Darkness peering (19 page)

"Like what?"

"Okay, you wanna know? She'd wake up in the middle of the night and
loosen the stitches on all my clothes."

"What?"

"You heard me." He sat back, apparently satisfied.

"Why would she do a thing like that?"

"Exactly what I was wondering." He frowned, long lines mapping his
face. "That's why I broke up with her."

"I thought she broke up with you?"

"No, it's the other way around."

"Well, she got a restraining order."

"I know how it looks." He became suddenly animated, like a child
watching fireworks for the first time. "Ain't nobody ever told you,
you can't judge a book by its cover? It's not my fault she's missing.
She asked for it. She's crazy. That woman lies like a rug. She's a
ball buster with a capital B." He was speaking with the narrative
speed of an excited two-year-old. "What goes around, comes around. My
luck'll turn. My day will come. You can count on it, sister. One of
these days I'll be God, judge, president and the goddamn high school
guidance counselor. But Claire, see ... Claire's luck flew south. She
fucked with too many heads, and now she's gonna pay."

"Buck, are you on any medication?"

He stared at her sullenly, brow furrowing.

"Do you take medication?"

"What's that got to do with the price of Eggos?"

"Do you hear voices?"

He smiled and relit his half-smoked cigarette.

"Do you, Buck?"

"What, hear voices?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can hear your voice."

"Any other voices?"

"Sometimes." He shrugged. "Coming from the keyholes."

Leaning forward, Rachel chose her words carefully. "I'd like your
consent to search the apartment.

"Huh?" he said with a fleshy smirk.

"I brought this consent form with me. It means you waive your right
to be free from search without a warrant. Just sign here, that proves
the consent was voluntary."

He drew back. "Why should I?"

"You've got nothing to hide, right? This will show you were willing to
cooperate. Trust me, it can only help in the long run."

"Cut it out," he said, hand sliding between the cushions, and before
she knew it, he was holding a .45-caliber handgun on her. "Quit
screwing with my head."

Without thinking, Rachel drew her weapon and aimed it at Buck's chest.
The world closed in around her. Stupid, stupid. How could she have
let things get so out of hand? "Don't move!" she said, a tiny scream
worming its way through her brain. "Drop your weapon. Now!"

"No."

"I said drop it!"

"You first."

Her hands were shaking, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead.
She'd been taught to fire center mass, which meant the chest, where the
vital organs were. If she tried for the head, she might miss. There
was less margin of error with the chest. "Easy, now. Put the gun
down."

"You first." His aim was frighteningly steady.

Her heart was pounding and she couldn't breathe. Her life was in
danger. She needed to remain calm. Carefully, she aligned the target
in her front and rear sights. If she had to shoot to kill, she would.
If forced to. If only her heart would quit leaping around inside her
throat so that she couldn't breathe.

"Ease your finger off the trigger. You don't want to hurt anyone, and
neither do I. Place your weapon on the coffee table, Buck." The gun
was centered directly in front of her eyes and both arms were locked.
Her feet were spread apart about

shoulder-width, knees bent slightly, and she could feel her weight on
the balls of her feet.

After an interminable beat, he finally eased his finger off the trigger
and placed the .45 down on the coffee table.

She picked up the gun and was surprised to find it empty. "You're
under arrest," she said, pocketing it. "You have the right to remain
silent..."

"What for?" His pupils contracted. "I put the gun down, didn't I?"

"Is this gun licensed?"

He shrugged. A twisted lump of clothing lay on the rug at his feet,
and he gingerly stepped over it as if it were a dead body.

"Stay where you are," she warned, palm growing sweaty on the
checkerboard grip. His proximity was making her uncomfortable. Her
balance was poor; she had automatically chosen the Isosceles stance,
which put her at a distinct disadvantage. Increased recovery time,
strain on the shoulder muscles.

"Put your hands on your head and turn around."

He eyed her with an odd fascination. "What for?"

"You're under arrest."

"Aw, c'mon. Can't you let it slide just this once?"

"Turn around and put your hands on your head!" She reached for her
handcuffs.

He took his time tamping out his cigarette. Blood pounded in her ears,
and her heart raced faster than her thoughts. She didn't want to kill
another human being. She didn't want to make a mistake. Her finger
was growing slick on the trigger--she couldn't feel the trigger
anymore. She fumbled for her handcuffs, but before she could prevent
it from happening, he darted around behind her and got her in a
headlock. He hugged her throat with his powerful arm, cutting off her
airway. She twisted in fear and scratched his arms, drawing blood, but
he held on fast.

She was losing consciousness. Trembling with rage.

"Some people fuck with people and play with their heads for the sheer
pleasure of taking them apart," he said, grunting, and Rachel drew her
elbow forward and jabbed it backward into his ribs.

He cried out and released her. Twisting around, she slammed her palm
into his nose, and Buck Hew back and crashed into the TV set.

Down on the floor, she got one of his wrists handcuffed, but he fought
her off, bucking like a bronco. He screamed obscenities at her. His
face was bleeding. She dug her knee into his back and tried to twist
his other arm around behind him, but he bucked her off. She went
flying into the wall and saw stars. The world narrowed as he lunged
for her, but she rolled out of his way, accidentally hitting her knee
on the edge of the coffee table.

She heard a metallic snap as a sharp pain kicked up her leg. "Ow,
shit." She could barely breathe, she was so full of fury. She wanted
to rip his flesh apart with her teeth.

He lunged again, and she cracked his windpipe with her fist.

Dropping like a stone, he clutched his neck, eyes spiteful. Lying
splayed, spitting blood, he gave a grunt of surrender.

She finished handcuffing him, got up quickly from the floor and called
for backup. "I need an ambulance," she said, her heart gradually
easing back into its normal pulse.

He stared up at her, slender fingers working his throat. "Christ's
last word should've been "Assholes,"" he said.

"the public wants answers," mckissack said, unwrapping a Ring Ding, his
voice both soft and fierce. "I'd like to be able to tell them that the
case is moving forward."

They were all seated around the conference table--Rachel and
McKissack, dispatcher Phillip Reingold, mm close to retirement,
Lieutenant Ted Tapper, and Detectives Ira Keppel and Steve Cavanaugh.
Two weeks had passed, and they were no closer to solving the case.
Fourteen days of searches, surveillance and the gathering of physical
evidence, and still they had no ransom demand, no eyewitnesses, no
suspects, not a clue as to Claire's whereabouts.

They had set up recording equipment for "trap and trace" at the
Castillos' house, where the anguished family anxiously awaited some
word, even a ransom demand. Dr. Yale Castillo publicly begged for the
return of his daughter. "She needs her asthma medication," he said on
all the local news stations. The family clung to hope.

"What about Buck Folette?" McKissack now asked Rachel.

"Landlady confirms she spent Wednesday night and most of Thursday with
him in his apartment. Two friends called him that night, three friends
visited on Thursday."

"When did they call him Wednesday night?"

"One at nine-twelve p.m." the other at eleven-seventeen P.M. Both
conversations lasted over thirty minutes. The phone company's security
division has supplied us with a list of all incoming and outgoing
numbers. Looks like our friend Buck wasn't anywhere near Flowering
Dogwood on the night Claire disappeared."

"Are you kidding? His prints are all over those letters," Ted Tapper
said. Nearing forty, Lieutenant Tapper was swarthy and arrogant, his
perpetually stiff expression blunting the initial impact made by his
handsome features and muscular body. In Rachel's opinion, Tapper was
aggressively unappealing.

"We don't need fingerprint analysis," Rachel said. "He admits he wrote
them."

"Look, whoever wrote those letters definitely had something to do with
Claire's disappearance, I don't care what his skanky ass landlady
says."

"He got a record?" McKissack asked.

"Antisocial tendencies surfaced early," Rachel said, thumbing through
her notes. "He assaulted a cousin at age fourteen, but the family
hired a lawyer who got the charges dismissed after Buck's father lied
about his whereabouts. I got this from the sister. Throughout the
years, the family has continued to protect him."

"What if Buck's friends are covering for him now?" Tapper asked.
"What if those phone calls were actually for the landlady?"

McKissack arched an eyebrow at Rachel.

"It's possible," she said. "He and Claire Castillo were in an abusive
relationship for two years, and during that time he was arrested twice
for domestic violence."

"And each time," Tapper said, "the family hires this big-time lawyer,
waving psychiatric reports."

"Just like they did last week," McKissack said with thinly veiled
disgust. "He was booked for aggravated assault, assault with a
dangerous weapon, resisting arrest and possession of an unlicensed
firearm. But because the gun wasn't loaded, his lawyer was able to get
the charges reduced."

"He's held for a mere five days before being released on his own
recognizance," Tapper sneered.

"Mom and Pop keep bailing him out," Steve Cavanaugh said. Not fat but
certainly soft-looking, Steve was an inveterate doughnut-eater and
prodigious coffee-drinker who had a way with the ladies, perhaps
because of his dogged earnestness. "I'm so earnest, I'm Ernest
Hemingway," he was fond of saying. "So what's his psychological
problem du your?"

"His psychosis has been marked by delusions and hallucinations," Rachel
said. "He started deteriorating at around age thirteen, when he
growled at people and threatened to stab his parents with a butcher
knife. He was prescribed an antipsychotic to stabilize his
schizophrenia. Since then he's been admitted to

area hospitals for treatment of psychosis and has suffered several
relapses."

"There you go," Tapper said. "He's our man."

"Just because he's mentally ill, doesn't make him guilty," Rachel
said.

"He attacked you, didn't he?" Tapper sneered.

"Yes." It had taken her several hours to get the adrenaline down and
regain her composure. Buck was bigger and stronger, and she had
survived a very dangerous situation. For days afterward, she felt
grateful for every breath she took. "Schizophrenics have been known to
attack when provoked."

"Go ahead, Rachel," Tapper said, "take the creep's side."

"I'm not taking anyone's side."

"Let's be civil, people." McKissack's face was heavy from pulling
sixteen-hour shifts like the rest of them, yet he'd recently changed
into a crisp white shirt and tie. "Is he on medication?"

"He's taking clozapine."

"Forget about it, the guy's insane," Phillip Reingold said. "He's got
all kinds of psychiatrists testifying to that effect."

"I think it's bullshit," Tapper said with priggish confidence. "He's a
drug addict with antisocial tendencies whose rich mommy and daddy keep
bailing him out. And his junkie landlady's about as credible as that
Ring Ding you're eating."

"I want him under surveillance," McKissack decided. "I know the local
sheriff, he'll cooperate. Tapper?"

"I'm on it."

"I just have a feeling," Rachel said, "he's not our man."

"Such insight from a mere mortal," Tapper said, and Rachel ignored him,
although her heart beat just a little bit faster.

"I spoke with his landlady personally," she said, "and I believe her
story. Also, after his arrest, after he was Mirandized, he waived his
rights and gave me permission to search the premises. We found nothing
the least bit incriminating."

"What about the cabin?" Ira Keppel asked. Keppel was a two dollar
toupee in a polyester sports coat, a workaholic who liked to jump-start
his day with a fistful of No-Doz. "I thought you said his family owned
a place by the ocean. What if he's hiding the victim there?"

Tapper leaned forward, eyes intently locused. "What if she's holed up
in the family cabin? We should get a search warrant."

"We don't have probable cause," McKissack said.

"Fuck probable cause, get a consent search."

"We'll see if we can secure one from the family. And let's put a car
on him," McKissack said. "We're running out of time, people. J. Q.
Public's getting pissed off. They watch TV, they see no arrests.
They're afraid for their children, their wives, their sisters."

"I'm just saying," Rachel said, "we can't afford to focus everything on
a single suspect right now."

"I'm open to suggestions, Detective Storrow," McKissack said, and her
name on his lips sent a chill shuttling down her spine. His voice was
so constricted, she wanted to find the choke control and ease up. "We
need answers fast. The Castillos are demanding immediate action, and
what do we do? We sit around nursing our ulcers."