Good Lord, Deliver Us (36 page)

"I got some questions." Z could ask Addison
and get straight answers.

"Shoot."

"You get Ruble?"

"
You
got Ruble."

"I remember a fight."

"Like I keep saying, Ruble
was not my case. Since I had the hot source -- you -- I got
included. As for Ruble, somebody, who shall be nameless, roasted
him like peanuts at the park. But first things first. When we
discovered that the Smith woman was the wife of the Smith who had
his apartment blown apart up north in Gladstone, and when we
learned that the Gladstone fuzz couldn't figure out how the
explosion happened, I began to get some idea about what had
really
happened. That,
plus the fact that you'd warned me that Ruble
might
have gotten himself burned.
Anyway, all of this is still a mystery to most folks hereabouts, so
there's no danger of your getting pulled downtown to answer a lot
of questions."

"Appreciate it."

"As a cop, I got
my
methods. You got
yours. No reason a cop and a P.I. can't work together in the
interests of law enforcement."

"No reason."

"So, what happened is still pretty dim,
huh?"

"Right."

"The long and short of it
is that Ruble had been holed up with the Smith woman. After he
killed her, it seems like he used your
office
as a hideout. Anyone could
get past the cheap lock you got on your office door. Seems to me
somebody like you would know better."

"Nothing inside to steal."

"The Smith woman must have spilled the beans
about where your office was located. She knew, I suppose?"

"Could have looked it up in the Yellow
Pages."

"Anyway, here's how I figure it," Addison
said, in a voice that told Z this was official, not just Addison's
personal opinion. "What happened that morning was, you're sick, but
you go to your office anyway. Ruble is already there, but since he
hasn't seen a doctor, is also in bad shape. The two of you
struggle. From the marks I heard were on your throat -- and I,
myself, questioned the emergency squad -- it looks like you were
about gone. Smart thing, you did."

"Smart .....?"

"That trick with the wire. Jerked it right
out of the lamp. Touched the ends of the live wires to the metal
plate in Ruble's forehead. Pretty fast thinking."

Though it took a moment, Z
made the tie-in. So
that
was the sizzling sound Z had heard toward the end
of consciousness. "Kill him?"

"No. It
did
knock him for a
loop, though. He was dead-to-the-world when the paramedics showed
up, but woke up later to be the same old raving loony he'd always
been. He should be back in the New York asylum by this time.
Probably due for early release next Wednesday."

"How'd I get found?"

"It must have been you who called 911."

"Maybe." Dialing the phone
was still more like a dream to Z than a reality. "I didn't
talk
to anyone
....."

"Don't have to. Just pushing 911 gets police
and medics out. First they call back to see if you mis-dialed. When
they don't get anyone, they don't take chances. They fire out the
team. The way I heard it, by the time the paras got there, a small
crowd had gathered in the hall outside your office. Just standing
there with their thumbs up their ... mouths ... like bystanders do.
Said they'd heard noises coming from your office, like animals
roaring in the zoo. So the rescue team busted in and the rest is
history."

"Yeah."

"Like I said, I'm impressed. Who'd a thought
of zapping Ruble that way?"

"Yeah." It never hurt to have a big city cop
like Addison think Z was better than he was. "Ruble the
killer?"

"He's admitted to everything. Of course,
he's so nuts he'd admit to killing Hitler if you asked him. In
fact, that's his goal in life, he told us. Wants to make a more
peaceful world by killing all the people in it."

"Environmentalist."

"What? ... Oh. I see what you mean."

"Killed the woman?"

"The Smith woman. We're sure of that. We
found a knife in the Smith woman's car, her car parked across the
street from your office. Looks like the knife dropped out of
Ruble's pocket. Between the seats. Lucky for you he was in such bad
shape he'd lost his knife."

"That's me. Lucky."

"Anyway, the lab boys say the knife fits the
slash in the woman's neck. He killed the men, too. Same markings on
all those slugs plus a test firing from the gun."

"Talking about the gun you found on the
bed?"

"Right."

"Find any other guns in the home?"

"No."

"Blood on the carryall?"

"You called that, too. Seems that's how he
took the bodies off for burial. At night, probably. A lot of engine
noise, though."

"Hardly anybody around to hear it." Except
for a sharp old lady named Dr. Devaux, Z thought. "The good thing
is, it's over."

"Except for one thing. The boy. We haven't
turned him up."

"That so?"

"I don't want to tire you, but I thought you
might have a guess about the kid's whereabouts."

"Guess?"

"It's ... odd. Some of the boy's clothes
seem to be missing. But not his toothbrush in the bathroom. There
was no pillow on the child's bed. No sheets. Blankets. Like the bed
had been stripped clean. There was a smear of blood on the
mattress. Could be the kind of spot that would soak through
bedding. It wasn't the mother's blood. Could have been the boy's
blood -- if we had the boy for comparison. ... But what I want to
say is that it's going to take a lot of time to hunt for the boy.
The father is after everybody to do that, naturally. Gladstone.
Liberty. KCMO." There was a long, thoughtful pause. "What I'd like
a guess on is -- manpower being in short supply to fight the
baddies -- should we devote a lot of personnel to finding the
child?"

"Just a guess?"

"Just a guess."

"My guess is, no."

"The father will keep on looking if we don't
bring this to a conclusion."

"Do him good to believe his boy is still ...
out there."

"I get your thinking."

"One more thing?" Z was tiring now, but
wanted to get as much wrap-up on this nasty business as he
could.

"Always."

Z paused to figure out just how he wanted to
ask the question. "Anything else about the gun?"

"No prints on it, that we could read."

"I mean the serial numbers. Show up as used
in another crime?"

"You don't catch breaks
like that. Not in
this
world."

"Yeah."

* * * * *

Saturday
proved
that Addison was
the kind of heads-up detective Z had always thought him to
be.

First, Susan came to see him -- not a
surprise. Nor was it a wonder that, every time she came, she looked
better; loose, finger-combed hair all black and shiny, smooth dark
skin, eyes, the fiery blue of cobalt-colored marbles in the sun.
Today, she was dressed in a white outfit; had on a short cotton
skirt and a thin silk, see-through, no-bra blouse whose top two
buttons had come undone from all that bounteous pressure
underneath. Considering his deep breathing therapy, Susan was
getting more results than that damned plastic breath-o-lator!

Compared to the older company everyone else
was getting, long-stemmed Susan was a lush and dewy rose,
new-opened to the world!

Back to Addison. What showed the K.C.
detective's ability to ferret out the truth was that Addison was
right in his Saturday prediction of mail, something one of the
candy-stripers had just brought in.

Not that there was much of it.

Just two pieces.

First, a card from Ted.
(Ted must
really
have been grateful for the tip about the bodies, Z thought.
No way, otherwise, he'd have spring for a seventy-cent card.) Z
getting the envelop open, the card saying: HAPPY
BIRTHDAY!

Z passed Ted's small, non-Hallmark card to
Susan, who laughed a little -- cynic that she was. (Susan didn't
like Ted; always called him, "That fascist friend of yours.")

The other piece of mail was another card,
but with no return address. A fat card.

Never able to get the top-half of his
motorized bed up high enough to get comfortable, Z was having
"slippage" problems as he worked a finger under one end of the
envelope flap. (At least he no longer had to have those oxygen
vents up his noise.)

Getting the stubborn envelope ripped open, Z
tugged out the card, the card having several sheets of heavy paper
inside.

Holding the card up, Z saw that the front of
it featured a grinning alligator with the caption, "See 'ya later,
Alligator."

Careful not to fumble out the inserts, Z
opened the card to find two alligators inside, grinning at each
other, the print at the top saying, "At my domicile,
Crocodile."

Tucked inside the card were three small
photographs ... the first ... of Z ...

standing somewhere ... stark, staring
naked!

How!?? .......

Then, Z knew.

The picture was taken at
the other end of the ghost house hallway, in the unused bedroom,
snapped one night after he'd gotten up to go to the john. Coming
out of the bathroom, confused, he'd turned right instead of left;
only discovered his error when there'd been a blinding flash --
followed by Jamie at the other end of the hall calling him back to
bed. What Z had failed to appreciate was the
consequence
of his tripping the
infrared beam operating the camera, the flash meaning the camera
was taking a picture.

The camera had caught a ghost, all right, a
big and ugly, buck-naked "ghost."

Quickly fingering through the other two
pictures, he found he was featured prominently in them, as well.
This time, asleep; stretched out on his back on Jamie's opened-up
sleeping bag, Jamie lying beside him -- also in her birthday suit
-- a wide awake and grinning Jamie Stewart.

After Z had gone to sleep one night,
fun-loving little Jamie must have set up a camera with a timing
device to take those pictures of the both of them.

Thinking back, Z remembered having dreamed
of lightning, those dream-flashes probably caused by the camera
strobing these pictures.

"Who's
that
from?"

Oh, God! Susan ... wanting to see the other
card!

Now
Z
might not be the best-educated man
in town, or the brightest. On the other hand, he hadn't stayed
alive this long in the detective game by being entirely stupid --
this background serving to explain his sudden coughing fit, his
hacking giving him the cover he needed to deep-six those
incriminating photos under the sheet!

"Poor baby," Susan
sympathized, stroking her seductive fingers along his bare arm.
"Are you
sure
you're ready to go home tomorrow?"

"I'll be all right," Z said weakly, favoring
her with a determinedly brave smile.

His throat miraculously recovered, he handed
Susan the empty card.

"No writing on it," Susan said, turning the
card every which way.

"Good!" Z hadn't thought to check the card
for the sort of obscene message Jamie might very well have penned!
Thank God that seductive little ... witch ... had figured the
pictures were enough encouragement to get him off his bed of
pain!

"Good?"

"Good ... to have a secret admirer."

"Better
not
have," Susan
grumped, Z hoping so, as well.

On the other hand,
something
might
be worked out with Miss Stewart, should she continue to show
interest. If so, he must take extreme measures to keep that kind of
"interest" as the deepest, darkest secret in the land. No man -- Z
least of all -- wanted Susan coming at him with a pair of
pliers!

* * * * *

Susan hadn't been sure Z was ready to leave
the hospital last Sunday and, to tell the strict truth, Z wasn't
either. But there was no help for it. In these days, hospital stays
lasted no longer than your insurance. And they practically kicked
you out in the street when you had no money. Fortunately, Z could
continue to take it easy, a non-job allowing Z to do nothing but
eat, sleep, and lie around the house sucking on the plastic
breathing machine they'd given him to take home. He guessed the
hospital personnel had let him have the portable breath-o-lator
because, once someone used the device -- no more than a quarter's
worth of plastic in it anyway -- it was too contaminated to sell to
a "paying customer" for a hundred dollars.

So went the week, with Z sleeping and
breathing and talking to low-voiced Susan on the phone.

Then, almost overnight, Z was ... well. He
could breath without hurting. Walk without coughing.

So he and Susan had decided to celebrate by
going to the Nelson gallery this hot Sunday afternoon.

Susan, spectacular as usual, wore a
bought-new-for-the-occasion, silky, cherry-colored skirt that
showed off her long, naturally-tan legs, Z also pleased to detect a
hidden zipper down the back. Complimenting her skirt, she'd put on
a white, pleated, form-fitting blouse with shiny black buttons --
that he'd be able to slip off easily. Three-inch heels on black
pumps brought her nearly to Z's height.