"Drink the rest," the Iceman said, his voice rising. The gun waggled a foot from Bergen's head.
He drank the rest, the alcohol exploding in his stomach.
"Close your eyes," the Iceman said.
"What?"
"Close your eyes. You heard me. And keep them tight."
Bergen could feel the alcohol clawing its way into him, already spreading through his stomach into his lungs. So good, so good… But he didn't need it. He really didn't. He closed his eyes, clenched them. If he could get through this…
The Iceman picked up the bottle, poured another glass of bourbon, stepped back.
"Open your eyes. Pick up the glass."
"It'll kill me," Bergen protested feebly. He picked up the glass, looked at it.
"You don't have to drink this straight down. Just sip it. But I want it gone," he said. The gun barrel was three feet from Bergen's eyes, and unwavering. "Now-when was the last time you saw the LaCourts?"
"It was the night of the murder," Bergen said. "I was there, all right…" As he launched into the story he'd told the sheriff, the fear was still with him, but now it was joined by the certainty brought by alcohol. He was right, he was innocent, and he could convince this man. The intruder had kept his mask on: no point in doing that if he really planned to kill. So he didn't plan to kill. Bergen, pleased with himself for figuring it out, took another large swallow of bourbon when the Iceman prompted him, and another, and was surprised when the glass was suddenly empty.
"You're still sober enough to lie."
The glass was full again, and the man's voice seemed to be drifting away. Bergen sputtered, "Listen… you," and his head dropped on his shoulder and he nearly giggled. The impulse was smothered by what seemed to be a dark stain. The stain was spreading through his body, through his brain…
Took a drink, choking this time, dropped the glass, vaguely aware of the bourbon on him…
And now aware of something wrong. He'd never drunk this much alcohol this fast, but he'd come close a few times. It had never gotten on him like this; he'd never had this dark spreading stain in his mind.
Nothing was right; he could barely see; he looked up at the gunman, but his head wouldn't work right, couldn't turn. Tried to stand…
Couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, felt the coldness at his lips, sputtered, alcohol running into him, a hand on his forehead… he swallowed, swallowed, swallowed. And at the last instant understood the Iceman: who he was, what he was doing. He tried, but he couldn't move… couldn't move.
The Iceman pressed the priest's head back into the couch, emptied most of the rest of the bottle into him. When he was finished, he stepped back, looked down at his handiwork. The priest was almost gone. The Iceman took the priest's hand, wrapped it around the bottle, smeared it a bit, wrapped the other hand around it. The priest had sputtered alcohol all over himself, and that was fine.
The Iceman, moving quickly, put two prescription pill bottles on the table, the labels torn off. A single pill remained in one of the bottles to help the cops with identification. The priest, still sitting upright on the couch, his head back, mumbled something, then made a sound like a snore or a gargle. The Iceman had never been in the rectory before, but the office was just off the living room and he found it immediately. A yellow pad sat next to an IBM electric. He turned the typewriter on, inserted a sheet of paper with his gloved hand, pulled off his glove and typed the suicide note.
That done, he rolled the paper out without touching it, got the copy of the Sunday Bulletin from his pocket. Bergen signed all the bulletins.
When he got back to the living room, the priest was in deep sleep, his breathing shallow, long. He'd taken a combination of Seconal and alcohol, enough to kill a horse, along with Dramamine to keep him from vomiting it out.
The Iceman went to the window and peeked out. The kid who'd been shoveling snow had gone inside. He looked back at the priest. Bergen was slumped on the couch, his head rolled down on his chest. Still breathing. Barely.
Time to go.
CHAPTER 18
Lucas woke suddenly, knew it was too early, but couldn't get back to sleep. He looked at the clock: 6:15. He slipped out of bed, walked slowly across the room to his right, hands out in front of him, and found the bathroom door. He shut the door, turned on the light, got a drink, and stared at himself in the mirror.
Why Weather?
If she was right about being chased on the night of the LaCourt murders, then the attacks had nothing at all to do with him.
He splashed water in his face, dried it, opened the door. The light from the bathroom fell across Weather and she rolled away from it, still asleep. Her arm was showing the bruises. She slept with it crooked under her chin, almost as though she were resting her head on her fists instead of the pillow. Lucas pulled the bathroom door most of the way shut, leaving just enough light to navigate. He tiptoed across the room and out into the hall, then went through the kitchen, turning on the lights, and, naked and cold, down into her basement. He got his clothing out of the dryer and carried it back up to the other bathroom to clean up and dress. When he went back to the bedroom for socks, she said, "Mmmm?"
"Are you awake?" he whispered.
"Mmm-hmm."
"I'm calling in. I'll get somebody down here until you're ready to leave."
As he said it, the phone rang, and she rolled and looked up at him, her voice morning-rough. "Every morning it rings and somebody's dead."
Lucas said "Just a moment" and padded into the kitchen. Carr was on the phone, ragged, nearly incoherent: "Phil's dead."
"What?"
"He killed himself. He left a note. He did it. He killed the LaCourts."
For a moment Lucas couldn't track it. "Where are you, Shelly?" Lucas asked. He could hear voices behind Carr.
"At the rectory. He's here."
"How many people are with you?" Lucas asked.
"Half-dozen."
"Get everybody the fuck out of there and seal the place off. Get the guys from Madison in there."
"They're on the way," Carr said. He sounded unsure of himself, his voice faltering.
"Get everybody out," Lucas said urgently. "Maybe Bergen killed himself, but I don't think he killed the LaCourts. If the note says he did, then he might have been murdered."
"But he did it with pills and booze-and the note's signed," Carr said. His voice was shrilclass="underline" not a whine, but something nearer hysteria.
"Don't touch the note. We need to get it processed."
"It's already been picked up."
"For God's sake put it down!" Lucas said. "Don't pass it around."
Weather stepped into the hallway with the comforter wrapped around her, a question on her face. Lucas held up a just-a-moment finger. "How'd he do it? Exactly."
"Drank a fifth of whiskey with a couple bottles of sleeping pills."
"Yeah, that'd do it," Lucas said. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Look, it may be a suicide, but treat it like a homicide. Somebody almost got away with killing the Harper kid, making it look like an accident. He might be fucking with us again. Hold on for a minute."
Lucas took the phone down. "Do you know who Bergen's doctor is? GP?"
"Lou Davies had him, I think."
To Carr, Lucas said, "Bergen's doctor might have been a guy named Lou Davies. Call him, find out if Bergen had those prescriptions. And have somebody check the drugstore. Maybe all the drugstores around here."
"Phil Bergen's dead?" Weather asked when Lucas hung up the phone.
"Yeah. Might be suicide-there's a note. And he confesses to killing the LaCourts."
"Oh, no." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Lucas… I'm getting scared now. Really scared."
He put an arm around her shoulder. "I keep telling you…"
"But I'm not getting out," she said.
"You could go down to my place in the Cities."
"I'm staying. But this guy…" She shook her head. Then she frowned. "That means… I don't see how…"
"What?"
"He would have been the guy who tried to shoot me last night. And the guy who was chasing me the first night."