"If I wasn't talking to you here right now, I'd be with them all on a picnic."
"Yeah?"
Boyle worried for a moment that Phelan would be jealous of Boyle's family life. But the prisoner's eyes lit up. "That's nice, Captain. I always pictured us--my mama and my father, when he wasn't drinking, and the twins. We'd be out, doing just what you're talking about. Having a picnic in some town square, a park, sitting in front of the bandshell, you know."
I kept hearing this music when I cut back the throttle. And I followed it to this park in the middle of town.
"That what you and your family were going to do?"
"Well, we're the unsocial types," Boyle said, laughing. "We stay away from crowds. My parents've got a little place upstate."
"A family house?" Phelan asked slowly, maybe picturing it.
"On Taconic Lake. We go up there usually."
The prisoner fell silent for some moments then finally said, "You know, Captain, I've got this weird idea." His eyes counted cinderblocks. "We have all this knowledge in our heads. Everything people ever knew. Or'll know in the future. Like how to kill a mastodon or how to make a nuclear spaceship or how to talk in a different language. It's all there in everybody's mind. Only they have to find it."
What's he saying? Boyle wondered. That I know why he did it?
"And how you find all this stuff is you sit real quiet and then the thought comes into your head. Just bang, there it is. Does that ever happen to you?"
Boyle didn't know what to say. But Phelan didn't seem to expect an answer.
Outside, in the corridor, footsteps approached then receded.
Anyway, what it is, I killed her. I took that pretty blue scarf in my hands . . . .
Phelan sighed. "It's not that I was trying to keep anything from you all. I just can't really give you the kinda answer you want."
Boyle closed the notebook. "That's all right, James. You've told me plenty. I appreciate it."
I took that pretty blue scarf in my hands and killed her with it. And there's nothing else I have to say.
"Got it," Boyle announced into the pay phone. He stood in the dim corridor outside the cafeteria in the courthouse, where he'd just had a celebratory lunch with some of the other cops on the Phelan team.
"All right!" the district attorney's enthusiastic voice came through the phone. Most of the senior prosecutors had known that Boyle was going to conduct the final interrogation of James Phelan and were waiting anxiously to find out why he'd killed Anna Devereaux. It had become the question in the county prosecutor's department. Boyle had even heard rumors that some guys were running a macabre pool, laying serious money on the answer.
"It's complicated," Boyle continued. "I think what happened was we didn't do enough psychological testing. It's got to do with his mother's death."
"Phelan's mother?"
"Yeah. He's got a thing about families. He's mad because his mother abandoned him by dying when he was ten and he had to raise his sisters."
"What?"
"I know, it sounds like psychobabble. But it all fits. Call Dr. Hirschorn. Have him--"
"Boyle, Phelan's parents are still alive. Both of 'em."
Silence.
"Boyle? You there?"
After a moment: "Keep going."
"And he was an only child. He didn't have any sisters."
Boyle absently pressed his thumb on the chrome number plate of the phone, leaving a pattern of fat fingerprints on the cold metal.
"And his parents . . . they ran up big debts getting him doctors and counselors to try to help 'im. They were saints . . . . Captain? You there?"
Why would Phelan lie? Was this all just a big joke? He replayed the events in his mind. I ask a dozen times to see him. He refuses until just before he's sentenced. He finally agrees. But why?
Why? . . .
Boyle bolted upright, his solid shoulder slamming into the side of the phone kiosk.
In despair he lifted his left hand to his face and closed his eyes. He realized he'd just given Phelan the name of every member of his family. Where Judith worked, where the kids went to school.
Hell, he'd told them where they were right now! Alone, at Taconic Lake.
The captain stared at his distorted reflection in the phone's chrome number pad, realizing the enormity of what he'd done. Phelan had been planning this for months. It was why he'd held out saying anything about the motive: to draw Boyle in close, to make the captain himself desperate to talk, to get information out of him, and to deliver the message that his family was in danger.
Wait, calm down. He's locked up. He can't do anything to anybody. He's not getting out--
Oh, no . . .
Boyle's gut ran cold.
Phelan's friend, the biker! Assuming he lived nearby, he could be at Taconic Lake in thirty minutes.
"Hey, Boyle, what the hell's going on?"
The answer to the query about James Phelan's motive for killing Anna Devereaux meant nothing. The question itself was the murderer's last weapon--and he was using it on the cop who'd become obsessed with bringing him down.
Why, why, why . . .
Boyle dropped the phone and raced up the hall to the prisoner lockup. "Where's Phelan?" he screamed.
The guard blinked at the frantic detective. "He's right there. In the lockup, Captain. You can see him."
Boyle glanced through the double glass at the prisoner sitting calmly on a bench.
"What's he been doing since I left?"
"Reading. That's all. Oh, and he made a few phone calls."
Boyle lunged across the desk and grabbed the guard's phone.
"Hey!"
He punched in the number of the lake house. It began to ring. Three times, four . . .
It was then that Phelan looked at Boyle and smiled. He mouthed something. The captain couldn't hear through the bulletproof glass, of course, but he knew without a doubt that the man had just uttered the word "Checkmate."
Boyle lowered his head to the receiver and, like a prayer, whispered, "Answer, please answer," as the phone rang again and again and again.
AFRAID
Where are we going?" the woman asked as the black Audi sped away from Florence's Piazza della Stazione, where her train had just arrived from Milan.
Antonio shifted gears smoothly and replied, "It's a surprise."
Marissa clicked on her seat belt as the car plunged down the narrow, winding streets. She was soon hopelessly lost. A Milan resident for all of her thirty-four years, she knew only the city center of Florence. Antonio, on the other hand, was a native Florentine and sped assuredly along an unfathomable route of streets and alleys.
A surprise? she wondered. Well, he'd wanted to pick the location for their long weekend together and she'd agreed. So, she told herself, sit back and enjoy the ride . . . . Her job had been particularly stressful in the past month; it was time to let someone else make the decisions.
Slim and blonde, with features of the north, Marissa Carrefiglio had been a runway model in her early twenties but then took up fashion design, which she loved. But three years ago her brother had quit the family business and she'd been forced to take over management of the arts and antiques operation. She wasn't happy about it but her stern father wasn't a man you could say no to.
Another series of sharp turns. Marissa gave an uneasy laugh at Antonio's aggressive driving and looked away from the streets as she told him about the train ride from Milan, about news from her brother in America, about recent acquisitions at her family's store in the Brera.
He, in turn, described a new car he was thinking of buying, a problem with the tenant in one of his properties and a gastronomic coup he'd pulled off yesterday: some white truffles he'd found at a farmers' market near his home and had bought right out from under the nose of an obnoxious chef.
Another sharp turn and a fast change of gears. Only the low setting sun, in her eyes, gave her a clue of the direction they were traveling.
She hadn't
known Antonio very long. They'd met in Florence a month ago at a gallery off the Via Maggio, where Marissa's company occasionally consigned art and antiques. She had just delivered several works: eighteenth-century tapestries from the famed Gobelins Manufactory in France. After they were hung, she was drawn to a dark medieval tapestry taking up a whole wall in the gallery. Woven by an anonymous artist, it depicted beautiful angels descending from heaven to fight beasts roaming the countryside, attacking the innocent.
As she stood transfixed by the gruesome scene a voice had whispered, "A nice work but there's an obvious problem with it."
She blinked in surprise and turned to the handsome man standing close. Marissa frowned. "Problem?"
His eyes remained fixed on the tapestry as he said, "Yes. The most beautiful angel has escaped from the scene." He turned and smiled. "And landed on the floor beside me."
She'd scoffed laughingly at the obvious come-on line. But he'd delivered it with such self-effacing charm that her initial reaction--to walk away--faded quickly. They struck up a conversation about art and, a half hour later, were sharing prosecco, cheese and conversation.
Antonio was muscular and trim, with thick, dark hair and brown eyes, a ready smile. He was in the computer field. She couldn't quite understand exactly what he did--something about networks--but he must've been successful. He was wealthy and seemed to have a lot of free time.
They had much in common, it turned out. They'd both gone to college in Piemonte, had traveled extensively in France and shared an interest in fashion (though while she liked to design, he preferred to wear). A year younger than she, he'd never been married (she was divorced), and, like her, he only had one living parent; her mother had passed away ten years ago, and Antonio's father, five.
Marissa found him easy to talk to. That night they'd met she'd rambled on about her life--complaining about her domineering father, her regret at leaving fashion for a boring job, and her former husband, to whom she occasionally loaned money that was never paid back. When she'd realized how moody and complaining she sounded, she'd blushed and apologized. But he hadn't minded at all; he enjoyed hearing what she had to say, he admitted. What a departure from most of the men she dated, who focused only on her looks--and on themselves.
They'd walked along the Arno, then strolled across the Ponte Vecchio, where a young boy tried to sell him roses for his "wife." Instead he bought her a tourist souvenir: a Lucretia Borgia poison ring. She'd laughed hard and she kissed him on the cheek.
The next week he came to visit her in the Navigli in Milan; she'd seen him twice after that on business here in Florence. This was to be their first weekend away. They were not yet lovers but Marissa knew that would soon change.
Now, on their way to the "surprise" destination, Antonio made another sharp turn down a dim residential street. The neighborhood was run-down. Marissa was troubled that he was taking this shortcut--and troubled all the more when he abruptly skidded to a stop at the curb.
What was this? she wondered.
He climbed out. "Just have an errand. I'll be right back." He hesitated. "You might want to leave the doors locked." He strode to a decrepit house, looked around him and entered without knocking. Marissa noticed that he'd taken the car keys with him, which made her feel trapped. She loved to drive--her car was a silver Maserati--and she didn't take well to the role of passenger. She decided to follow his advice and checked to make sure all the doors were locked. As she was looking at his side of the car she glanced out the window. She saw two twin boys, about ten years old, standing motionless, side by side, across the street. They stared at her, unsmiling. One whispered something. The other nodded gravely. She felt a shiver at the unnerving sight.
Then, turning back, Marissa gasped in shock. An old woman's skull-like face stared at her, merely a foot away on the passenger side of the Audi. The woman must have been sick and near death.
Through the half-open window Marissa stammered, "Can I help you?"
Wearing dirty, torn clothing, the scrawny woman rocked unsteadily on her feet. Her yellow eyes glanced over her shoulder quickly, as if she was concerned about being seen. She then glanced at the car, which seemed familiar to her.
"Do you know Antonio?" Marissa asked, calming.
"I'm Olga. I'm the queen of the Via Magdelena. I know everyone . . ." A frown. "I have come to offer you my sympathies."
"About what?"
"Why, the death of your sister, of course."
"My sister? I don't have a sister."
"You're not Lucia's sister?"
"I don't know a Lucia."
The woman shook her head. "But you so resemble her."
Marissa could hardly bear to look into the woman's wet, jaundiced eyes.
"I've troubled you unnecessarily," Olga said. "Forgive me."
She turned away.
"Wait," Marissa called. "Who was she, this Lucia?"
The woman paused. She leaned down and whispered, "An artist. She made dolls. I am not speaking of toys. They were works of art. She made them out of porcelain. The woman was a magician. It was as if she could capture human souls and place them in her dolls."
"And she died?"
"Last year, yes."
"How did you know her?"
Olga glanced one more time at the building Antonio had gone into. "Forgive me if I troubled you. I was mistaken, it seems." She hobbled away.
Antonio returned a moment later, carrying a small, gray paper bag. He set this in the back seat. He said nothing about his errand other than to apologize that it took longer than he planned. As he dropped into the driver's seat, Marissa looked past him to the opposite side of the street. The twins were gone.
Antonio shoved the shifter into gear and they sped away. Marissa asked him about the old woman. He blinked in surprise. He hesitated then gave a laugh. "Olga . . . she's crazy. Not right in the head."
"Do you know a Lucia?"
Antonio shook his head. "Did she say I did?"
"No. But . . . it seemed she was telling me about her because she recognized your car."
"Well, as I say, she's crazy."
Antonio fell silent and wound his way out of town, eventually catching the A7. He then turned south onto the SS222, the famous Chiantigiana highway, which winds through the wine region between Florence and Siena.
As Marissa gripped the handhold above the door in the car, they raced through Strada then past the magnificent Castello di Uzzano, then Greve and into the sparser region south of Panzano. This was beautiful country--but there was an eeriness about it. Not too many kilometers north, the Monster of Florence had butchered more than a dozen people from the late sixties to the mid-eighties and here, south, two other madmen had not long ago tortured and slaughtered several women. These recent killers had been captured and were in prison, but the deaths were particularly gruesome and had occurred not far from where they were at the moment. Now that she'd thought of them Marissa couldn't put the murders out of her mind.
She was about to ask that Antonio turn the radio on, when suddenly, about three kilometers from Quercegrossa, he turned sharply onto a one-lane dirt road. They drove for nearly a kilometer before Marissa finally asked, her voice uneasy, "Where are we, Antonio? I wish you'd tell me."
He glanced at her troubled face. Then he smiled. "I'm sorry." He abandoned the mystery and solemnity he'd been displaying. The old Antonio was back. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just being dramatic. I'm taking you to my family's country home. It was an old mill. My father and I renovated it ourselves. It's a special place and I wanted to share it with you."
Marissa relaxed and placed her hand on his leg. "I'm sorry. I wasn't cross-examining you . . . . There's just been so much pressure at work . . . and trying to persuade my father to let me have a few days off--oh, it was a nightmare."
"Well, you can relax now." His hand closed around hers.
She lowered her window and breathed in the fragrant air. "It's lovely out here."
"I
t is, yes. Pure peace and quiet. No neighbors for several kilometers."
They drove five more minutes then parked. He retrieved the gray bag he'd collected at that ramshackle place in Florence and then removed the suitcases and a bag of groceries from the trunk. They walked fifty meters along a path through an overgrown, thorny olive grove and then he nodded toward a footbridge over a fast-moving stream. "There it is."
In the low light of dusk she could just make out the house on the opposite shore. It was quite an impressive place, though far more gothic than romantic--an ancient, two-story stone mill with small windows barred with metal rods.
They crossed the bridge and he set the suitcases down at the front door. He fished for the key. Marissa turned and looked down. Black and fast moving, the stream seemed quite deep. Only a low railing separated her from a sheer, twenty-foot drop into the water.
His voice, close to her ear, made her jump. He'd come up behind her. "I know what you're thinking."
"What?" she asked, her heart beating fast.
He put his arm around her and said, "You're thinking about that urge."
"Urge?"
"To throw yourself in. It's the same thing people feel when standing on observation decks or the edge of a cliff--that strange desire to step off into space. No reason, no logic. But it's always there. As if--" He released her shoulder. "--I were to let go there'd be nothing to stop you from jumping in. Do you know what I mean?"
Marissa shivered--largely because she knew exactly what he meant. But she said nothing. To change the course of the conversation she pointed at the far shore, at a small white, wooden cross, surrounded by flowers. "What's that?"
He squinted. "Again? Ah, trespassers leave them. It happens often. It's quite irritating."
"Why?"
After a moment he said, "A boy died here. Before we owned the mill . . . . He lived up the road. Nobody knows exactly what happened but it seems he was playing with a soccer ball and it rolled into the water. He fell in trying to get it. The water's very fast--you can see. He was sucked into the sluice there and was wedged upside down."