Flight of the Stone Angel (19 page)

“What was my dog’s name?”

“You named him with your first words,” said Augusta, tying off the bandage and binding it with adhesive. “You wouldn’t talk till you were three years old. It drove your mother nuts, but not me. I always figured you
could
talk – you were just taking your own sweet time.”

Augusta picked up the old bandages and dropped them into the garbage bag. “So, one day, I’m out in the yard with your mother, making her a
very
good offer on the house, when Tom Jessop comes by with a birthday present for you. He put that little black pup in your arms and asked what name you would give him. Well, you and your dog locked eyes and fell in love.

“Then your mother ripped into Tom for giving you a pet without first discussing it with her. Cass was mad, and Tom was real confused. Men always know when they’ve done something wrong, but they’re never sure just what it is. So all he can think of to say is, ‘But Cass, it’s a real good dog, papers and everything.’ Your mother was backing him up to the wall, explaining the error of his ways in simple words a man could understand. And then, clear as a bell, you said, ‘Good dog,’ and Cass’s mouth dropped open. She’d never heard the sound of your voice until that second. Tom laughed and said, ‘Good Dog it is.’ And Good Dog was his name from then on. And you never did shut up for the rest of that day ”

Augusta stood up and turned her back on Mallory as she sorted through the bottles and jars of herbs on the bedside table. “I know why you came back. You want to kill them all, don’t you? Everyone in that mob.” She turned back to Mallory. “Ever kill a man before? Not counting Fred. I mean a complete man, an actual person.”

Mallory said nothing and turned her face to the wall.

Augusta surmised that this was not a guilty reaction; it was just too humiliating for the girl to admit she’d never killed anyone
but
Fred Laurie. The old woman wondered if this child might not be the most damaged creature she had ever dragged home.

“I’m talking to you the way your mother would if she were here. She would say, ‘Now, Kathy, you know mass murder is wrong.’ However, speaking for myself, a little revenge is a necessary thing.”

She leaned over Mallory and tenderly pushed back the damp tendrils of golden curls. “You can still do evil things to them, child. If that’s what you want, I will show you how to have a real good time. I’ll tell you who’s afraid of the dark, and who’s afraid of the light. When you know where all their soft spots are, you can drag it out until you’re bloated with revenge, until you’ve sickened on it. Now won’t that be fun?”

Mallory nodded. There was a terrible purpose in those cold green eyes, but no detectable soul.

“Did your mother ever mention that I was the one who delivered you?”

Silence.

“No? Well, your mother overdid it the day she moved back into the house. Too much heavy lifting brought on an early labor. The phone wasn’t hooked up, and there was no time to run for help. You were just demanding to be born. Your little head was crowning before your mother had time to say, ‘Oh, shit!’ She said that a lot during the delivery.”

Only silence.

“Well, you’re a quiet one, aren’t you, Kathy?”

“
Mallory
,” she said, correcting Augusta.

“You know, you were
born
quiet. Oh, you were breathing normal enough. Your little fists were balled up, all pissed off at the cold air and the bright light outside of your mother’s body. But you were stubborn – you wouldn’t cry. Now that terrorized your mother. Cass was lying on the bed in a bath of sweat and blood, screaming, ‘Why doesn’t she
cry?’
But despite that, I didn’t slap your newborn bottom. Though, privately, I thought you had it coming to you.”

Finally, Augusta had pried a smile out of her, but then it ghosted away so fast. Well, at least it showed that Cass’s child was still human – that was promising. So the damage had not gone bone-deep. And now there was time to wonder about the soul, and whether it might be hovering somewhere close by, searching for a way back into Kathy.

When detective sergeant Riker walked into the reception area of the sheriff’s office, there was no one minding the store. A man’s deep voice came from the next room. Riker looked through the open doorway of the private office, but the only person in sight was a pretty woman with long red hair and a tight dress.

Riker sat down on a wooden bench with a carved backing a little higher than a church pew. A toilet flushed behind a door on the other side of the room. The door swung open, and a small boy of six or seven emerged, stuffing his T-shirt into his jeans. He had the pretty woman’s red hair, but not her large blue eyes. The boy’s eyes were small, brown and curious.

“Are you a bum?”

“No, I’m a cop.”

The boy’s mouth went up on one side, and the jut of his chin said,
You’re lying.

Riker looked down at his tie, spotted with souvenirs of past meals. The old gray suit had been creased by the long train ride. It had been merely rumpled before he had gotten on that train. His scuffed shoes had not been polished since the last funeral he attended. He looked up at the boy, who was sniffing the air and no doubt detecting the beer scarfed down with lunch. “I’m an undercover cop,” he lied.

“Cool.” The boy sat down beside him and scrutinized the two-day growth of stubble on Riker’s face. “It’s really good.” And now the child took in every detail of the shabby apparel, down to the scruffy shoes. “Great disguise.”

“Thanks, squirt. So what’re you in for? You didn’t kill anybody, did you?”

“Well, no,” said the boy with some regret. Then he smiled and leaned deep into the zone of conspiracy, whispering, “But I think my mom did.”

“No kidding,” said Riker, very impressed.

“The Georgia police arrested her. Then they put us on a plane back to Louisiana. Sheriff Jessop’s in there with her now. He’s gonna make her confess.”

Now Riker and the boy listened together.

The sheriff’s voice was asking, “You think Fred might’ve had a hand in it?”

Riker thought the man’s tone lacked the passion of a good grilling. The sheriff might as well have been asking his suspect where she bought that tight dress. The woman’s response was too soft to carry distinctly, though Riker and the boy strained their necks in unison to catch the words.

“Sally,” said the sheriff, “I’m not looking at conspiracy theories here. Babe was no Jack Kennedy, and his death ain’t that big a deal.”

The woman said something in a low rush of words. All that was intelligible was a slight tone of indignation.

Riker leaned toward the boy and whispered, “Who’s Babe?”

“My father,” said the boy, brightly. “The bastard’s as dead as a doornail.”

And now Riker really was impressed. Even New York children were not so blasé about the demise of a parent. “I guess you didn’t like your old man that much.”

“He creeped me out, and my mother hated his guts.”

Now Riker looked up to see a man his own age with a gold star pinned to his dark linen sports jacket. The sheriff was taking his own turn at eavesdropping.

The boy followed the train of Riker’s eyes to the other man’s face. “Sheriff Jessop, are you gonna lock up my mother?”

Riker honestly could not tell if this would be good news to the boy or not.

“No, Bobby. You and your mother can go whenever you like. Who’s your new friend?”

“My name is Riker,” he said, standing up and extending his hand “I’m a cop. I was – ”

“And you’re from New York City,” said the sheriff, taking his hand in a firm grip.

Riker opened his wallet to display the NYPD gold shield and ID. “How’d you guess?” As if he didn’t know how thick his Brooklyn accent was.

“Oh, just a damn shot in the dark.” The sheriff held Riker’s ID at arm’s length to read it, and then handed it back. “If we get any more of you New York boys out this way, Betty’s gonna have to add another wing onto the bed and breakfast.”

The boy’s mother appeared at the door. Riker suppressed an appreciative whistle when she passed him by without a glance, as every pretty woman did. She sat down on the bench next to her son and ignored the sheriff when he spoke to her.

“Sally, when my deputy gets back, you tell her I said to take you out to the airport.” He gestured to the open door of his office. “Come on in, Sergeant Riker. Or should I call you Detective?”

“Just Riker is fine.” He settled into a comfortable chair opposite the sheriff. The clutter on the desk between them was amazing. His skill in reading upside down gave him an overview on the formidable paperwork for the Georgia extradition. Apparently, the Georgia boys had dragged their feet on compliance.

The sheriff lit up a cigarette and moved a handful of papers to expose a generous ashtray. Riker smiled and reached for his own cigarettes. So far, he liked this little town a lot. He had been in motion for two days on a nonsmoking train, only stopping for a quick lunch in the town square. He had wanted to kiss the floor of Jane’s Cafe at the sight of an ashtray on every table.

“So, Riker, I hear you New Yorkers ain’t number one in crime and murder anymore.”

“Oh, sure we are. And you would know that, if our police commissioner wasn’t the best liar in fifty states.” Riker exhaled a cloud of smoke and felt utterly at home, despite the trappings of another century.

“I don’t know about that.” The sheriff tossed a match and missed the ashtray. He eased his feet up on the desk, knocking files down to the floor, and winning Riker’s heart as a fellow slob. “Miami seems like a real up-and-comer in the killing trade.”

“Well, Miami’s real competitive. They claim to kill more tourists than we do, but that’s a damn lie.”

“According to the newspapers, you New York boys doubled the drop in crime nationwide.”

“That’s slander,” said Riker. “The top cop decentralized the department, and the mayor fired the press liaison. The reporters had no way to check the stats.” Riker draped one leg over his chair and dropped a long log of ashes on the pantleg of his suit. “It’s all politics. New York has the best politicians dirty money can buy.”

“Sorry, Riker. That happens to be our state motto. But you can be forgiven for brassing. We do admire that down here.”

And now Riker wondered why the sheriff had not asked him about his business in Dayborn. Just how slow did things move in this part of the world?

“There’s a friend of yours in town,” said the sheriff. “A man named Charles Butler.”

Well, that explained a lot. How much damage could Charles have done by now? “A friend of mine? This guy says he knows me?”

“He’s from New York City, too.”

“New York is a real small town, Sheriff, only eight million people. And you’d think we all know each other on a first-name basis, but we don’t.”

“What about the man that owned this?” The sheriff fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pocket watch. “Louis Markowitz? That name ring any bells?”

“Never heard of him,” said Riker, denying the friendship of three decades, and never going for the bait – not looking directly at the golden disk swinging from the chain in the sheriff’s hand. He made a mental note to rag Mallory about the sentimental mistake of not ditching that watch with the rest of her identification.

“If you think this Markowitz is from New York, I’ll run the name through the department and see what they turn up.” New York had more Markowitzes than Israel did. Riker was confident that he could find one who had not been the former commander of NYPD’s Special Crimes Section.

“Thanks, Riker. I’d appreciate that. But you
are
here about the prisoner.”

“I’m here because you sent the FBI a serial number on a Smith and Wesson revolver. NYPD has a match. The gun was used in a fifteen-year-old homicide.”

And that much was true. Riker remembered the day, four years ago, when Mallory had pocketed the revolver during a rookie’s tour of the evidence room. She had wanted a gun that would make bigger holes than her police-issue .38. “It’s an unsolved case.” And that was a lie. The case had been closed when both robber and victim had died in a deli shoot-out.

The sheriff seemed skeptical. “Riker, if your homicide was fifteen years ago, it couldn’t be my prisoner. She wouldn’t have been but nine or ten years old then. I can’t see a little girl doing murder with a gun.”

“No, of course not,” said Riker, with somewhat less conviction. He pictured Mallory at the age of ten, when he was still allowed to call her Kathy. Yeah, he could see the kid with a gun. However, Inspector Markowitz and his wife had eventually broken their foster child of all the worst habits and crimes against humanity. “I’d like to talk to your prisoner and ask her where she got that revolver.”

“And of course, you’d like to have the gun back. That’s a lot of paperwork.”

“NYPD doesn’t want any noise, Sheriff. Nothing over the computer, nothing on the phone and no paper trail. The old homicide could be federal jurisdiction. If the FBI finds out that gun is connected, they’ll be all over this town, and they’ll have a warrant for your prisoner. I don’t think you want that any more than I do.”

And now he could see that the sheriff did not want that, not at all.

Riker knew he could always count on mutual law-enforcement contempt for the martinets of the FBI, though he owed one of them a favor for withholding Mallory’s fingerprints. He was only a little uneasy about the payback on that highly illegal good deed.

“I can’t help you, Riker.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Don’t like to waste words, do you? Well, I can see your interest in – ”

“Save the folksy crap for the tourists.” Riker leaned over and smashed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You bet your ass we have an interest. Now I’m not gonna play village coot with you.” He stood up with the pretense of stalking out. “You don’t want to give us the gun? Fine! If you make my life miserable, then maybe I’ll call in the feds myself. You think I won’t push back?”

The sheriff smiled and exhaled a lazy stream of smoke. “The prisoner and the gun are gone. You wanna join me for a drink, Riker?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Deputy Lilith Beaudare waited until the sheriff’s car pulled away from the Dayborn Bar and Grill. Tom Jessop was alone at the wheel, so the man from New York must still be inside.

She stepped out from the doorway and crossed the narrow side street to look through the front window. The room was filled with men. There was not one female in sight. So this was still the place where men went to be with their own kind. She suspected that had always been her father’s attraction to the bar. Each time her mother had asked why he would go to a dive like that, he had smiled with a guilty secret. It was not a place where his wife would have gone, nor any of her sex.

Lilith walked in the door, and the conversations all around the room fell off as men turned their heads to have a long, hard look at her – all of her. She didn’t belong here. She knew it, and they knew it.

Then the mantalk resumed, silverware clattered on plates and glasses thumped on the tabletops.

Some of Guy Beaudare’s best stories had originated here. This was the first time she had ever seen the interior, though she knew what it would look like, even down to the details of the fish tank behind the bar, the sawdust and the peanut shells on the floor. It smelled of sweat, tobacco and beer. The jukebox played a Cajun fiddle tune, and against her will her body picked up the lively rhythm of the music as she moved among the men, causing them to lift their faces and follow her with their curious, probing stares. She knew what they were doing to her as she passed each table, naked now, disarmed, undressed and barefoot in their eyes.

She was looking for the man Bobby Laurie had described, a New York cop disguised as a bum. She walked up to the unshaven man at the bar the man with the messy suit and the bad slouch.

“Detective Riker? I’m Deputy Beaudare.”

He smiled amiably, flesh crinkling at the corners of warm brown eyes. “Well, pull up a stool, Deputy.”

“You think we might sit at a booth? Doesn’t look right, sitting at a bar in my uniform.”

“Sure, kid. Come on.” He picked up his glass and led the way to a padded booth at the back of the room where the daylight petered out. Most of the illumination came from a candle in the neck of an old Jack Daniel’s bottle.

She took the seat opposite him and waited until he was settled comfortably into his drink. “It’s about your friend.”

“What are you – the second team? I’ve been through this with the sheriff. This guy Charles Butler may be from New York, but – ”

“No, not him – the prisoner.” She looked around her, making sure there was no one within earshot. “Mallory.”

“So now the prisoner is a friend of mine?” And his smiling face said,
Fat chance.
“Your act needs work, kid. The sheriff does it better. He ran that one by me, too.”

“Then how do I know she’s a rogue cop?”

He threw up his hands in surrender, still smiling, as though he thought she might be the best joke in the world. “I give up, Deputy. How do you know? The sheriff says he has no idea what Mallory’s been up to for the past seventeen years.”

“
He
doesn’t know anything.”

“Meaning you do?”

“I know she’s a cop.”

“How do you figure that?” He put a small cloud of cigarette smoke between them.

“My mother says it’s rude to tell people what they already know.”

The man was silent. He was letting her hang out in the breeze, just watching the show and appearing to enjoy it a lot. This was not the scenario she had rehearsed in her head. Lilith sat back, not rushing her words any. “Mallory never mentioned you by name, but I know you work with her in New York City.”