"I think--"
"It made you relaxed, peaceful, happy? Brought out your good side? That's the way it is now." Matthews leaned back. "I'm proud of myself."
"To you." The cop swallowed and tipped his milk against the beer glass. His eyes slid over the golden surface of the brew.
Oh, you poor fool, thought Aaron Matthews. You don't have a soul in the world to talk to, do you? "Sometimes," he continued pensively, "when I have a real problem, something eating at me, something making me feel so guilty it's like a fire inside . . . Well, I'll have a shot. That numbs it. It helps me get through."
"No foolin'." The fork probed the diminished pile of potatoes.
Let's go deep.
Touch the most painful part . . .
"If I found myself in a situation where there was somebody I loved and she was drifting away because of the way I'd become--well, I'd want to be able to face whatever had driven her away. I could show her I was in control again and--who knows?--maybe I could just get her back."
The cop's face was flushed and it seemed that his throat had swollen closed.
Matthews sipped more beer, looked out the window, at the dusk sky. "Yes sir, I hated living alone. Waking up on those Sunday mornings. Those March Sunday mornings, the sky all gray . . . The holidays by myself . . . God, I hated that. My wife gone . . . The one person in the world I needed. The one person I was willing to do anything for . . ."
The detective was paralyzed.
Now, Matthews thought. Now!
"Let me show you something." Matthews leaned forward, winking. "Watch this." He waved to the waitress. "Shot of Dewar's."
"One?" she called.
"Just one, yeah."
Numb, the cop watched the glass arrive.
Matthews made a show of reaching down and picking up the brimming glass. He leaned forward, smelled the glass, then took the tiniest sip. He set the glass down on the table and lifted his hands, palms up.
"That's it. The only hard liquor I'll have for two, three weeks."
"You can do that?" The cop was dumbfounded.
"Easiest thing in the world. Without a single problem." He returned to his beer and called the waitress over. "I'm sorry, honey. I'll pay you for it but I changed my mind. I think I better keep a clear head tonight. You can take it."
"Sure thing, sir."
The cop's hand made it to the glass before hers. She blinked in surprise at the vehemence of the big man's gesture.
"Oh, you want me to leave that after all?"
The cop looked at Matthews but then turned his dog eyes to the waitress. "Yeah. And bring my friend here another beer."
A fraction of a pause. Their eyes met. Matthews said, "Make it two."
"Sure thing, gentlemen. Put it on your tab?"
"Oh, no," Matthews insisted. "This's on me."
*
Matthews, wearing his surgical gloves, drove Konnie's car out of the parking lot of the strip mall and toward the interstate. The cop was in the passenger seat, clutching a bottle of scotch between his legs like it was the joystick in a biplane. His head rocked against the Taurus's window. Spit and liquor ran down his chin.
Matthews parked on a side road, not far from Ernie's, lifted the bottle away from Konnie and splashed some on the dashboard and seat of the car, handed it back. Konnie didn't notice. "How you doing?" Matthews asked him.
The big man gazed morosely at the open mouth of the bottle and said nothing.
At the strip mall where they'd bought the scotch Matthews had pitched out a trash bag containing the tire receipts and all the rest of the notes on the Megan McCall investigation. The doctor now climbed out of the car, pulled Konnie into the driver's seat.
Konnie gulped down two large slugs of liquor. He wiped his sweating, pasty face. "Where'm I going?"
"You're going home, Konnie."
"Okay."
"You go on home now."
"Okay. I'm going home. Is Carol there?"
"Your wife? Yeah, she's there, Konnie. She's waiting for you to come home. You better hurry."
"I really miss her."
"You know where to go, don't you?" Matthews asked.
"I think . . ." His bleary eyes looked around. "I don't know."
"That road right there. See it?"
"Sure. There?"
"Right there," Matthews said. "Just drive down there. That'll get you home. That'll get you home to Carol."
"Okay."
"Good-bye, Konnie."
"Good-bye. That road there?"
"That's right. Hey, Konnie?"
Matthews looked at the rheumy eyes, wet lips.
"You say hi to Carol for me, won't you?"
The cop nodded.
Matthews flicked the gearshift into drive and stepped back as Konnie accelerated. He was driving more or less down the middle of the road.
Matthews was walking back to Ernie's to pick up the Mercedes when he heard the sudden squealing of brakes and the blares of a dozen horns, signaling to Konnie that he'd turned his dark blue Taurus onto the exit, not entrance, ramp of I-66 and was driving the wrong way down the interstate. It was no more than thirty seconds later that he heard the pounding crash of what was probably a head-on collision and--though perhaps only in his imagination--a faint scream.
Chapter Twenty-three
Night now.
The corridors of the asylum were murky, illuminated only by the light from two outdoor security lamps bleeding in through the greasy windows.
Megan McCall, gripping her glass sword, moved silently through the main wing. She couldn't get the comic books out of her mind, the tentacles gripping screaming women, the monsters raping them.
Moving toward the boy's room. Closer, closer.
She stepped into the large lobby. In the dim light, shadows filled the space. She believed he was back in his room but he could have been anywhere.
Megan felt a breath on her neck and spun around, practically feeling the metal rod he carried swinging toward her head. Gasping.
Nothing but a faint breeze.
Was he asleep in there? Reading? Jerking off?
Fantasizing about her?
About what he was going to do to her?
The hospital corridors were like a maze. She lost her way and was no longer sure where his rooms were. Made several false turns and found herself back where she'd started. Feeling desperate now. Megan was afraid that he'd find the trap--her only advantage against the boy. She walked more quickly, listening carefully. But she heard no obscene breathing, no lewd whispering of her name. In a way the silence was more frightening than his mutterings, not having the least indication where he was.
Then she turned a corner and found his room. She saw light spilling into the corridor from the open door. It flickered and darkened for a moment.
He was inside.
Megan, sweating. Megan, scared.
Scared of dying, scared of the monster who lives up the hall, scared of the whispering bears.
Well, you wanted him, Crazy Megan whispers. What're you waiting for? Go get him.
Megan started to tell C.M. to be quiet. But suddenly she stopped--because a thought hit her with the strength of the cinder blocks piled up in her trap. It was this: that Crazy Megan not only isn't crazy, she's completely sane. And more than that: C.M. is the only one of them who's real.
Crazy Megan is the genuine Megan--the Megan who danced on the scaffolding of the water tower on a dare, just to get Bett or Tate or somebody to notice her. The Megan who secretly dreamed of going to San Francisco for a year after high school and then to college in Paris. The Megan who made fierce love with a sexy black boyfriend who--fuck you, Dr. Hanson--I do love after all! The Megan who wanted to poke her finger into her father's face and scream at him, "The inconvenient child's back and you've got her whether you like it or not!"
Oh, yeah, Crazy Megan's the sane one. And the other one's just a loser.
"Okay," she said out loud. "Okay, prick, come and get me." The shadow of
Peter Matthews froze on the wall.
The light clicked out and the corridor filled with darkness.
"Come on, you fucker!" she shouted.
There was a ring of metal--he must have picked up the rod.
She couldn't see clearly but she could just make out his form lumbering slowly from the doorway. He looked up and down the hall and then turned toward her. "Megan . . ."
God, he's big.
"Megan!" he rasped.
He started toward her. Moving much faster than she'd expected from the shuffling lope she'd heard earlier.
Her courage dissolved. What a fucking stupid idea this is! Hell, it's not going to work. Of course it isn't. He'll get her.
"No!" she screamed in panic.
Get going! Crazy Megan shouts. Run.
She backed up fast, knowing that she should be watching where she was going but afraid to take her eyes off him for an instant.
Feeling the wall behind her. Nearly tripped on a table. She spun around, pushed it aside.
And when she looked back he was gone.
We're fucked, Crazy Megan whispers hopelessly.
He could be anywhere now! Coming up around her from the left or the right.
And, of course, she remembered, he'd have keys to the place; he could hide in one of the locked rooms and wait for her to pass by. And then . . . move from room to room and come up behind her.
There was nothing she could do now except return to the dead end corridor where she'd set up the trap. Get there as fast as she could and wait.
But in her panic she was turned around. Was it back that way? Or down this corridor? She gazed down two hallways. Which? He could be down either of them. She could hardly see a thing in the darkness.
There, she thought. It's got to be that one. I'm sure.
Almost sure.
She sprinted. She slammed into a fiberglass chair, sending it flying. She stayed upright but the noise of the furniture hitting the wall was very loud.
Megan froze. Had he heard? Had--
Suddenly a huge form stepped from the corridor about two feet away, lunging toward her. "Megan . . ."
Megan screamed, couldn't get the knife up in time. She closed her eyes, swinging her left fist toward where his face was. She connected hard and must have broken his nose because he wailed in pain and dropped back, around the corner.
She ran.
Turned one corner and paused at the entrance to the hallway that led to the trap.
He followed, moving toward her.
She made sure he got a good look at her, to see which way she was going, then started toward the trap.
But she stopped. Wait! Was it this corridor? No, the next. Wait. Was it? She glanced into the murky shadows and couldn't see.
Peter was getting closer. Which fucking corridor? Crazy Megan shouts.
I don't know, I don't know, they all look alike . . .
He was twenty feet away.
Come on, snaps C.M. Get it together.
No choice. It better be this one.
Megan ran to the end of the corridor.
Yes! She'd been right. There was the trap. She crouched down and picked up the end of the rope. At the far end of the corridor Peter paused and glanced toward her.
More muttering. Like an animal. She remembered the newspaper picture: his odd mouth, probing tongue, the crazy eyes. The grin at his mother's funeral.
I'm so fucking scared . . .
You're gonna nail him, Crazy Megan says.
In the darkness he didn't even seem to be walking. He just floated closer to her, growing larger and larger, filling the corridor. He stopped right before the trap. She couldn't see his eyes or face in the shadow but she knew he was leering at her.
More muttering.
He stepped closer.
Now!
She pulled the rope.
The denim snapped neatly in half. The cinder blocks shifted slightly but stayed where they were.
Oh, no. Oh, Christ, no! That's it, Crazy Megan cries. It's over with.
He moved forward another two steps.
She swept the knife from her pocket, looked at his shadowy form.
I'm going to die. This is it. I'm dead. He'll break my arm, take the knife away from me and fuck me till I die . . . Megan's by herself now--Crazy Megan has gone away, Crazy Megan is dead already.
He stepped forward one more foot. The dim light from outside fell on his face.
No . . .
She was hallucinating.
Megan gasped. "Josh!"
"Megan," he mumbled again. Joshua LeFevre's face and neck were bloody messes, his hands, arms and legs too. Large patches of skin were missing from his arms and legs. He dropped to his knees.
Just as the cinder blocks started to tumble toward him. He glanced hopelessly at the hundreds of pounds of concrete and didn't even try to get out of the way.
"No!" Megan cried.
She leapt forward and pushed him aside. The blocks just missed them both and crashed into the floor, firing splinters of stone through the air.
"Megan," he said, the name stuttering out from his torn throat. Blood sprayed her face as he spoke. Then he passed out.
*
Tate Collier's Lexus skidded up to the pay phone on Route 29.
He leapt out, looking around desperately.
He saw no one.
"Hello?" he called in a harsh whisper. "Hello!"
He glanced at the old diner--or what was left of it after an arson fire some years ago--and piles of trash. Deserted.
Then he heard a moan, followed by some violent retching.
Tate ran into the bushes. There Konnie sat, bloody and drenched in sweat, vomit on his chin, eyes unfocused. He'd been crying.
"Jesus. What happened?" Tate bent down, put his arm around the man. When Konnie'd called him twenty minutes ago he'd said only to meet him here as soon as possible. Tate knew he was drunk, only half conscious, but had no other clue as to what was going on.
"I'm going down, Tate. I fucked up bad. Oh, Christ . . ."
Bett . . . now Konnie . . . What a day, Tate thought. What a day.
"You're hurt."
"I'm okay. But I may've killed people, Tate. There was an accident. I left the scene." He gasped and retched for a minute. "They're looking for me, my own people're looking for me." He coughed violently.
"I'll call an ambulance."
"No, I'm turning myself in. But--"
He rolled over on his side and retched for a few minutes. Then caught his breath and sat up.
A squad car with flashing lights cruised past slowly. The searchlight came on but it missed the bushes where Tate crouched beside the detective.
"Listen to me," Konnie said. "You have to get to the office. You need to look at the receipts."
"Receipts."
"For the tires. Go to the office, Tate. Genie should've made a copy of them. I'm praying she did. Ask her for them. But move fast 'cause they're going to impound my desk."
"Genie? That's your assistant?"
"You remember her. The list of receipts, okay?"
"All right."
"Then look for whoever paid cash for the tires."
"Cash for the tires. All right."
"She ran warrants but that's not . . . that's not what I shoulda been looking for. Tate, you listening?"
"I'm listening."
"Good. Look for the receipts where the customers paid cash. Then run the tag numbers of their cars. If the registered owner doesn't match the name on the receipt that's our boy. The one took your daughter. I got a look at . . ." He caught his breath. "I got a look at him."
"You saw him?"
"Oh, yeah. The prick suckered me good. He's white, forties, dark hair. Six feet. About one seventy. Said he . . . Claimed he was Bureau. He suckered me just like my daddy suckered people. Shit. God, I'm sick."
"Okay, Konnie. I'll do it. But now I'm getting you to the hospital."
"No, you're not. You're not wasting another
fucking minute. You're going do what the hell I told you. And be there for my arraignment. I can't believe what I did. I can't believe it." His voice disappeared in a cascade of retching.
*
Tate found his old commonwealth's attorney ID badge at home and ran back to his car, hanging the beaded chain around his neck.
The date was four years old but was in small type; he doubted anyone would notice.
In twenty minutes he was walking into the police station. No one paid him any attention. He signed the log-in book and walked into Konnie's office.
A heavyset woman, red eyed and crying, looked up.
"Oh, Mr. Collier. Did you hear?"
"He's going to be all right, Genie."
"This's so terrible," she said, wiping her face. "So terrible. I can't imagine he'd take to drinking again. I don't know why. I don't know what's going on."
"I'm going to help him. But I've got to do something first. It's very important."
"He said I should help you when he called. Oh, he sounded so drunk on the phone. I remember he used to call me up and say he wouldn't be coming in today because he had the flu. But it wasn't the flu. He sounded the way he was tonight. Just plain drunk."
Tate rested his hand on the woman's broad shoulder. "He's going to be all right. We'll all help him. Did you make a copy of the receipts?"
"I did, yes. He always tells me, 'Make a copy of everything I give you. Always, always, always make a copy.' "
"That's Konnie."
"Here they are."
He took the stack of receipts, owners of Mercedeses who'd bought new Michelins. On four receipts the cash/check box was marked. He didn't recognize any of the names.
"Could you run these tag numbers through DMV and get me the names and addresses of the registered owners?"
"Sure." She sniffed and waddled to her chair, sat heavily. Then she typed furiously.
A moment later she motioned him over.
The first three names matched those on the receipts.
The fourth didn't.
"Oh my God," Tate muttered.
"What is it, Mr. Collier?"
He didn't answer. He stood, numb, staring at the name Aaron Matthews, Sully Fields Drive, Manassas, the letters glowing in jaundice yellow type on the black screen.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Court: The prosecution may now present its summation. Mr. Collier?
Mr. Collier: My friends . . . The task of the jury is a difficult and thankless one. You're called on to sift through a haystack of evidence, looking for that single needle of truth. In many cases, that needle is elusive. Practically impossible to find. But in the case before you, the Commonwealth versus Peter Matthews, the needle is lying out in the open, evident for everyone to see.