“It’s called venting. But you’re not really listening.”
“No,” I admitted.
“Tell me what’s happened.”
I laid it all out. The makeshift OR. The organ theft. The wire noose. The shells. Unique Montague. Willie Helms. The other MP’s. Rodriguez. The Abrigo Aislado de los Santos in Puerto Vallarta.
I told Pete that Rodriguez and Marshall were med school classmates, and that both had been sanctioned, Marshall for drug abuse, Rodriguez for sexual misconduct, and that Marshall had actually done a short stretch. I added that Marshall had sold his boat immediately after Ryan and I questioned him at the clinic, and ended by describing Marshall’s arrest and subsequent release on bond.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Pete said.
For a minute I was persuaded again. But, no, it had to be Daniels.
“I think I may have talked Gullet into arresting the wrong man.”
“Don’t believe everything you think.”
I slapped Pete’s wrist. He cringed in exaggerated pain. I checked my watch.
“No one talks Gullet into anything,” Pete said.
“Maybe not, but I pushed him hard. And now Gullet’s taking heat.”
“From whom?”
“The press. Herron. The rev’s powerful friends.” I worried my right cuticle with my left thumbnail. “What if we’re wrong? Gullet will have a lot to explain in the next election.”
“The evidence sounds pretty convincing to me.”
“It’s all circumstantial.”
“Sufficient circumstantial evidence can carry the burden of proof if the jury believes it.” Pete reached over and separated my hands. I checked my watch. Where the hell was Gullet?
“If Marshall’s not guilty, is there another candidate?” Pete asked.
I laid out what I’d learned about Corey Daniels.
Boat. Familiarity with Dewees Island. Surgical scrub nurse. Presence in El Paso during a period of grisly murders, some of which may have been linked to organ trafficking. Calls made from Marshall’s phone when Marshall wasn’t at the clinic. Residence in the same complex as a pilot of tarnished reputation. A pilot who was contacted immediately before and after the disappearance of Jimmie Ray Teal. Contacted from a pay phone just yards from the clinic.
“Maybe Marshall and Daniels are in it together,” Pete said when I’d finished.
“Possible. But I keep thinking about my conversation with Marshall. I dislike the man, but some of his points make sense. Leaving shells lying around his office doesn’t fit his personality. He’s alibied out for the night Cruikshank’s home was phoned from his line. The history of the boat sale can easily be checked. If they’re in it together, why finger Daniels unless Marshall is trying to do a plea deal and get to the DA first?”
“Is either Marshall or Daniels stockpiling money?”
“Gullet says no evidence of that, though one can easily hide cash. Daniels lives way beyond what I’d expect a nurse could afford.” I described the Hunney Child and the Seabrook condo, and explained Daniels’s family connections.
“The Reynolds aluminum clan.”
“Exactly. But that could mean nothing.”
My eyes flicked to my watch. Five minutes had passed since my previous time check.
“It took some convincing, but Gullet’s gone to pick Daniels up.” I went back to picking. The cuticle was now a bright angry red. “But the case against Daniels is also circumstantial. I’m hoping some searches and some phone records will turn up gold.”
“What about the eyelash?”
“DNA takes time.”
“Capitaine Comical gone back to the tundra?”
“Yes.”
“Miss him?”
“Yes.” I’d caught a trace of Ryan’s scent on my pillow that morning and felt a loneliness more intense than I’d anticipated. An emptiness. A sense of impending closure?
“How’s Emma?” Pete pulled my hands apart and held on to one.
I shook my head.
Ten minutes later my mobile sounded. Gullet’s number glowed on the screen. Heart thumping, I clicked on.
“Daniels wasn’t at Bohicket or at his condo. Boat’s in the slip. Sent out an APB on his vehicle.”
“Any progress on Shorter?”
“No sign of him, but the plane’s kept at a private airstrip out Clement’s Ferry Road. Small operation. No tower, but they sell fuel. Watchman says Shorter flies a group of businessmen up to Charlotte every Saturday morning, comes Friday evenings to do routine maintenance. Tybee will be waiting when Shorter shows up.”
“What’s Marshall doing?”
There was a pause. In the background I could hear Gullet’s radio sputter.
“Zamzow lost him.”
“Lost him?” I couldn’t believe it. “How could he lose him?”
“Eighteen-wheeler jackknifed not far in front of his position. Involved two cars. I diverted him to that.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“It’s temporary. Tuckerman’s called a press conference for ten tomorrow morning. Marshall will be putting on a puppy face for his public, and we’ll resume our tail then.”
When we’d disconnected, I looked at the patient. Mercifully, Pete was dozing.
Glancing back at my phone, I noticed the little icon indicating voice mail waiting. I listened to the message.
Emma, 4:27 P.M. “Call me. I have news.”
While talking to Tybee, I’d left my purse in Gullet’s office. Emma must have phoned then.
I hit E on my speed dial. Emma’s machine answered after four rings.
“Damn!”
I was about to disconnect when Emma’s live voice cut in over her recorded voice.
“Hang on.”
The message ended, and a long beep sounded. I heard a click, then a change in sound quality.
“Where are you?” Emma asked.
“At the hospital.”
“Staff catches you on a cell phone they’ll break out the rubber hoses. How’s Pete?”
“Sleeping,” I said, just above a whisper.
“You and Gullet have been busy.”
“Emma, I think we’ve made a mistake.”
“Oh?”
I got up, closed the door, and gave Emma a condensed version of everything I’d told Pete. She listened without interrupting.
“Don’t know if my news will resolve anything. Got DNA results today. It’s Marshall’s eyelash.”
“You’re right. That could go either way. But it narrows the possibilities. Either Marshall disposed of the body, or participated in the disposal, or was being set up even at the time the body was buried. But why a setup back then? That kind of contingency planning seems something of a stretch. And an eyelash, for God’s sake? Sounds like a TV plot where the cops find one skin cell in an acre of shag carpet. What are the chances an eyelash will be found?”
“Who’s your pick?”
“Daniels. He’s dim enough to think something like that would work.”
“Mine, too. Keep me in the loop.”
“I will.”
I set the phone on vibrate mode. Minutes crept by. I was gnawing a cuticle when it signaled.
Gullet.
“IOP PD just spotted Daniels’s vehicle at the Dewees marina.”
“He’s gone to see his aunt? If so, why? And why not take his own boat?”
Gullet ignored the questions. Rightly so. They were irrelevant.
“I’m checking with Dewees to see if Daniels is out there. Posted deputies on his condo and at Bohicket. We’ll get him.”
“Please call when you do. The guy gives me the creeps.”
Pete was snoring. Time to go.
I was clearing the newspaper from Pete’s bed, trying not to rustle, when my eyes fell on the grainy black-and-white of Aubrey Herron. Herron was caught in a posture of supplication, face tipped, eyes closed, arm stretched above his head.
Left arm.
The thought struck like a tsuna
mi. Unbidden. Unforeseen. Shocking.
“Damn,” I whispered, fingers clenching in distress. “Damn, damn, damn.”
The paper trembled as visions screamed through my mind.
A trio of sixth cervical vertebrae, all fractured on the left.
A wire noose with a side loop for applying deadly force.
Corey Daniels beyond one-way glass. A hand shooting through hair. A finger working a desktop. An arm draping a chair back. A scar circling a wrist.
Lester Marshall leafing through pages in a patient chart. Jotting words on a legal pad.
Kaleidoscope images fused into realization.
Daniels spoke of permanent damage from a motorcycle accident. He had strength only in his right hand.
Marshall rummaged Montague’s file with his left hand. He wrote with his left hand.
Daniels was right-handed. Marshall was left-handed.
A Spanish windlass is slipped over a victim’s head from behind.
On Montague, Helms, and Cruikshank, the force had been applied to the left side of the neck. They had been strangled by a lefty.
I’d sent Gullet after Daniels.
The killer couldn’t be Daniels.
Where was Marshall now?
39
DROPPING THE PAPER, I GRABBED MY PHONE and dialed Gullet.
No answer.
Damn!
I dialed the sheriff’s department switchboard. The operator told me Gullet was unavailable.
“I need to contact him. Now.”
“Are you calling to report a crime?”
“Gullet’s on his way to arrest a man named Corey Daniels. Get through to him. Tell him to call Brennan before proceeding.”
“Is this a reporter?” Wary.
“No. This is Temperance Brennan. I’m working with the coroner’s office. I have information the sheriff will want. It’s very important to get through to him.”
A beat of hesitation.
“Your number?”
I provided it. “How can I contact Deputy Tybee?”
“I can’t give that out.”
“Please contact Tybee.” I had to restrain myself from screaming at the woman. “Tell him to call me. Same number. Same message.”
Totally frustrated, I disconnected.
I looked at Pete. He was well past dozing and into REM. I thought about leaving, decided to hold. What if Gullet or Tybee called while I was in the elevator with no signal?
I began pacing, working the cuticle with my teeth.
Call, damn it!
Not a ripple from the phone.
Call!
How could I have been so stupid? So gullible? Marshall had played me like a fish at a time when I should have been adding the missing pieces to the puzzle.
Calm, Brennan. Nothing’s lost. Marshall has been charged. He’ll have to stand trial. Daniels can be released.
As usual, I ignored my own advice. I was pumped with anxiety, angry at my own stupidity. The cuticle looked like raw flank steak.
My higher centers tried reason.
Gullet has grounds to pick Daniels up. He can also release him as new facts emerge. That happens. No one will die.
Die?
I froze as another kaleidoscoping chain winged toward another terrible realization.
Marshall was the killer, yet the case against him was circumstantial. Who could nail it down?
The pilot, that’s who.
If Shorter was indeed Marshall’s mule, Marshall had a major loose end. If the DA got to talk to Shorter, he might deal. If Shorter flipped, his testimony could bury Marshall and Rodriguez.
Marshall was ruthless. Marshall had eluded Zamzow and was running free. Marshall would understand the risk represented by Shorter. He would try to eliminate that risk. If he succeeded, it could prevent a conviction.
I was jabbing keys on my cell when a nurse opened the door. Lips pursed, she pointed at my hand and shook her head no.
Pocketing the phone, I hurried from the room and down the hall. Dingy lighted panels marked the elevator’s creeping upward progress.
Come on!
The doors opened. I rushed in, practically bowling over the occupants before they could draw back. We descended, all pointlessly watching the blinking floor numbers.
Come on!
The lobby was deserted. Heading out the doors, I dialed Gullet.
Still no answer.
Damn!
What was happening at the marina? On Dewees? At Daniels’s condo? Bohicket?
What was happening at the airstrip on Clement’s Ferry Road?
Tybee was the greater concern. He had no clue Shorter might be a target. Shorter wouldn’t be expecting an attack from Marshall. The doctor had little to lose, everything to gain by eliminating his pilot. Marshall had no idea Daniels was being followed, probably planned to make Shorter’s murder look like Daniels’s work. Was Marshall a shooter? Had he shot Pete? IOP police still had nothing on the shooting. The searches of Marshall’s office and home hadn’t turned up a gun.
Breathless, I threw myself into my car. Turned the key. Hesitated.
IOP? Gullet?
Clements Ferry Road? Tybee?
Tybee could be at risk.
Marshall had killed how many people? If Tybee blundered upon a hit on Shorter, Marshall wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, too. Of the two, Tybee was the one more likely to be caught by surprise. The cruiser would be easy to spot. Tybee would be unprepared for an assault.
Fingers trembling, I dialed the sheriff’s department. Same operator. I gave my name. She started to speak. I stopped her in midspiel, told her to tell Gullet and Tybee it was urgent I hear from them.
“Sheriff Gullet and Deputy Tybee are out of contact at the moment.”
“Radio. Phone. Carrier pigeon.” It was almost a shriek. “However you do it, get my message to them.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Tybee could be in danger.”
I rang off.
What next? Gullet had been emphatic about my non-inclusion in Daniels’s apprehension. I didn’t even know Gullet’s location. Tybee would be at the airstrip by now, but I wasn’t exactly sure where that was. Best to wait this out at the house. Surely one of them would call shortly.
* * *
I hadn’t remembered to leave a light on. “Sea for Miles” was dark, though a partial moon cast a shadowy glow against the exterior walls, as though from a dimmed lantern.
Boyd barked as I turned the key, then cavorted in circles around me. I set down my purse and checked the house phone. No messages.
The place felt eerie. No Pete. No Ryan. Too many rooms and too much quiet for one person. Thank God for the dog and the cat. I stroked them both in turn.
I turned on a TV and watched Headline News for a while, but I wasn’t tuned in mentally. Why weren’t Gullet and Tybee calling? Marshall and Daniels were both at large, and deputies were pursuing the wrong man. The killer could be positioning himself to strike again. There was urgency here.
Or was there?
Marshall had been charged, arraigned, and released on bond. More evidence of his guilt wouldn’t cause a rearrest. The urgency was to call off the arrest of Daniels. What if he tried to flee and was injured? What use would Marshall’s lawyer make of Daniels’s arrest at tomorrow’s news conference?
Call, damn it. Call now!
Feeling agitated, I took my cell and a Diet Coke and walked out toward the beach. Boyd was indignant that I shut the door in his snout, and scratched at it angrily, but I didn’t want to lose track of him in the dark.
The tide was high, leaving little room between the dunes and the water’s edge. No late-evening walkers slogged the surf’s white curls. I took a sand chair from the gazebo and carried it to the water’s edge.
Settling down, I dug my toes into the sand, sipped my drink, and waited for the phone to ring. The moonlight made fluorescent patterns on the waves. The wind rolled off the water. It was lulling, calming. I began to u
nwind. Almost.
Pete and Ryan. Ryan and Pete. Why the ambivalence? Forgotten feelings were surfacing and creating discomfort. Strange. And surprising. But no action was required. Would the concern persist? I would see.
A lone walker approached from my left. Unconsciously, I took note. Hooded sweatshirt. Odd. The night wasn’t chilly. Muscular build. The walker angled so as to pass between my chair and the dunes.
Suddenly, I was choking. The phone and the drink flew from my hands.
I was shocked at how fast the man had moved. And at his strength.
I grabbed at my throat. I was gasping and could barely speak.
“Stop!” It came out a hoarse whisper.
“Enjoy the view, you arrogant, ignorant, meddling bitch,” hissed a voice I had heard before. “It’s the last you’ll ever see.”
Desperate, I clawed my flesh.
“Flynn and Cruikshank tried to bring me down and I dealt with them, but you stumbled onto things that weren’t your business and you ruined my business. I provided a valuable service. I took the few good parts those throwaway people had and sent them where they could be put to better use. Too bad I can’t take yours.”
The thing around my throat tightened. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t cry out. My vision blurred.
“You caused me great harm. It’s payback time, Dr. Brennan. Say good-bye.”
The voice was barely registering in my tortured brain. My lungs burned, and every cell in my body screamed for air. The world began to recede.
Fight!
With all my strength I lunged upward and backward. The top of my head struck him under the chin, knocking him backward. His grip loosened.
I dove toward the water, trying to dash into the waves. He caught a handful of hair and yanked me back.
I lost my balance and went down, legs straight out in front. Before I could roll to either side, the hand that held my hair shoved me down hard, forcing my chin against my chest. The other hand went to my neck.
Then, inexplicably, the hands released. I struggled to my knees, but couldn’t stand. As I tried to push up with my palms, the pressure on my neck eased and I heard a second voice. A voice I had also heard before.
“Set me up for this one, you demented prick bastard.”
Blood pounded in my ears. Or was it the surf?
I lifted my head enough to see Corey Daniels, his massive left arm around Marshall’s throat, his right arm holding Marshall in a hammerlock. Marshall’s face was contorted in pain.