Good Lord, Deliver Us (27 page)

At home, trying for inner warmth to match
the heat of the fireplace, Z downed the other beers.

The only reason Z
sometimes took a drink was when his view of the world had been
disproved, Z's normal belief that the world was a bad place upset
by events showing the world to be a
terrible
place.

Since Z usually drank Diet
Coke, he didn't recall going to bed -- but couldn't
help
remember getting
up, a coke-drinker ill-prepared for fur growing on his tongue, to
say nothing of his skull morphed into a big bass drum!

Unable to eat a breakfast sandwich -- not
even peanut butter straight from the jar! -- Z was still sitting
morosely at his junky table when the phone rang.

Stumbling over to fumble up the receiver, at
the same time turning to sag into the pitifully sprung divan, he
whispered, "Z."

"Addison. I tried your
office. Then used a little magic to produce your home number." The
kind of "cop magic"
Z
sometimes needed.

Z tried to see what time it was, but found
his watch to be ... unfocused.

"Your man Ted called last night at midnight
and we've been at it ever since. Sheriff Overfelt's a good man, but
getting old, so he was grateful for any Metro help coming his way.
Unofficially, he's turned the investigation over to us, seeing that
several of the men lived in K.C.

"The only break we caught so far is that the
site's almost undisturbed. No footprints in the dirt except your
cop friend, some others wiped out, maybe, by having squares of
cardboard dragged over them. So I guess that locks it up that your
friend was the one who actually found the bodies."

"Looks like."

"Otherwise, who would believe a cockamamie
story like he told about how public-spirited he was to have
discovered the bodies. Something about being in line for a
presidential medal because of it." Addison paused to make
disbelieving clicking sounds. "To be fair, he might have come up
with a better story if he hadn't been so weak from puking up his
guts."

Though it hurt Z's face to stretch the skin
of any part of it, Z smiled.

"No usable fingerprints on the shovel. The
handle was too rough to take prints. The lab boys will give a few
smudged ones a try, but the print man says, no way.

"The photog used a lot of film on this
one."

"How many?"

"Eight. Hell, that's one more than Jack the
Ripper got. With a difference. Jack did women. This guy does men.
Another difference from the Ripper -- these were all shot in the
temple. Looks like small caliber. Forensics will give us more, but
it's a good bet the same gun was used."

"They the missing vagrants?"

"That's right. Prints collected from the
stiffs show six of the eight were the missing men. The others were
too deteriorated to print. Bodies go bad fast in the heat.

"I don't much like the arrogance of the FBI,
but they've got a hell of a facility for classifying fingerprints.
Didn't take them five hours to fax identifications back to us. What
made it easy was that all these men had been printed when they were
in the service."

"Too early, yet, to know the perp?"

"Yeah. But both of us have got a guess. And
Z. The thing we're holding back, is about the mutilation. So we can
get rid of the sickos who'll come in and confess. Also to help us
distinguish copycat killers who won't know that mangling is a must;
dear God, spare us from them!"

"You found the one with the ... you know ...
in his mouth?"

"They were all like that." A pause. "And
worse."

"Worse!?"

"A couple of the stiffs
contribute a new definition to what's generally meant by
eyeballs
."

* * * * *

Though Z had been certain he'd feel better
after getting off the ghost house case, he felt worse. In addition
to sneezing and being tired, he now had a tight and scratchy
throat.

Damn Ted, anyway! With Z not feeling well to
start with, standing out in the rain for Ted's benefit had about
done Z in.

Still, colds were a fact of life. As was
murder. As was mutilation.

Refusing to give in to illness, Z had tidied
up by burning the breakfast crumbs, paper plate, and morning paper;
after dousing the fire, had headed out that late Thursday
afternoon, bound for his office.

As Z pulled out of the dilapidated garage
into the narrow alley, he realized he wasn't seeing very well --
hardly a recent phenomena. When rich people's eyes began to go,
they bought contacts; when people like Z needed help, they had to
settle for glasses, no matter that having to wear a pair of specs
made you look old.

Though the summer was
doing its best to lighten Z's mood, the sky bright, the sun a
glittering gold ball, it wasn't working. In part, because you had
to add
steamy
to
the summer's heat, Z's shirt, his pants -- the Cavalier itself --
wilting before he'd gone a block.

Inside his office, now an expert at wiggling
the desk lamp's wires to make the light come on, Z pushed the
rewind button on his answering machine, the hiss of tape promising
a message. More trouble, probably.

It could be Ted wanting
another favor. Or more likely, blaming Z for putting Ted through
such a squeamish night. (One thing it would
not
be was Ted ringing up to thank Z
for helping to promote Teddy's career.)

It might be Detective Addison, saying that
the K.C. cops had solved the case of the murdered vagrants. Again,
improbable, given the way police procedures worked --
s-l-o-w-l-y.

Or maybe the message was from Susan. Leggy
Susan. Rich, black haired, startlingly blue-eyed Susan. The Susan,
who was altogether too good for a rough and tumble, dumb 'ol guy
like him.

Odds said the message wasn't from Professor
Calder. And not from Mr. Smith. If, in spite of knowing nothing
about Z -- Z's name, how Z looked, what car Z drove -- Sam Smith
had located him, Smith was a better detective than Big Bob Zapolska
would ever be. (A stupid speculation to begin with, Smith no hit
man and certainly not one with the kind of connections it would
take to track Z down.)

The message could be
from
Mrs
. Smith,
the woman wondering what was keeping Z from telling her the gory
details of how Z had murdered her husband.

Or it might be
new
business, except at
the moment, Z didn't want new business.

His mind unable to stop "squirrel caging," Z
put his hand to his forehead.

Feverish. That's what Susan had said. And
that's the way he felt. Big time.

Vaguely, Z wondered how he'd feel if he
hadn't bolted down a handful of aspirin that morning.

Whatever was wrong with him, one of the
symptoms was having trouble taking action, even something simple
like pushing the play button on his outdated answering machine.

Forcing himself, Z reached out a shaky
finger; managed to get the button pushed.

A blank spot. Then the muffled voice. "I've
been trying to get you but I guess you're not coming into work
today. Oldsters need their sleep. Ha. Ha. Seriously, call me. In
case you've lost my number, it's ...."

Z pushed the stop button. Then rewind.

Z had
not
forgotten her number; he
never
forgot
numbers.

Going around to the small chair, Z sat down.
Picked up. Dialed Jamie, the phone at the other end ringing. And
ringing again. "Hi."

"Z."

"So, you just get to work?"

"Yes."

"In the dark of a winter
night, I'm up at six and at school before seven every morning. I
teach six classes. And have papers to grade at night. That's in the
winter, of course. In summer -- do entirely to my generous
teacher's salary -- I sit on my broad veranda with a frosty glass
of julep in my hand, watching my happy darkies do the work." Z
didn't know what to say. Didn't know what he was
expected
to say.
Never
knew what any
woman expected him to say. "So, that's
my
life. Getting back to small
change, I got in to see the Vice Chancellor. Got to Bateman College
with the birds. Had to wait until his excellency breezed in just
after nine.

"Did you know there was once a study that
showed that the number of keys a person carries indicates his
social status? The janitor has all the keys, the president of the
company -- coming to work after everything has been unlocked -- has
only one. The key to the executive washroom?"

On that scale to determine social class, Z
must rate right up there with doctors and lawyers. For Z had only
three keys. One to the ignition on the Cavalier. (He'd lost the key
to the trunk, the trunk lock broken anyway.) One to his apartment.
And one to his office.

Going the company
executive one better, Z's lock-picking skills meant he didn't need
a
single
key. Z
not saying that because it was never a good idea to contradict a
woman.

"And though I almost had
to promise to sleep with the slimy little bastard -- in fact,
he
may
have
gotten the impression I'm
going
to sleep with him -- I got our money. He liked my
report enough to lick his lips while reading it, the report saying,
definitely no ghost. I was able to squeeze out fifteen-hundred
apiece from him. That's five-hundred more bucks for each of us than
I thought I could get. This was probably because I figured out that
he doesn't want anything about his hiring a "ghost hunter" to leak
out to the press. Thinks the fact that he went to all that trouble
might make reporters start to salivate. What he wants is to flatten
the house, then show my report to the TV people if they jump him
for knocking down a possible TV story."

It sounded to Z as if Jamie had the Vice
Chancellor figured out about right. "Nor can I imagine where he got
the idea that I have a boyfriend who's a TV reporter. It must have
been when I mumbled something about how I'd always admired
anchormen. Men are funny that way. They can get the wrong ideas
about a girl."

Yes, Z thought. Particularly when the girl
was Jamie Stewart.

"It seems he also came to believe that if he
paid up quick, I'd be so happy about receiving the money I'd forget
all about anything connected with that old house." Translated:
Jamie had coerced the money out of Ashlock. "But you remember the
old commercial? 'Promise her anything but give her the shaft?' Men
are always making promises they don't intend to keep. In fact, one
of the things I like about you, Z, is that you didn't make me any
promises. Of course, you hardly talk at all, not that talking is
the only thing I like about a man. But anyway, not being as
trusting as I was before you spoiled my virginity, I plopped my
bottom in Ashlock's chair until he called someone in the business
office and explained that he needed two checks cut pronto.

"Then, just to make sure, I wandered over to
the comptroller and confirmed that our checks were in the works. It
might take a few days for them to blunder through the college
system, but you'll be getting your $1,500."

"Thanks."

"I knew you'd be full of flowery praise like
that." Z heard her cocky laugh. "That's it for now. It's been fun.
Bye."

Z hung up.

About the money, he was
satisfied.
More
than satisfied. About Jamie saying, "That's it
for now
," Z wasn't so
sure. Something every man learns about women is that they have
trouble telling the difference between sex-for-fun and what women
are always calling
love
.

Z coughed, his throat feeling stretched like
the head of a calfskin drum. Except ... for a "soft" spot of pain
on one side at the back of his pallet. Not a good sign.

No more messages on the machine, he'd
conduct one more bit of business and go home.

Not feeling that well at all, Z even had to
think a moment before he could come up with Mrs. Smith's home
number.

"Hello," said the shaky voice.

"Z."

"Thank God you called! It's been days! I've
been worried sick that you didn't call! When can you come
over?"

"Got to talk to you about that."

"Oh?"

"As you know, I talked to your husband."

"Talked??"

"And decided he's harmless."

The line went as silent as if severed with
an ax.

"Harmless?"

"He won't bother you again. I'm sure."

"You
talked
to him
once
, and you can tell that!?" Put
that way, it did sound silly. What she couldn't know was that the
"language" of Z's "talks" got results. "Did you know he's an
actor?"

"Yes." And so are you, Z reminded himself,
to keep the seesaw balanced.

"Of
course
, he can
seem
perfectly fine. It's his job to
be convincing in any part he wants to play." Z thought of the man
sitting on the divan with a soon-to-be-fired-up Roman candle up his
pants; heard again, the man's explanation of what was going on. If
Smith was an actor, he was the best one Z had run
across.

"That's how I see it."

"And that's it? You're going to do nothing?
What about me? You're going to do nothing and I'm going to wake up
murdered in my bed!"