Blossom (22 page)

139

I
WANTED to look at Matson's files, but I'd bolted out of Blossom's house as soon as I'd heard the news. One stop to make first.

The phone picked up in the junkyard.

"Mole," I said, "I need a shark cage."

140

M
ATSON was one selective Nazi. His files showed nine "actives," seventeen "affiliates," three "candidates," and thirty–four "rejects."

I looked closer. The "actives" were listed by "MOS." Rifleman, Communications, Infiltration. Every military occupation except Intelligence. Between the arcane symbols and the lavish praise for the "warriors," a collection of life's losers lurked, waiting for their flabby Armageddon.

The "affiliates" were members of other groups who occasionally came to meetings or corresponded. About half lived in southern Illinois or Indiana, the others were scattered throughout the country.

"Candidates" turned out to be humans who Matson thought had potential. One human's credential was a news clipping saying he had been arrested for spray–painting filth on a synagogue.

And the "rejects" were a clump of former "candidates" whose hostility wasn't exclusively confined to blacks. One was rejected after he fractured the jaw of one of Matson's boys in a bar. In his black Magic Marker, Matson neatly printed Unsuitable for Service across the file. Most of his other reject–reasons weren't so sweetly phrased: Jew! Suspected Homosexual. Suspected Government Agent.

I went through them again. Carefully.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Blossom came into the kitchen, face glowing from her shower. Dark purplish band across her throat. My fingerprints drew my eyes.

"It's okay, baby. I'll be pretty as a prom queen in a few days." Her voice was a sugar–edged rasp.

"Yeah."

"
Yeah!
Just stop it, okay? I know what happened, why it happened."

"Blossom…"

"You want a cigarette?"

"What?"

"Your time's up. A week, like we agreed. And you been
such
a good boy too. Not one drag, huh?"

"How would you know?"

"I can smell it. All over you. On your hands, in your hair. You've got nice thick hair for such an old man."

"It won't be a week until tonight."

"That's okay. You're off the hook. I lost. I know you could do it now. For as long as you wanted."

"I wish I could do this."

She fumbled in her purse, brought out a fresh pack of smokes. My brand. Slit the cellophane with a fingernail, struck a match, got it going. She walked over, pushed her shoulder against me, sat in my lap, her legs dangling over the sides like a kid on a boat. Held the cigarette to my lips. "Maybe this'll help you think."

141

B
LOSSOM WOKE ME with a quick tap on my chest, standing her distance. "Supper's ready, honey."

I couldn't taste the food.

142

L
ATER THAT NIGHT.

"Blossom, can you make a list of all the names from the child abuse stuff? Just the names and dates of birth?"

"Sure."

I went back to the Nazi files, grinding at the paper with my eyes.

Blossom's list was printed in a clean, sharp hand, slightly slanted to the right.

"Can I read you some names, you check to see if any of them are on your list?"

"I should have alphabetized them."

"It's okay, it's short."

I lit a smoke. Too old to be playing long shots. Too black&white for this movie.

Quiet time passed. Name after name. Blank. No match. Rustle of Blossom's papers.

"Luther Swain."

"Burke, I swear I…yes!"

"Give it to me…not the damn list, Blossom, where's the printout?"

"Keep your pants on, boy. I'll get it."

Luther Swain. Only child of Nathaniel and Margaret Swain. Born February 29, 1968. Removed from his home by Social Services November 4, 1976. Department alerted because child had not attended school, parents had not responded to letters. No home telephone. Whip marks from an electrical cord, cigarette burns, severe eye damage from being kept in a dark basement for several months. Father committed to Logansport, the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Child kept in state institution, released to foster care, returned to institution. Finally: Released to mother, August 9, 1979. Family Reunified—Case Closed.

Blossom on her knees, surrounded by a floorful of paper. Watching me.

The Nazi file. Swain, Luther. Answered one of their ads, requested further information. Sent to a PO box in Gary. Called. Matson and two others met him. "Applicant was evasive about personal details. Suspected homosexual. Rejected."

"Is it him?"

"I don't know. He's as close as we got so far. Let's go through the other names, see if there's another match."

No.

143

M
IDNIGHT.

"The only address on the Social Services files is more than ten years old. Even the PO box, that's a couple of years dead. No phone listed. Tomorrow, I'll take a look."

"Me too."

"No."

"Burke!"

"Do what I tell you, Blossom."

She leaned over the couch, pearly breasts a soft spill against my face, whispered, "I will. Right now. Like I promised. Let's go to bed. Then you can tell me what to do."

Sure.

144

I
N THE BEDROOM. I was lying on my back, two pillows behind my head, smoking. Blossom stood to my left, standing straight as a soldier, thin straps of the blue negligee on her shoulders.

Smiling, her eyes wicked.

"What d'you say, boss?"

"Take that off."

She pulled the straps down. A cloud of wispy blue drifted to her feet.

"Come here." Grinding out the cigarette.

I took her hand, pulled her down to me, kissed her softly. I rolled her onto her back, my face against the dark hollow of her throat. My lips touched a tiny jewel of a nipple. I curled against her, found my place, closed my eyes. She made comfort–sounds against my ear as I drifted away.

145

I
T WAS LATE morning when I left. Stopped at the motel. Showered, shaved, put on a dark gray pinstripe suit. Studied the street maps again for a few minutes.

At the center of an intricate web, cross–connected by blood and honor. Virgil, Reba, Lloyd. Virginia and Junior. Blossom and her sister. So much. And, somewhere, a maniac with an axe in his hands, his eye on the hard knots lashing my people together. Me, spinning between the loves. A visitor, welcomed for the gun in my hand.

I passed the Marquette Park Lagoon, turned into a series of dirt roads, watching for the street signs. Past a pizzeria, grocery store, bait shop.

The Lincoln nosed its way into the slough. Termite–haven wood houses with rickety steps up the outside, cloudy plastic sheets covering broken windows. Grungy soot–colored cars dotted the yards. A pickup truck with monster tires, suspension jacked up, Kentucky plates. Satellite dish next to one shack. Barefoot, disinterested children watched.

The sun slanted through the murk—the barren ground defied photosynthesis.

The address was three houses down from where two pieces of barbed–wire–topped fence didn't quite meet. I parked the car, got out. Next door, a thick–bodied beast who looked like he'd been kicked out of a junkyard for antisocial behavior rumbled a greeting, baleful eyes tracking me.

I climbed the steps, knocked. TV sounds from inside. I hit it again.

A scrawny woman opened the door. Pasty skin, lank hair, dull grayish teeth. Somewhere between nineteen and dead.

"What is it?"

"Mrs. Swain?"

"No, I ain't her."

"Well, it's her I need to see. Is she around?"

"
Ain't
no Mrs. Swain, mister. Not around here."

"Look, it's important that I speak to her. Real important."

"Cain't help you none."

"You sure?" Holding some bills in one hand.

"Mister, Lord knows I'd like some of that money you showin', but I ain't never heard of no Swain people."

"You lived here long?"

Sparkless eyes held mine. "Three years. Three fucking years."

"Did you buy the house then?"

"Buy?" Her laugh was bile–laced mucus. "We
rent
, mister. Man comes once a month, get his money."

"What's his name?"

"The Man," she said, closing the door in my face.

146

"S
UPPOSE I TOLD you there was this kid. Abused kid, really tortured. Burned, locked in a basement for months. Social Services takes him away. His old man goes down to Logansport. Years later, they send him home to his mother. This same kid, he tries to join up with Matson's Nazis. They turn him down, or he spooks, not sure which. You knew about this kid, would you be interested in talking to him? About the killings?"

"I might," Sherwood said. "Should I be?"

"I think so."

"You haven't said enough to get a search warrant."

"If I had his address, maybe I could say enough, a couple of days from now."

"Which means you don t."

"Right."

"Just a name."

"His name, parents' names, date of birth, last known address."

"Which you tried and drew a blank?"

"Yeah."

"Give it to me."

147

I
SHARKED AROUND, looking. Blossom at my side, not talking. Knowing I was listening to someone else.

We passed under railroad tracks, past a stone dam. Huge swastika on quarry rocks. Satan Rules!

Kids.

Two more dead days slipped by until the monster led me there. Through the gate of the Paul Douglas Nature Center Two teardrop–shaped blobs of blacktop joined by a narrow connecting loop like a drooping barbell. Neatly marked parking lines painted in white, slotted between mercury vapor lights suspended high on metal posts. I slid the Lincoln into a space. The park entrance was to my left, past a wooden footbridge. To my right, over Blossom's shoulder, I could see an eight–foot chain link fence, woods behind it.

"Stay here," I told her. "Just stay in the car."

I found a foothold, pulled myself to the top of the fence, dropped down to the other side. Climbed a rise through some underbrush until I got to the top. Abandoned railroad tracks that hadn't seen a train for years, rusting in disgust, connectors broken loose. The other side of the tracks was a copse, black even in daylight. A deep drop–off behind the copse, leading to the streets below. I worked my way down, followed along the edge of the drop–off, feeling my way.

I was at the lakefront in ten minutes. White dunes in the distance. Dunes where the killer had roosted.

I climbed back, emerging out of the copse. Lay down prone on the tracks.

A clear view of the Lincoln. I could see Blossom stretching her slim arms in the front seat. It felt like watching a woman in a window.

Killing ground. Sloping to a perfect pitch for the sniper's song.

I closed my eyes, feeling the sun on my face, darkness at my back. Sucked clean air through my nose, down deep past my stomach. Expanded my chest on the exhale, centering.

Felt for the sniper in my mind. Listened to the child. "I hurt," he said.

Once a child's cry for help. Now a killer's boast.

"He'll be here." Wesley's voice.

148

I
WORKED THE ground. No shell casings, no condoms. Not even a beer can. The spot was virgin, waiting for a rapist. I absently pulled some long green reeds from the earth. Climbed into the car, tossed them on the front seat between us.

On the way out, I checked the sign. The Nature Center closed each night at six.

149

"Y
OU OKAY?"

"That's his spot, Blossom. It's perfect."

She fingered the green stalks. "You know what these are?"

"No."

"This is a scouring rush. Horsetails, we call them. Prospectors used to use them. You crack them open, like this, see? They're hollow. The story is, you could see tiny flecks of gold, where it was leached up out of the ground if there was any underneath."

I wondered if they leached blood.

150

T
HE NEXT MORNING, the Lincoln circled the Nature Center in tightening loops, pawing the ground before it moved in.

"When are you going to try it?" Blossom.

I lit a cigarette with the dashboard lighter. "I have to get a call first. There's something I need."

The car phone rang. But it was Sherwood, not the Mole.

I let Blossom ride along to the meet with me. Let the cop know what I knew.

Most of it.

151

T
HE UNMARKED CAR was positioned at the gate to the beach. I pulled in alongside, got out. Blossom followed. Sherwood fell into step with us.

"Good news and bad news. This Luther Swain, he could be the guy. But he's gone. That address you had, it was the last one on record."

"What about his mother?"

Sherwood pulled out a thick slab of a notebook. "According to DPW records, she left about five years ago. The locals terminated her Welfare grant. The kid stayed on in the house until 1986, when he turned eighteen. They offered him some services: outpatient counseling, group therapy. Even said they'd hook him up with SSI Disability. But one day he just up and disappeared."

"You run them on SSI national?"

"Yeah. Zip. If they were getting checks from the government, we'd have located 'em."

"Tax records? Military? Passport?"

"Blank." His look was measured, just short of offended. "We know how to do it, pal, chase the paper. There's no trail. The kid don't even have a driver's license."

"Fuck." Me.

"Detective, did you by any chance pull this boy's medical records?" Blossom.

"Yes, ma'am. They're in the car." His tired eyes tracked her. "If you're thinking the blood banks, it won't fly. He's got type O."

"No, I was thinking…maybe it's not so strange he doesn't have most kinds of ID, but you'd think, a young man, he'd have a driver's license."

"So?"

"Burke, remember that report you read to me? Something about severe damage to his eyes? Maybe that's why he can't get a driver's license."

"I don't know anything about any reports, I said, the words evenly spaced, like rocks dropping into a pond.

"Me neither," said Sherwood. "We had this report of an attempted break–in at the DPW Building, but I figure, it had to be some kids playing a prank. Real rookie move, toss a rock through the glass. Not the kind you'd expect from any big–time New York heist–man."

Blossom's face flushed.

Back at Sherwood's car, we found the records. Blossom translated the big words. "He'll always have trouble with his vision, especially in daylight."

"He couldn't get a driver's license?" Sherwood.

"Not hardly."

"They got no test for buying a gun," the big man said.