The Devils Punchbowl

Caitlin’s sitting on my knee at the kitchen table, her bandaged feet resting on a pillow, my arms wrapped around the blanket my father put over her shoulders.

“How did you get away?”

She shakes her head as if there’s too much to explain.

“Do you know where the kennel was? We flew the river for hours looking for you.”

“I don'’t. I walked so far, and everything looked the same. They took my cell phone, and I knew I couldn'’t call you even if I had it, because they might hear. I saw a few cars, but I didn't dare risk flagging anyone down. I kept thinking about that story your father told us, about the girl who got away from the brothel. I was afraid to talk to anyone.”

“How did you find Kim?”

“I finally came to a building in the middle of nowhere. A farm equipment place. I broke in and used their telephone. I figured Kim was my safest bet. But I was afraid to wait there for him. I thought the police might come.”

I lay my cheek against her back and hold her tight. “It’s going to be all right. You’re home now.”

“You don'’t have any idea where Linda’s body might be?” Kelly asks, ever practical.

Caitlin closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I don'’t…the dogs—”

“I'm going to put her in bed,” I say, seeing that she’s about to break down. “Dad, I want you to call every cop you ever treated and put a ring of steel around this house. I'’ll talk to Logan in a few minutes. Kelly—”

“I'm there, bro. Going to the mattresses. About fucking time.”

Dad’s already picking up the phone.

To my surprise, Caitlin allows me to carry her to the ground-floor guest room. When I pull back the covers, she raises her arms for me to remove her sweat-soaked top, then pulls her pants off and climbs under the sheet.

“Did they hurt you?” I ask, surprised by how afraid I am to hear the answer.

She lies on her side, staring blankly toward my hip. “Not really. But the things I saw…what they did to Linda. I wish I’d let Kelly kill them. Quinn…” Caitlin lifts a shaking hand to her eyes, as though to hide them from some awful sight. “He made me watch him rape Linda, and she was

sick.

I don'’t understand it.”

Almost afraid to touch her, I stroke her hair gently. “Beyond a certain point, there isn’t any understanding it. Sometimes the only way to deal with people like that is on their own terms.”

She lets her hand fall and blinks back tears, as though still wit

nessing some immutable horror. “I never really understood that. I'’ll

never

be the person I was before. I'’ll never talk to another victim of a crime the same way again.”

“Don’t think about it now. Just try to rest.”

She closes her eyes, then opens them again.

“What about what Kelly asked?” I say. “You don'’t have any idea where Linda might be?”

“I'm sorry, I don'’t. Kim can probably tell you more than I can.”

“But you’re positive she’s dead?”

Caitlin blinks twice, then her chin begins to quiver, and tears stream down across her nose. “Penn…I had to use her body to get away.”

I don'’t quite understand this statement, but something tells me not to ask for details.

“To distract the dogs,” she whispers. “I don'’t…I don'’t think there’ll be anything left to find.”

I lay my hand on her forehead and say, “Shhh,” just the way I do with Annie.

Caitlin wipes her nose and looks up at me, her eyes pleading for absolution. “I tried to get her to go with me. I tried so hard. But they’d broken her. You understand? She was alive, but there was nothing really left of her.”

“I'm sorry. Whatever you did, I'm sure it was the right thing.”

She squeezes her eyes tight, then nods once. “She couldn'’t have made it. She knew that. She was so brave…. I see now. She gave her life for me.”

“I want you to stop thinking about it, if you can. You’re never going to forget what happened, but right now you need to let it go, just for a while. You’re alive, and you deserve to be. Sometimes survivors don'’t get that. I'm going to go out there and make some decisions. But I want you to call me if you can’t sleep.”

She tries to smile but fails. “I will.”

I stand slowly, shattered by the sight of this woman I know to be so strong reduced to near helplessness.

“Will you do me one favor?” she asks softly.

“Anything.”

“I want Seamus Quinn dead.” Caitlin locks her fingers around my wrist and squeezes until her arm shakes. “Not just dead. I want him to

suffer.

”

I nod but don'’t reply.

“Will you promise?” she asks, her eyes bright in the shadows.

“Let’s see how you feel after some sleep. We can talk about it then.”

Her eyes hold mine for several seconds, then she releases my wrist and turns over. “Nothing’s going to change my mind,” she says quietly.

“I'’ll see you when you wake up.”

“Nothing.”

CHAPTER

63

Burned houses remind me of dead bodies. There’s the same feeling of senseless waste, of life extinguished. Family homes are the worst. Stumbling over a charred doll or a half-burned photo album always brings a sharp pang of sadness, the knowledge that apart from life itself, talismans of the past are our true treasures.

Ben Li’s house is not like that. A modest wood-frame structure on Park Place, near Duncan Park, it burned nearly to the ground before the fire department arrived. According to Chief Logan, the fire chief has no doubt that it was arson. The house must have been filled with accelerants to have gone up so fast.

In the hazy blue light of dawn, smoke still rises from the charred wood beneath the brick piers that once supported the house. It’s 6:15 a.m., but the older people in the neighborhood are already up and moving, getting their papers or walking their dogs. A few have strolled up to the house to stare at the ruin, as people do. One guy even picked through the wreckage as though hunting for souvenirs, until I chased him away.

I'm here because sometime during the night, in that semicomatose state between sleep and wakefulness, the one true epiphany of this case came to me. I don'’t know why I didn't think of it sooner—probably because I was so focused on the stolen USB drive—but perhaps also because the tension generated by Caitlin’s kidnapping

was blocking me. But after her return last night, some tightly wrapped coil of stress must have let go, for a chain of logical thought rose out of my subconscious as effortlessly as a string of bubbles seeking the surface of a lake.

Jonathan Sands hired Ben Li because he was a computer expert. Tim Jessup believed that Li had maintained some sort of “insurance” to protect himself from his employers, probably sensitive data. When I first heard Tim say this—in the voice memo he made before he died—I assumed that Li would have hidden whatever data he had on some remote digital server, accessible only by himself or someone with the password. I also assumed that Li’s instruction to “ask the birds” about this somehow related to such a password, and that if Ben Li kept cockatoos, maybe they could speak the required phrase or numbers. Sands and Quinn almost certainly made the same assumption. But if the birds could speak the password, they did not do so for Sands. If they had, he would not have felt the need to burn down Ben Li’s house.

More to the point, last night, during Caitlin’s periods of fitful sleep, she told me something of her captivity with Linda Church. Through the rapes and abuse Linda suffered, Quinn had kept after her about one subject: Ben Li’s birds. While torturing Li in the interrogation room in the bowels of the