Diehl, William - Show of Evil (10 page)

'
Voila
.' Vail said it with obvious distaste. 'What if Roy
had transferred to Raymond instead of Aaron?'

'It wouldn't have happened. Raymond didn't want that. Abhorrent
behaviour patterns can be mirrored only to individuals who would
normally accept the transference.'

'In other words, the receiver must be capable of such behaviour to
begin with?'

'Correct. Raymond doesn't need Roy, never did.'

'And Aaron transferred to you, right?'

'Yes. That was a major breakthrough, I might add. It was not an easy
transition. My strategy was to appeal to his need to be appreciated by
his supervisors. That was what attracted him to Rushman. Aaron had
transferred his need - as a child

ARE YOU THERE, HYDRA?

YES FOX.

YOU HAVE DONE EXCEPTIONALLY WELL. BEYOND EXPECTATIONS.

THANK YOU, FOX.

YOU HAVE STUDIED THE
PLAN?

YES, FOX, THE BEAUTIFUL PLAN.

AND ARE YOU PREPARED?

Parver came into the office as dusk was ending. The last thin shafts
of daylight pierced the windows, casting crimson streaks through the
gloom of the office. It was empty except for Vail, who was sitting
alone in his office. He was slumped in his chair, his legs stretched
out stiffly in front of him, his elbows on the arms of his chair, the
fingers of both hands entwined and resting on his chest. His desk lamp
was the only illumination on the entire floor and he had pulled the
expensive black, cantilevered light down so its beam was swallowed up
by the dark wood of his table. He was staring into space.

She approached his office cautiously and rattled on the jamb with
her fingers. He looked up, his eyes gleaming in the shadows.

'Ms Parver,' he said with a nod.

'You busy?' she asked.

He thought about that for a couple of seconds and said, 'Yeah. I'm
working real hard at being relaxed. I'm into sudden-death overtime at
doing absolutely nothing.'

'It can wait,' she said, and started to leave.

'Too late,' he said. 'Come on in here and sit down. What's on your
mind?'

'It's about the Stoddard case,' she said, looking across the chaotic
mess of his desk. She noticed, lying in front of him, a small tape
recorder about the size of a credit card and perhaps half an inch thick
attached to a fountain pen by a thread of wire.

'What about Stoddard?' Vail said.

'I'm not sure, I think the case is still loose in places. Some of
it, I don't

The fog was so cotton-thick as they neared the marshes guarding the
river that Stenner was reduced to driving at twenty miles an hour. He
leaned forward, eyes squinted, trying to discern the white line down
the middle of the country road. He had missed the turnoff to the lodge
in the soupy mist and they had to double back, driving slowly along the
blacktop road, flicking the lights between high and low so they could
see through the earthbound clouds. Eventually they saw the sign, a
small wooden square at the intersection of the main road and an unpaved
lane that disappeared into the trees. They were running late,
four-thirty having come and gone.

RED MARSH LODGE, it said in black letters on a mud-spattered white
sign. A thick red arrow below the letters pointed down the dirt road.
Even on low beam, the headlights turned the fog into a blinding mirror
and they crept through the forest on the winding, rutted road for
almost two miles before the rustic main building of the lodge suddenly
jumped out at them through the haze.

Quarter to five.

Walt Sunderson, a heavyset Swede with a florid complexion and a
thick red moustache that dropped down almost to his jaw, stepped out on
the porch of the log cabin. He was dressed in overalls and a thick
flannel shirt under a padded Arctic jacket.

'Abe Stenner?' he called out, the word sounding flat and without
resonance in the thick grey condensation.

'Yes, sir,' the detective said, getting out of the car.

'Just missed him,' Sunderson said in the melodramatic cadence
peculiar to the Swedish. 'Darby hauled outta here ten, fifteen minutes
ago. I got your boat ready, though, and a map of the marshes and
blinds. Won't take you hardly any time at all to get rigged out. You
can unpack when you get back. Don't even have to lock your car.'

'That's right civilized,' St Claire said, shoving a wad of tobacco
under his lip with his thumb.

'Got plenty hot coffee, you betcha, ready for you in a thermos. Hope
you like it black?'

They both nodded. Although Stenner preferred a pinch or two of sugar
in his, they were eager to get started. Stenner and St Claire retrieved
two shotguns in black leather cases from the trunk. St Claire was
wearing a fur-lined ammo vest, its slots filled with 12-gauge shotgun
shells. Stenner stuffed another box of rounds in one of the pockets of
his army field jacket while Sunderson got the quart thermos. He led
them down a long, narrow floating deck.

'Careful, fellas, can't see a thing in this soup.'

'Is it always this thick?' St Claire asked.

'Not in the daytime.'

The boat, a ten-foot, flat-bottomed skiff with a thirty hp motor
riveted to the stern, lolled in the still water, barely distinguishable
in the darkness and mist despite the heavy beam of a one hundred-watt
floodlight nearby. Sunderson checked the floor of the skiff and,
scowling and muttering to himself, went to a small shed at the end of
the dock. He came back with a coil of heavy rope looped over his
shoulder.

'Could have sworn I put an anchor and chain in your boat last
night,' he said. 'I'll hitch up this line for you. There's lots of
trees
and stumps out there, you won't have any trouble finding something to
tie up to.'

'That'll be fine,' Stenner said, clambering aboard behind St Claire,
who had taken the stern and tiller. They set off into the windless,
oppressive darkness, their faces and jackets dripping with condensation
before they had travelled fifty yards.

'Kinda eerie,' St Claire said, following the beam of a small
headlight mounted on the bow.

'Ah, "death, to feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face",'
Stenner said softly.

'Didn't know you were a poet, Abel,' St Claire chuckled.

'I'm not. Robert Browning was.'

They fell silent and the boat moved slowly up the narrow creek, the
motor gurgling behind them. Stenner held a small map trying to figure
out where they were. Twenty minutes later Stenner could see another
boat vaguely through the damp, shifting, strands of mist. It was tied
to a fallen tree.

'Two of them,' Stenner whispered as they approached the blind.

The two hunters were dressed in camouflage suits and had thrown
their life jackets into the stern of the boat. Neither one was Darby.
Rushes swished along the sides of the skiff as St Claire guided it
towards the blind. One of the men, who was tall and dissipated-looking,
was taking a long pull from a gallon jug, holding it high in the crook
of his arm and tilting his head back, letting the amber fluid run
easily into his mouth. A large black lab with friendly eyes sat on the
seat beside the other man and ruffed when he saw them coming through
the fog.

'Morning,' the man beside the dog said cheerfully. He was a short
fellow, bordering on fat, with a jowly face that became almost cherubic
when he smiled.

'Morning,' Stenner said as St Claire reversed the engine and angled
in beside their boat. The drinker lowered the jug and wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand.

'Care for a swig?' he asked, offering the bottle. 'Homemade cider.
It'll sure take the edge of this chill.'

Stenner said, 'Thanks, anyway.' St Claire reached out and took the
jug and, holding up his elbow, expertly dropped it into the angle of
his arm and took a long swig. He shuddered as he lowered the container
and handed it back.

'Sure right about that,' he said. 'It warms ya right through to yer
bones. Thanks.'

'You seen another hunter out here this morning?' Stenner asked.

'You mean Jim Darby. He went on up to six. 'Bout half an hour ago.'

'What's six?' Stenner asked.

'The blinds are numbered. On that map you got there. Old Walt
hand-drew the sorry thing. Six is down the creek half a mile or so just
before it dumps into the river. This is four here and that one over on
the far side of the creek is five.'

'How far away is six?' Stenner asked.

'Half-mile, maybe.'

'Couldn't take more then ten minutes to go up there, could it?'

'More like five, even in the fog.'

'Thanks.'

'You friends of his?' one of them asked.

'Yeah,' St Claire said. 'Thought we'd surprise him. Well, thanks for
the help.'

'Sure. Good hunting.'

'Same to you.'

St Claire throttled up and angled the small boat back out into the
creek and headed for the six blind. Five minutes later they picked out
a small sign on a crooked post with a solitary 6 hand-painted on it. St
Claire turned into the tall river grass and cut the engine. The blind
was empty.

'Hear that?' St Claire said. Stenner listened keenly and through the
fog could hear the low mutter of an engine. Then a dog started barking
and a moment later they heard a muffled splash. The engine picked up a
little speed and gradually got louder.

'Here he comes,' Stenner whispered.

The sputtering sound of the motor moved slowly towards them and then
the skiff emerged through the fog almost directly in front of them.
Darby was hunched in the back of the skiff. He seemed preoccupied and
did not see them until the dog, a spotted spaniel of some kind, started
barking.

'Jesus,' he said with surprise, and cut his motor. He had a 12-gauge
shotgun turned down-side-up in his lap, snapping shells into the
chamber. St Claire eased a 9mm Clock out of its shoulder holster and
casually laid hand and gun on his thigh. As the other boat neared his
Darby squinted through the gauzy wisps of fog and suddenly recognized
Stenner. He sat up, scowling, as he drew abreast of them. Stenner
reached out and grabbed the gunwale of Darby's boat and pulled them
together.

'Good morning, Mr Darby,' he said. He reached into his jacket pocket
and took out the warrant. As he did, St Claire raised up on one knee
and held the pistol out at arm's length, pointing straight at Darby's
face.

'Kindly put that scattergun down on the bottom of that skiff,' he
said with harsh authority.

'We have a warrant for your arrest, Mr Darby,' Stenner said, and
held the warrant in front of his face.

Darby was obviously startled. Even in the fog and predawn gloom,
they could see the colour in his face drain from ruddy to pasty-white.

'That's no good up here,' he snarled. The dog snarled menacingly in
the front of the boat. 'Shut up, Rags.' The dog whined into silence.

'Sheriff'll be waiting when we get back't'camp,' said St Claire.
'You wouldn't want to add unlawful flight to your problems, now, would
ya?'

'I'm not fleeing. Do I look like I'm fleeing to you? I got nothin'
to flee about.'

'This warrant charges you with first-degree murder in the death of
your wife. You have a right to remain silent - '

'I know the drill,' he hissed, and put the shotgun aside. 'I heard
it all before.'

'I'd like you to turn around and put your hands behind your back,
please,' Stenner said formally. 'I have to cuff you.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' Darby said.

'Procedure.'

'Don't do that, please,' he said. His tone had changed suddenly from
arrogant to almost solicitous.

'I told you, it's procedure.'

'Not behind my back, okay? Where would I go?'

'Don't give us any guff, son,' St Claire said.

'I'm asking you, please don't tie my hands behind my back,' he
begged. 'I

Vail was behind the closed door of his office, a signal to the rest
of the staff that he wanted to be left alone. Naomi called it 'diving'.
It was as if Vail were underwater, in a different world, one without
sound or distraction, one in which all the data and facts of the case
were jumbled together. He sought to categorize them, to rearrange them
into a logical chronology until they formed a picture that made sense
to him. Like a legal jigsaw puzzle, the picture would eventually become
clear even though some of the pieces were missing. Only one thing was
on his mind: Aaron Stampler - or Raymond Vulpes - one and the same,
unchanged, he was certain.

Vail had not yet broached the problem of Stampler/ Vulpes with the
staff and would not until he had analysed his meeting with Vulpes and
Woodward and formed a beginning strategy for dealing with the
situation. He was wearing earphones, listening to the tape he had made
of the interview with the psychiatrist and his 'creation'. He knew that
somewhere in that tape Vulpes had revealed himself - purposely - to
taunt Vail. Somewhere on that tape was a clue that Vail would
recognize. Nothing incriminating, just Vulpes letting Vail know that he
was still Aaron Stampler and that he had successfully scammed them all.
If Vail knew anything he knew that Stampler's ego would ultimately be
his undoing.

He had been behind his closed doors for hours when he got the call
from Stenner. He and St Claire would be in the office momentarily with
details, but they wanted Vail to know that Darby was in custody and
that they had discovered Poppy Palmer's body. Vail had to put
Stampler/Vulpes aside for now and deal with the Darby case. Twenty
minutes later Stenner and St Claire blew into the office like a March
wind.

My
God
, Vail thought,
did I just see Stenner smile
?