Work to do.
Thirty-Nine
By sunset that evening Hess was driving with Merci back out the Ortega, along the swales shadowed by oaks, up the grades of sunlit stone, past the shimmering cottonwood and spring-fed grass. He looked out at the stand of trees where purses and blood belonging to Janet Kane and Lael Jillson had been found. Just darkness now, locked in by the shadows of sycamores and oaks. He thought of how cold that blood had been in the ground out there, already returning into elements by the time they’d found it. He could feel his own blood again now, hot and somehow foreign, apparently borderline anemic, but fortified by rads and noxious chemicals, antacids, antiemetics, painkillers, vitamins and the lingering narcotic of desire. It felt to him like the blood itself was polluted. But he was glad to have it. He noticed his eyes were blurring just a little again now, not so much blurring as failing to focus as well as they could. But that had come and gone, since the chemo.
“Kemp apologized to me this morning. He actually seemed to mean it. More to the point, he said he’d keep his mouth shut and his hands off me.”
“Good. That’s how it should be.”
“It’s not a victory. It’s just basic human respect I’m after.”
“Phil’s a tough one to get that from. You more than earned it.”
“Tomorrow he’s going to make a statement to the press. He’s going to apologize without admitting he did anything wrong. A misunderstanding or some such thing. I talked to Brighton afterward, and just between you and me, Kemp’s headed for an Admin desk.”
“Funny way to get promoted.”
“At least they’ll be able to watch him better. So, I’m thinking about the suit. I can drop it now without feeling like I backed off. That’ll probably get me more publicity than bringing it. Now they’ll say I’m abandoning the other women. But I don’t care. I’ve just got to get onto other things. Case closed, as far as I’m concerned.”
Hess locked over at her but Merci just stared out the window.
The Rose Garden Home sat at the base of the mountains, west of the lake. There was a gate across the driveway entrance, and a gate closer to the house, but both were unlocked. Merci stood in the dust and slid the gates back on steel wheels while Hess watched her in the headlights.
The house was mostly dark — three rooms lit inside, and a porch light throwing a glow above the front door. The grounds were lit well, with halogen patio lights on stands. Hess could see that it was a large wood-sided home that had once been blue. The garage door was up, no cars inside. On the dead brown grass sat a wheeled sign with a big red arrow above a message board. The letters were black against the faded yellow background, and not very straight:
Rose Garden Home
Respect and Care
You Are Welcome
Hess stepped out of the car and into the heat. He wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve. Low nineties, he figured, maybe higher. The house loomed before him. He looked up at the slouching porch, the crooked stairs, the old sofas against the wall, the wrought-iron grates over the windows, the empty bird feeders hung from the awnings, the onyx wind chimes motionless in the heat.
He could hear voices inside the house but they were overlapping and faint and could have been from the TV or a radio.
“This is one fucked-up looking funeral home,” said Merci. “What’s that owner’s name again?”
“William Wayne.”
“Jesus, look at this place.”
“Listen.”
Through the heat came a moan, a long, unhurried and oddly painless moan from the second floor. A moment later Hess heard laughter downstairs — a young woman.
Merci shook her head. “What’s he do, pickle them before they’re dead?”
“Be careful.”
Hess looked at her, reached under his coat and loosened the strap on his shoulder rig. Merci did the same. Hess stumbled on the slanting stairs, recovered across the porch and got himself left of the door. Merci backed up against the wall on the right, her H&K out now and at her side, tucked back behind the leg of her trousers.
Hess reached out with his right hand and knocked. The door was thin and he could hear the report on the other side. The moan started up again but the laughing stopped. He could feel his heart beating too fast in his chest, more rpm than horsepower, an engine with gears that weren’t quite meshing. It wasn’t something he could do much about.
He tried the knob but it was locked. He looked at Merci. She stood relaxed but alert, arms at her sides, boots apart, back to the house. She shrugged and Hess knocked again, harder and longer.
Still nothing. Just the moaning.
“Here goes,” said Hess, holstering his sidearm. He stepped back, lowered his shoulder and charged the door. It took him two tries, but the doorjamb splintered on the second and he stepped aside and let Merci push through.
Hess drew and followed. The anteroom was hot and the smell was strong. There was no mistaking that smell. He noticed the hornets buzzing lazily in the dark heavy air of the stairwell. There were two hallways leading off, one left and one right.
A young man with long blond hair stepped into the dull light of the hallway, looked at them in fear, dropped a tray of something and whipped around the other way.
Hess and Merci yelled at the same time, a chorus of threat that echoed up into the stairwell and bounced off the walls. And the moaning still, plaintive and caged.
Hess pounded down the hall, jamming the gun into his holster. The guy cut left, out of sight. Hess didn’t hesitate. Into a kitchen, bright, a big butcher block and a table with chairs. Three steps and Hess jumped and caught him at a far doorway of the kitchen, bear-hugging the guy’s arms tight to his body, using his weight to crash them to the floor. Hess rolled and forced the face against the linoleum and he could feel Merci behind him, nullifying the strength of one arm, then the other.
“He’s bagged, Hess! Roll off clean, watch the teeth! Watch the teeth! Don’t move, you sonofaBITCH!”
Hess pushed, then rolled away and saw her above him, sidearm aimed down at their prize. He righted himself, held the guy’s neck down with one hand and body-searched him with the other. He got a janitor’s key chain off one belt loop, a pocketknife, some kind of laminated ID card. Then he turned the man over onto his back and stood. He was breathing hard, short little gasps that didn’t seem to get enough air in. It was quiet all of a sudden, no moaning, no cop screams.
“Good,” Hess said. “Work.”
The guy looked early twenties. His hair was long and wavy, he had a thin mustache and dark, frightened eyes. Skinny and pale. He wore a filthy T-shirt, dark jeans, red tennis shoes with no socks. He looked at Hess as if he was about to be devoured. Then at Merci. His chin was quivering and he still hadn’t said a word.
“Name, shithead.”
Eyes on Hess again, then to Merci. Dark and haunted and maybe even remorseful, thought Hess. No struggle at all now, just belly up and lying on his arms, stranded like a tortoise.
“What’s your name, young man?” he asked.
“Billy.”
“Billy what?”
“Billy Wayne.”
Hess looked down at the plastic-covered card. “William J. Wayne,” he said. “Number 113.”
“I didn’t do it. And I want my lawyer.”
“Exactly what didn’t you do?”
“Whatever it is. I live here. I’m the man in charge when we’re alone.”
“In charge of what?”
William J. Wayne looked at each of them again, suspicion, genuine fear. “All of us. When the doctor goes, I’m in charge.”
Hess looked at Merci and Merci looked back. The moaning started up again from above them somewhere.