Surrender, New York

  “Obvious enough even for Frank Mangold,” I said, still more apprehensively.

  “Exactly. So, Frank and a couple of his BCI boys revisited the Kozersky farm just a few days ago—and sure enough, they got the parents to admit that Kelsey hadn’t actually run away at all. They’d thrown her out, when her behavior got out of hand.”

  “But—she was only fifteen,” Mike murmured. “They could be prosecuted for that.”

  “Yes,” I almost whispered, my sense of uneasiness now turning to outright dread. “But more importantly, it also placed her within the official ranks of throwaway children…”

  “Correct.” Gracie sat back, pleased by the exchange of ideas that was taking place, and by her own ability to stoke it with new information as an equal. “You guys are up on the whole subject, I see—which, I have to tell you, is fairly impressive. Most people don’t know or care about the subject of throwaways, much less who fits the criteria—”

  But I interrupted her rather abruptly, unable to contain my anxiety and standing suddenly. “You’re right, Gracie,” I said grimly. “But what, then, returning to the matter at hand, is your theory of the case?”

  Gracie was a little mystified by my behavior; but Mike tried to cover it up, flirtatiously making spooky hand motions and mouthing The Sorcerer. “Well,” Gracie began, smiling and a bit reassured, “I don’t really have a theory. And I thought that you, using your method, might.”

  “Did you?” I began working my cane as fast as I could, making my way to the corner of the open hangar closest to Death’s Head Hollow, which offered the best view of those parts of the road, as well as the pastures and trees around it, that could be seen from our vantage point—and from which, just as importantly, we could be seen.

  “Well, I thought so,” Gracie said. “Though your confusion makes me wonder, I’ll admit. I expected the easy answer from the others, but I assumed that you guys…”

  “Sorry, Gracie—the ‘easy answer’?” Mike asked, now a little perturbed, himself, by my behavior.

  “Well, yeah,” Gracie stated simply. “That we have a serial killer on our hands.”

  Mike’s hand involuntarily shot to his forehead; but greater cause for concern came when I heard a sudden thumping sound resonate from inside the JU-52, which I assumed was Lucas falling from whatever hiding spot he’d chosen and hitting the floor in excitement at the sound of the words serial killer. To cover his reaction, and since I hadn’t yet seen any of the signs of trouble on the hollow that Gracie’s presence and thoughts had led me to believe might be coming, I turned and took several steps back toward the table. “Why do you dismiss the idea so readily, Gracie?”

  “It’s too convenient!” she declared simply, still surprised. “And too useful, politically, to everybody involved. I mean, in most situations, you’d want to avoid creating the impression that a serial killer was at work—but here, as we’ve just discussed, we’ve got a bigger scandal going on, one that worries officials at every level even more.”

  “The throwaways,” I said, nodding and returning to the corner of the hangar door to study the hollow once again.

  “Right,” Gracie answered. “In comparison to that, everybody from the Burgoyne DA’s office all the way up to—well…” Gracie held back for the first time, perhaps uncertain as to whether or not she was revealing too much. “Well, all the way up. They’d all take a serial killer case over any revelations about the throwaways.”

  “Okay, I’m lost,” Mike said, eyeing my nervous movements with ever more confusion. “Why would anyone be willing to take a serial killer case before they have to?”

  “Use your imagination, Michael,” I answered from my lookout spot. “The throwaways are a huge political embarrassment with no apparent solution. A serial killer case, on the other hand, is sexy. It could get them all sorts of publicity, some good, because the public is so fascinated by them—especially serials who hunt kids—and some maybe bad, if they don’t handle it smoothly. But even if it’s bad, it’s better than the throwaway scandal. Nobody wants to be the first state in the Union to acknowledge a terrible problem that they’re not addressing.”

  “Exactly,” Gracie said, throwing her hands in the air. “And everybody official is toeing just that line—so I figured that if I was going to try to talk alternate theories, I had to come to you guys. I was genuinely sincere the other night when I said I’d love to know how you’re applying your method to the case. I didn’t get much chance to observe or study it in New York, but I can tell you, it gained you quite a reputation in the community.”

  “Did it?” I murmured, growing very apprehensive once more and searching those areas around the hollow road that I could see. “Good to know…”

  “Trajan, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Mike finally demanded.

  “Nothing that wouldn’t be wrong with you,” I said. “If you’d think about everything that Gracie’s just told us.”

  “But I haven’t really told you much of anything,” Gracie protested, utterly flummoxed by what was taking place.

  “Oh, you’ve told us plenty,” I answered, already working out the details of how the hell we were going to handle the very delicate and perhaps dangerous situation into which her visit had thrown us. “Think about it: you’ve said that a few days ago, Frank Mangold and some of his BCI boys went to the Kozersky farm, where, I’m sure, Frank and Mr. Kozersky had a nice private ‘talk,’ during which the old man revealed the truth about kicking his daughter out.”

  “So what?” Mike said. “You think Mangold’s all of a sudden worried that we’re going to discover he uses abusive methods? Jesus, Trajan, every law enforcement officer in the state knows—ow, damn it, fuck you!”

  As Mike had been chattering away, I’d walked over and, with an open hand, whacked the back of his head; then I demanded, “What the hell is wrong with you, Mike?”

  “Um—Doctors?” Gracie said, concern in her voice; for she had certainly never seen this side of our method. “What, ah—what’s going on here?”

  “I’m sorry, Gracie,” I said. “But despite my partner’s temporary idiocy, there is every chance that you were followed by the BCI to Shiloh. Not that they’ll show themselves, but—” I went to the corner of the hangar again. “That doesn’t mean the fuckers aren’t out there…”

  “Oh, come on, Dr. Jones,” Gracie chuckled amiably. “Don’t you think you might be having an extreme reaction to recent events—understandable, but extreme.”

  “A fucking paranoid reaction, you crazy son of a bitch,” Mike threw in, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Oh, really?” I replied, returning to them. “Okay, let me run it down for you all the way, this time: a few days ago Mangold gets Papa Kozersky to admit that he kicked his underage daughter out of her home. So she’s officially a throwaway, just like the rest of these dead kids.”

  “Wait,” Gracie said, holding up one delicately manicured finger. “We don’t know about the boy who overdosed in North Fraser yet.”

  “Well, see, Gracie, that’s the cause of my impatience with my partner.” I faced our guest, trying to remain calm. “Because we do know about him. His name was Donnie, by the way. And if you check the records and get his last name, I think you’ll also be able to confirm that he was abandoned by his parents. The other boy, Latrell, the one that Mangold ensured never made it out of that building alive, knew such to be true, and told me. Certainly, the BCI has found out as much, by this point. So you’ve got a straight run, now, four-for-four, all throwaway children. Which means that everybody involved in this thing is losing their shit more than ever, trying to figure out how to keep a lid on it, and prevent the media or anyone else from drawing the connection. But you, Gracie—you’ve been having steadily more profound doubts about how the case is being conducted. You may not have openly doubted their serial killer preference, but trust me when I say that Mangold is watching everybody involved in the investigation and waiting, because he figures that at least one person on t
he inside is going to get tired of the political handling of the case. And that person, he knows, will eventually act on their discontent—although just what outside source they’ll go to when they decide to break ranks he doesn’t know. What he does know, and I mean no offense when I say this, Gracie, is that you’re the most likely to do it. You already voiced open disagreement with a crisis decision on Friday night, and you’ve never been very good at hiding your doubts. So I’m betting he’s watching you twice as closely as anybody else, and reading your reaction to events perfectly.”

  “Ahhh, shit,” Mike said suddenly, getting to his feet. “I really, really hate to say this, Gracie, but—I think my demented friend may just be right.”

  I glanced at my partner. “Took the local getting there, didn’t you?”

  “So…” Gracie said. “You’re honestly suggesting that Mangold’s had me followed?”

  “He’s acting to steer this thing in one direction,” I answered. “And to cover the politically costly dimension. With orders from somewhere higher up, as you’ve already intimated. And so are you honestly suggesting, Gracie, knowing him as you do, and considering how alarmed you’ve made them all, that he’d do anything less than have you followed? But let’s not leave it to supposition—” I looked up at the JU-52 and called out: “Lucas!”

  The boy’s head soon popped out of the plane’s hatchway. “Yeah, boss?” he said.

  “Who’s that?” Gracie asked, shocked by the presence of the kid.

  “Our expert advisor,” I said, in all seriousness; then, to Lucas, I continued, “In the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk you’ll find a pair of old binoculars—bring them down, along with you-know-which items belonging to Mike and me. We need to talk about a couple of things!”

  “You got it!” Lucas answered, disappearing again.

  As the sounds of his rummaging around above reached us, Gracie turned from me to Mike, searching for signs of sanity. “ ‘Expert advisor’?” she said. “He’s just a kid, guys…”

  “Yeah, he’s a kid,” Mike answered, as I maintained my vigil. “But he’s got particular knowledge of what’s going on in this case—as I suspect you’re about to find out, Gracie…”

  Lucas reappeared, bouncing onto the steel steps, placing his feet on their pipe banisters, then sliding down and landing on the hard floor without missing a step. He gave Gracie a quick smile and nod, handed Mike his .38, then brought me my leather-encased .45 and binoculars.

  “What are you thinking, Trajan?” my partner said, bracing himself for whatever we had to do before remembering his manners: “Oh. Dr. Gracie Chang, Lucas Kurtz. And vice versa.”

  The pair shook hands, Lucas very excited about once more being included in the discussion of the case as an equal, and Gracie, I could see with just a quick glance, still bewildered, but increasingly intrigued: both by the kid’s presence and by our faith in him.

  “I’m thinking that we have to make a show of getting Gracie out of here,” I said, pacing the front of the hangar. “Then, after we’ve managed that, we can bring her back up on the sly, and finish our conversation. But not in this spot. Not in this spot…”

  “Now, come on, fellas,” Gracie protested. “This is crazy! I mean, I’ll admit there’s a chance that Mangold may be watching the members of the investigation, to see if anybody will go rogue. And maybe I am the most logical choice for that. But really, if I come up here to have a collegial exchange with members of my profession, what can he possibly say or do about it?”

  “He can take your derrière into custody, Gracie,” Mike answered quickly. “Officially, for sharing privileged information. And he wouldn’t need to actually arrest you, he’d just get you out of here before we had time to decide if our investigative interests coincide. Then he’d spend a few hours scaring the living shit out of you, maybe in an interrogation room, maybe in your own damned office, doesn’t matter. Try to remember where this guy got his training: not up here, but down in the city, at a time when that kind of behavior was really being perfected. If you’re in Death’s Head Hollow, you’re no longer an ally, to him: you’re a threat, and he’ll deal with you as just that.”

  “But we still don’t know that they’re even around!” This time, however, Gracie’s protest held little trace of incredulity: she’d begun to realize that Mike might just be right.

  “Yeah, well—we’re going to see if we can’t change your mind on that,” I said as I put the pair of Lemaire field glasses that my great-grandfather had carried during his days in the Escadrille to my eyes, and at the same time got my shoulder holster on. I heard Mike tearing the Velcro on his holster open and then slapping it into place on his ankle, after which a thought occurred to me: “How about you, Gracie?” I asked. “Are you still carrying, since you left the big city?”

  “Are you kidding?” Gracie answered, grabbing her black leather bag. From it, she drew a Heckler & Koch USP Tactical 9mm semi-automatic with a blued steel finish. Lucas gasped in appreciation when he saw it, and I couldn’t help but laugh a bit.

  “What?” Mike said defensively, already suspecting what the kid and I were thinking.

  “Nothing,” I chuckled, going back to searching the hollow. “Just kind of funny that Gracie has a manlier gun than you do.”

  “Oh, suh-nap!” Lucas chuckled; then he added, “Tight piece, Dr. Chang.”

  Gracie laughed a bit, herself. “Thank you, Lucas. If I may call you Lucas.” The kid blushed just a bit. “And Mike—oh, Mike…” Gracie had watched my partner putting on his holster, and feigned pity. “I wasn’t going to say it, but—the snub-nosed .38? Really?”

  “Hey, I like the ankle holster!” Mike said, covering his embarrassment. “Try strapping that cannon of yours to your leg, Gracie—anyway, may I remind you that we have more important things to deal with?”

  “You may.” Gracie smiled, putting her HK back in her bag. “But we’ll see through it…”

  “Actually, I fear he has a point, Gracie,” I said, in a far more serious tone. “Join me, will you?” She moved over to the corner of the hangar where I stood, accepting the field glasses as I took them from my neck. “Have a look for yourself—down there, among those apple trees just off the road, where it begins to wind out of sight…”

  Still fairly incredulous, Gracie looked through the binoculars, following my indication. For a few seconds she maintained that look of uneasy disbelief, until finally she spotted what I wanted her to see: crouching amid the trees that I’d indicated were two dark-suited men, who were holding their own pairs of more modern binoculars. Fortunately they were not, just then, looking back at us, probably because we’d disappeared into the hangar for as long as we had; but their mere presence was enough to make Gracie’s face droop visibly.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered in real dread. “You were right…”

  “Unfortunately so,” I replied. “I suspect they’ve left their car somewhere out of sight, farther down the hollow. And that will help us, provided you still want to discuss this case in full: your own misgivings, as well as what it is you think we can do to help you.”

  “This—this is insane,” Gracie said, having only half-heard me.

  “Maybe,” I answered. “But just give me back those glasses, if you would, before they have the chance to see us watching them. Then we’ll decide just how to proceed.”

  “How to proceed?” Gracie said indignantly. “Well, I’m just going to go down there and tell them this is none of their goddamned business—”

  “Gracie,” Mike interrupted firmly. “I wasn’t kidding—you even try something like that, and you’ll only confirm what they’re thinking. You’ll be buying yourself one world of trouble, and when you come out the other side, you’ll find yourself off this case, and maybe off any case in the future around here. At least, any case that matters.”

  “They can’t do that,” Gracie insisted.

  “Can and will,” I said. “Don’t doubt it. These boys and girls play rough, Dr. Chang.??
?

  Reality began to sink in fully on our guest, and after a long pause she murmured, “Well, then—what do we do?”

  “Again, we get you out of here. Now. Create a new notion for them to deal with. Maybe you came here to repeat their warning that we stay off the case in anything but an unofficial role—something that would take you no longer than the time you’ve already been here to deliver.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “Okay,” I said, turning the whole thing over in my head. “First thing, you get in your car and go. Head to town. Around the square you’ll see three bars—taverns, as they once were.”

  “Three bars?” Gracie echoed. “Why has one little town got three bars?”

  “Because the fourth one closed down,” Lucas replied, dryly but accurately.

  “Pull in at the first one on your right,” I continued. “Let the BCI boys see you having a drink there: a plausible thing to do, after a confrontation. They’ll probably sit outside in their car, you’ll know it when you see it. And then you stay inside for a bit, just to be sure they buy the act. In about five minutes Mike will follow you into town in his car and park across the square. The manager of the bar you’ll be in is named Francisco—he’s Salvadoran. Once you’re sure they’re convinced, slip him twenty bucks and tell him you need to use the back door. He won’t be surprised, it happens all the time. Then use the cover of the statue in the middle of the square to get over to Mike’s car. Get in the back seat, and stay down. He’ll bring you back up here.”

  “And then what?” Gracie asked, the scheme having done little to ease her nerves.

  “Then, Dr. Chang, we hide. I’ll stay with Lucas and appear to be tending to my—my dog, on the chance that they stay behind.”