Frank blinked. “No. I never did.”
“Well, I did,” the sheriff said, “The damned thing almost drove me crazy, but I stuck with it, and eventually I solved it. Everybody thinks that's a hard puzzle, but compared to this case, Rubik's Cube is a kindergarten game.”
“There's another difference,” Frank said.
“What's that?”
“If you fail to solve Rubik's Cube, the punishment isn't death.”
In Santa Mira, in his cell in the county jail, Fletcher Kale, slayer of wife and son, woke before dawn. He lay motionless on the thin foam mattress and stared at the window, which presented a rectangular slab of the predawn sky for his inspection.
He would not spend his life in prison. Would not.
He had a magnificent destiny. That was the thing no one understood. They saw the Fletcher Kale who existed now, without being able to see what he would become. He was destined to have it alclass="underline" money beyond counting, power beyond imagining, fame, respect.
Kale knew he was different from the rest of mankind, and it was this knowledge that kept him going in the face of all adversity. The seeds of greatness within him were already sprouting. In time, he would make them all see how wrong they had been about him.