Good Lord, Deliver Us (32 page)

"Owns?"

"Rents, I guess. Guy who rents it is named
-- get this -- Sam Smith. If that ain't an alias, I don't know my
ass from a hole in the ground." When Ted got excited, his English
reverted to what it had been before somebody told him detectives
talked classy. As for not knowing his ass from a hole in the ground
...... But Z let it pass. "Anyway, the guy wasn't there at the
time, which if he had been, his ears would still be ringing -- if
they could have found enough of 'em by scrapin' 'em off the walls.
The big bang woke a lot of folks thereabouts, and Bayliss had
questioned some before I showed. Seems Smith has a job somewhere in
Waldo -- though nobody knew what." Waldo was another old-time
perimeter town, now fully digested by the K.C. amoeba. "The blues
assigned to do it will run him down tomorrow. If they ever find
him. A guy with a suspicious-sounding name like that. Could be in
Buena Vista, by now." Ted probably meant Buenos Aires, Z wondering
if there were still extradition problems between Argentina and the
U.S. "So what I'm saying is, don't do me no more big favors in the
middle of the night!"

"Sorry."

"It's bad enough to be sitting at my desk
like the living dead. Being smirked at by Bayliss who's got to
think I'm the world's biggest prick for showin' up off-duty in the
middle of the night. And my wife's mad at me 'cause the phone got
her awake." Z had met Teddy's wife. Once.

"Thought you'd find more."

"Yeah. Well, I'm not even askin' how you
knew about this. 'Cause I don't want to testify at your trial." Ted
-- pretty much run-down but still sulking. "So here's the word. You
got some little something for me in the daytime, call. If not
....."

"Right."

"Well, OK, then."

By the time Z hung up, the heat was
beginning to build, Z getting himself up and twisting on the dials
of the air coolers. After that, Z laid the makings of a small fire
in the living room/kitchenette fireplace: kindling and a wedge of
oak log from the basket under the table. Plus a splash of
kerosene.

Trying his new lighter for
the first time, Z was pleased to see it worked. More and more,
things ...
didn't
.

After that, Z fixed himself a sandwich, all
the while feeling better.

His nose had stopped dripping.

And he didn't seem to have the headache he'd
developed after getting home last night.

His throat was sore, but not much worse than
usual.

All and all, Z believed he was on the mend,
except it was still taking him hours of rest to buy ten minutes of
feeling human.

Considering his condition, it was something
other than the "tired" he used to get from a day's worth of lifting
boxes as a warehouse man. Nor was it the "after the big game"
weariness when he played football. When you could hardly lift a
finger. No. This was an inner tiredness.

Z had only eaten half the sandwich -- all he
wanted anyway -- when the phone rang again.

Getting up from the less-than-steady chair
he always sat in at the wobbly table, Z circled the popping metal
firebox to pick up the phone, Z turning to sit down and let the
worn-out old divan absorb him. Vaguely, he thought he should have
returned to the bedroom to put on his light, summer robe. But as
long as it was the phone, not the doorbell ..........."Z."

"Sam Smith." Z put a finger in his free ear
to damp down the chugging of the air coolers.

"Where are you?" When Z had gotten home last
night, he'd directed Smith to take Z's cab, with instructions to
find a motel and stay there the rest of the night; to call in the
morning.

"I'm at the
Holiday
on I-35." Z knew
where that was.

"Go home. The place is a mess. Cops,
probably. You had a visitor, but I didn't get him."

"Cops?"

"There was an explosion."

"Oh."

"They'll ask where you were last night. Say
you slept at your job. Will that work?"

"We got theatrical period pieces. Couches
for rent. I've slept on them before."

"Good. When the cops are through with you,
go to a different motel. Stay away from home. Stay away from work.
Don't tell anyone, even me, where you are. Call me from
time-to-time to check."

"OK. You think all that's necessary?"

"Just to be sure."

"Right. And listen, about my wife ....."

"Nothing there, yet."

"Are you still ... working for her?"

"Been tryin' to quit."

"Would you work for me? I can't pay much,
but ....."

"I figure I've
been
working for
you
already
."

"About your fee?"

"Shouldn't be much."

"Good." Smith paused. "I can tell you ...
things?"

"Sure." Z found that even holding the phone
to his ear was tiring, Z shifting around on the divan so the phone
was between his ear and one of the back cushions. "I don't know if
I told you before, but my wife's ... dangerous."

"Yeah."

"I mean,
really
dangerous. She's
got a gun."

"Doesn't
every
body."

"She used to get it out.
Wave it around. That's why I slept at
Theater Supply
sometimes. To let her
cool down."

"Yeah."

"And she's getting worse."

"Yeah."

"I'm afraid. Not for myself," Smith finished
hurriedly. "But for my boy. He's all I've got. That's why I filed
for custody. I'm afraid for him. She ... beats him. Treats him like
a dog. Says he reminds her of me." Z thought of the lady's rundown
dog, the one that died. "She wanted a girl instead of a boy. Never
seemed to get over it. Blamed me. Blamed Sammy. When he was
younger, she used to dress him up like a girl. Anyway, I'm afraid
for him. If you could ... get him away from her ... I could hide
him somewhere. I could leave town. Leave the country. Start fresh
somewhere else. Just Sammy and me." The man's voice suddenly broke.
"If anything happened to Sammy ....." He faltered to a stop. Tried
to continue. "I ... couldn't ....."

"Yeah."

There was a long space as the man got
control of himself.

"She ... actually shot at me, once. I was on
the tractor ...."

"Tractor?"

"I do some gardening."

"Your wife like gardening?"

"She
hates
gardening."

"Yeah." Z was beginning to
get the uneasy feeling that, while he
was
putting the puzzle together --
slowly, methodically -- pieces were still missing. Nothing he could
put his finger on. Just a ... feeling ......

"So ... you'll see to Sammy? .....
Please!"

"Yeah. Meanwhile, hide out. I don't know
when this'll be over. Maybe a couple of days."

"I don't know how to thank you. I ....."

"Yeah."

Smith was actually a nice guy. Quiet. But
then, Z's bias was toward quiet people rather than noisy ones.

After hanging up, Z
continued to sit on the divan, more
in
the divan than on it. He was ...
played out. Didn't feel like moving.

Normally, his breakfast sandwich picked him
up. Peanut butter was good for you; invented, he'd heard, by some
doctor trying to discover a cheap source of protein to improve the
diet of the poor.

Another phone call and, if he was lucky, Z
could get back to bed...............

But he wasn't lucky. Still, he'd left a
message; would be getting a call.

Meanwhile, the little divan by the phone
wouldn't make such a bad place to bed down. If he curled up.
Particularly, since he was really ... bushed. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . .

The phone.

Drawing himself up, yawning, Z reached for
the receiver. "Z."

"Addison."

"Right. Why I called is, I saw Ruble." Now
that Z had started this, how much should he tell Addison? Z didn't
want Addison calling Liberty; didn't want Liberty cops charging
over to the Smith house before Z could have another talk with the
Smith woman. "Near the house of the bodies."

"Great!" Addison at
least
trying
to
sound positive. "It helps to know he's likely to be our man. Saves
a lot of time worrying about who else it
could
be.
Where
near the bodies?"

"Nothing definite. Just saw him close.
Couldn't catch him, though."

"Your football injury slow you down?" It was
OK with Z if Addison got that impression.

"Sometimes." Z paused to get this right.
"Another thing is ... he may look ... different ....."

"Wig covering the plate?"

"Maybe. But that's not it. I think his face
is ... burned."

"Burned?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Best guess."

"You have something to do with the
burning?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe yes? Maybe no?"

"Maybe."

The silence crackling over the line was the
sound of bright, black Detective Addison, thinking. "I'm giving you
some slack here, Z," Addison purred, his voice the thrum of a
lurking panther. Black panther, naturally. "Because I've got reason
to think you're on the side of the angels."

"Appreciate it."

"But there's a limit to
the safety line I'm reeling out to you." Safety line? Addison
meant
rope
--
also used for
hangings
. Z didn't miss the implication. "This is a murder case. My
friend in homicide's case. But everybody, including me, has a low
tolerance for murder, and in particular, something like this. With
the likelihood of another killing, then another, we got to get this
stopped."

"The way I'm positioned, I can do that
quicker."

"That's why you got all this latitude."

"Appreciate it."

Basically, there were two
kinds of cop: the good kind, like Addison, who tried to go along
with his snitches; and
most
cops who, when they got frustrated, would haul in
Mother Teresa to "sweat the truth" out of her.

Addison didn't like to throw his weight
around; one reason Z was dealing with him.

True, you could sometimes make progress with
a rubber hose -- and Z had to use that approach himself, from time
to time. But it was equally the case that violence had its
limits.

As for Ruble, Z wasn't worried about him for
the time being. Though Teddy hadn't found a body, that didn't mean
Ruble would be feeling up to murdering people any time soon, Z
calling Addison to put Addison's mind at rest on that score. "You
might check hospitals. Burns hurt."

"I'll put out the word."

"If the crazy's holed up,
I know someone who, if talked to right, can maybe
direct
me to
him."

"If you need back-up ....."

"When tracking a scent, one bloodhound'll
do. Quieter, that way."

"OK."

"I'll get back to you."

Another space in time as Addison considered
the situation. Cops didn't like sitting on the sidelines or they
wouldn't have gone into the cop business.

"Z. Don't take any chances on this one. Like
the good, law-abiding citizens we are, we'd all like to catch the
sick bastard without giving him so much as a bruise. After that,
put him on a bus for New York -- for more rehabilitation -- so he
can get back on the street tomorrow." Again, the pause. Then, a
lowering of voice to a rough whisper. "But if you have to, don't
hesitate to punch his ticket for China -- send him off the quickest
way." Z could almost see Addison's thick, black finger -- pointing
6 feet down.

"Right."

After Z hung up, he tried
to plan out what he was going to do. (Nothing for the rest
of
this
day.)

Z didn't feel too bad,
actually, except when he moved around -- at all. It was like he had
the flu, but not the kind where you threw up your guts. Or the sort
where you couldn't get two feet away from the pot. Certainly not
the variety where you had both ends going at once. He'd
had
those kinds of flu:
Hong Kong, Asian. Everybody had. This time, he felt he'd caught
something where the only symptom was exhaustion. As long as he
stayed perfectly still, he felt OK. But when he moved about, even a
little, he wore out fast.

As weak as he was, the only thing he could
do at the moment was brain work: not all that much of a limitation
at this stage of the game since brain work ought to precede
legwork.

So Z lay back on the divan; pulled the moldy
Afghan off the back and over him for modesty's sake; and thought
about the past week. About the ghost house. About the Smith house.
About the people he'd been dealing with.

It was while going over it all again that
the numbers clicked into the proper combination. Numbers that added
up to houses; both homes in Liberty; both houses to be found behind
the Bateman College hill, the big revelation, that the ghost house
was 2609 Franklin; the Smith house, 2610 Pennsylvania.

That
was the connection that had been eluding him! That the two
house numbers were so similar, a fact that could have no other
meaning than that the houses were lined up
exactly behind one another
!

The question was,
how
far
behind
each other?

Z remembered that out back
of the ghost house, there was ... nothing. Nothing but open space,
because that was where the extra soccer fields were to be put in.
Behind the Smith house? Again, just country, only part of it used
for a garden, the rest, an extensive space similar to that back of
the ghost house ... because ... it was the
same
tract of ground! The two houses
were lined up, back-to-back, on opposite sides of soon-to-be soccer
fields.