Picture Perfect (5 page)

She shuddered with horror. Cudge had killed Lenny Lombardi and he would do the same to her if she didn't keep quiet. Everyone always said Cudge would kill somebody someday and Elva had silently agreed with them, never realizing how his potential for violence fascinated her. But Lenny was his friend.

Cudge paced the floor, his hands constantly kneading his skull in exasperation. While he paced, he kept up a constant monologue, muttering curses at Lenny, whining complaints and praying to God for a solution.

Bit by bit the quarrel between Lenny and Cudge became clear to Elva as she stole quick looks at the body that lay stuffed between the table and the wall.

“We have to get out of here,” Cudge said, intensity sharpening his blunt features. “And we have to get him out of here, too, before anybody starts wondering where he got to.”

Elva looked up, puzzled.

“You're an accessory, you know,” he informed her. “If I hang, you're gonna hang, too!”

“Me? I didn't do anything! I just came in here and found . . . him.”

“It don't matter, baby,” Cudge told her, his voice showing concern. He knew how easy Elva was to handle—stupid, dumb broad. All he had to do was make her think he cared for her and she came crawling, willing to do anything he demanded. “Look, baby. According to the law, you should have run out of here and gone straight to the cops. You didn't, so that means you're aiding and abetting. That makes you an accessory and what I get, you get too! Understand?”

Elva really didn't understand, but she knew that Cudge was smart when it came to the law and he sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. If he said she was an accessory, then she must be one. He'd been busted by the cops enough times to know what he was saying. “But what can we do? Where can we go?”

Cudge smiled to himself. Poor, stupid Elva. “Look, baby, we've got to get out of here and we have to take him with us. I figure we can stuff him into the camper and take off somewhere and bury him.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. “Poor Lenny.”

“What about ‘poor Cudge'? What about me? That stupid jerk tried to rip me off—he got what was coming to him! And now I ain't got no best friend.” He knew that would bring Elva around. There was nothing that could swing Elva around like cheering for the underdog. Just make her feel sorry for you and you could lead her around by the nose.

“Cudge, I didn't mean anything like that.” She went over to put her arms around him. “Sure I know how hard this must be on you and all. Lenny was your friend and I know you didn't mean to . . . to hurt him.”

“That's right, honey. I never mean to hurt nobody. I just don't know what comes over me sometimes. Hey, I'm sorry I hit you before. Real sorry. Sometimes I don't know my own strength. But don't back out on me, baby. I need you. More now than ever.”

Elva's heart went out to him. Poor Cudge, he just couldn't help himself. Any more than her father had been able to control his temper. Hadn't Mama always forgiven him? Hadn't Mama known that she was Daddy's very own salvation here on earth? Daddy had known it too. He always called Mama his own angel. Deciding she couldn't do any less for Cudge, Elva squeezed him hard. “Just tell me what you want me to do. I'll do anything to help you, Cudge, you know that.”

“Good girl.” He answered her hug with a kiss on the cheek. “Only don't go getting the idea you're doing it for me. It's for you too, baby. Christ, what would I do if they ever took you away from me because you're an accessory?”

“Don't worry, Cudge,” she said soothingly. “Nobody will ever take me away from you.”

Cudge Balog smiled and began formulating his plans for moving the remains of Lenny Lombardi into the camper.

L
istening to Sara's slow, regular breathing, Andrew knew she had fallen asleep. She had climbed into bed beside him after their lovemaking in front of the fire, placed her head on his shoulder and settled down. Now, as he lay beside her, he thought about their trip to Florida the next morning.

No need to worry about packing; Sara had seen to it, and much better than he could have done himself. They would be escorted by federal agents to the airport; and there was no concern about tickets or reservations; the government had seen to everything. They would simply board the plane and, once in Miami, go right to the courthouse. Their hotel accommodation was being kept secret even from them, so there was no possibility of a leak.

No matter how often Sara tried to reassure him, Andrew still felt uneasy for not coming forward to testify of his own volition. Nothing should have kept him from going to the authorities as soon as he'd learned that Jason Forbes's body had been discovered behind an all-night supermarket. Forbes had been only twenty, a promising student in Andrew's second-year physics class. While Andrew hadn't known the young man outside class, he had found him to be affable and to have an above average aptitude for higher mathematics.

Tomorrow Andrew would be asked to review his acquaintance with Forbes on the witness stand. There was little he could say beyond an impersonal recital of Forbes's class attendance and scholastic record. The prosecuting attorney wouldn't be looking for a personal history, Andrew reminded himself. He would want to know the details of the last time Andrew had seen Forbes alive.

It had been in May. The university library had been dim and cool, especially in the stacks where he was doing research in preparation for the coming week's classes. It had been quiet, so quiet one could almost hear the proverbial pin drop. With a scholar's contentment in the musty, hushed atmosphere, Andrew had gathered up the heavy physics texts. This was a little-used area and he had expected to spend the entire time alone at a table in the far alcove. He had been so immersed in his work that he hadn't even been aware of any noise until he heard angry voices. Curious, he had stopped to listen.

There were two voices: one with the unmistakable tenor of youth; the other harsher, older, more authoritative. They were arguing in hushed tones but their words were clear and distinct. The older voice was accusing the other of “holding out . . . starting your own business . . .”

“No!” the younger man had protested. “That was all I picked up. Honest!” He continued to protest the accusation, his tone becoming more nervous, fearful and wheedling. Impelled by curiosity, and a vague recognition of the younger voice, Andrew had quietly closed his book and moved to the archway of the alcove.

He'd recognized Forbes immediately. His accuser was a man in his late forties, of heavy build, wearing a Hawaiian-print shirt. Andrew had never seen the man before but there was something menacing about him and the way he was leaning toward Forbes. He was a dangerous man, Andrew thought, one he wouldn't want to deal with himself. He wondered if he would have Forbes's courage in standing up to him.

“We know you're lying, kid. I've been told to tell you that you'd better get the rest of the stuff to us by ten o'clock tonight . . . or else.” The man had jabbed his index finger into Forbes's shoulder for emphasis. “We don't like kids who hold out on us. We know you picked up ten kilos, so how come you only delivered eight? At street prices that would make you a nice little bundle, wouldn't it, kid? Think about it, you've been playing around with the big boys and you'd better come across.”

Forbes's complexion had turned pasty white beneath his Florida tan, and he'd choked out his words with difficulty. “I don't have it, I tell you. You've got this all wrong.”

“You've got it all right, kid. We know you do. Word got back to us about that little sale you made yesterday. Ten o'clock, kid, the usual place. Be there with the stuff. Oh, and don't try running home to mama. We've got our connections in St. Louis, too.” With the speed of lightning, the man had punched Forbes in the stomach, the blow sending the young man gasping to his knees. Then he'd turned and strolled away, his heels clicking along the aisles of books.

Andrew had hurried over to Forbes to see if he was hurt. As he stepped forward, Forbes staggered to his feet, rubbing his abdomen. A low whistle escaped him, and Andrew thought he heard him mutter a curse.

“Are you all right?”

The young man stood frozen, staring at Andrew.

Andrew had taken a step toward the student, but the forbidding expression on Forbes's face stopped him. Jamming his hands in his jeans pockets, Forbes walked out.

For the rest of the day, the scene he had witnessed replayed in Andrew's mind. That Forbes was involved with drugs was obvious. Florida was the U.S. entry point used by many drug smugglers; from there the drugs were distributed to major cities. There was also no doubt that Forbes had gotten hold of two kilos of whatever—cocaine, heroin or marijuana—and had kept it. The only uncertainty was whether or not he would return it. If he had made a sale the day before, did that mean he no longer had the drugs? What would happen to him if that were the case? The question had occupied Andrew throughout dinner, until Sara had complained. Finally, he had confided in her.

The following day, Forbes's body had been found behind the supermarket. Was that the “usual place” the older man had spoken of? The campus was thrown into turmoil by the murder, and an investigation was launched. Detectives and policemen scoured the campus for information. No one approached Andrew to question him; yet he was becoming increasingly uneasy. Two weeks passed and still he wrestled with the question of whether or not to come forward with his information. Then more information had come to light. Forbes had been found to be involved in drug trafficking, along with his roommate, Franklin Pell. Still, nothing in the newspaper reports indicated that the police were any closer to finding Forbes's killer. Andrew knew that the police rarely revealed all information to the press, yet every day he scanned the papers, finding out more about Forbes after his death than he had ever known about him in life. It became an obsession.

In the midst of it all, Andrew and Sara had had to respond to job offers made to both of them earlier that year by Montclair College in New Jersey. They had talked it over and agreed they would be fools to leave the “Sunshine State” for the long, cold Jersey winters. But now the opportunity to leave Florida and escape even the remotest involvement in the Forbes case appealed to them. They would leave as soon as classes ended in order to set up housekeeping and prepare for the fall semester.

By the middle of July, the Taylors had moved into an old Victorian house on the outskirts of Montclair. Andrew seemed to be his normal self again, and Sara was occupied with setting up housekeeping and redecorating. Even Davey seemed to adjust to the move with little difficulty; in fact, he thrived on the additional attention provided by Sara's sister, Lorrie, who lived nearby. September came, and with it a structured schedule, marshaled by Sara, of classes, study, chores, and school for Davey. Then the murder in Florida had caught up with them—Andrew and Sara were picked up during their classes by federal agents. Franklin Pell had informed the police about the circumstances leading to his roommate's death, revealing that Forbes had told him that Professor Taylor had witnessed the confrontation in the library. Pell's testimony had leaked to the newspapers, but before the news could be picked up by the wire services, the government hastily arranged for the Taylors to be picked up and questioned.

The drug ring Forbes had been involved with was one of the biggest in the country. Andrew's testimony was vital in linking the syndicate to Forbes's death, and hence to other crimes. The government had been waiting for such a link—it would be instrumental in breaking up a wide circle of corruption which it was determined to destroy. Without Andrew's testimony, the connection between Forbes and the syndicate would be weak, and if the government knew this, so did the killers. Even Franklin Pell had no direct contact with the syndicate. His only contact had been Forbes himself.

With awesome speed and thoroughness, the government put the Taylor family under twenty-four-hour guard. The syndicate's main objective would be to prevent Andrew from appearing in court—an end most likely to be achieved the same way they had dealt with Forbes.

Sara had been wonderful throughout, dealing with the government interlopers with the same efficiency with which she ran the house and her career. Davey liked the men who followed him to school and stood outside his classroom even though he didn't understand exactly why they were there. Sara had deemed it unnecessary to tell him too much. It was more important, she said, that Davey saw his parents coping with the unusual happenings in their household and going about their lives as normally as possible.

Andrew hated the news media most of all. They referred to his caution in coming forward with the information that could “crack the most infamous drug ring operating in the United States” as though he had deliberately held back. While he didn't have any illusions about being a hero, Andrew despised their use of the word “caution.” He knew it was a non-libelous euphemism for “coward.”

Sara turned over onto her side, sleeping deeply now, her blond hair fanned over the pillow. The sweet, round shape of her haunches pressed against Andrew and he smoothed his hand over her hip, following the line to the slim valley of her waist. He envied Sara her peace, wanted it for himself, wished he could find sleep instead of lying there thinking.

A soft cough from Davey's room drew his attention. He smiled as he thought of his son. Andrew didn't share Sara's reservations about Davey's growing dependence on Lorrie, but he didn't disagree either. Sara, as his mother, was much closer to Davey and his needs than he was; he would rely on her instincts.

Andrew and Sara had been married nearly fifteen years before Davey was born. They had been resigned to never having a child when the miracle was announced. Methodical thinkers both, they spent the time prior to Davey's birth discussing and rediscussing their ideas of child rearing. Happily, they'd found they agreed on almost every point. At the time, they had been teaching in a small college in upstate New York, their professional lives neatly blending with their home life. It had been an idyllic time, filled with scholastic achievements and music and love. And even though both were just past forty, they were certain that their long-awaited child could only enhance their lives.

Shortly after Davey's birth they had learned he was a hemophiliac. When he was nine months old, Sara had discovered a swelling near the base of his spine. When the doctor entered the examination room, the first thing he'd asked was, “How long has he been this color?” Andrew remembered how upset Sara had been, feeling she had been remiss, but neither one of them had noticed a change in the baby's complexion. Thinking about what had happened next still caused Andrew to break out in a sweat. After a preliminary blood test the doctor had informed them: “This baby is dying. Get him to the hospital, fast! Your son is a hemophiliac and his condition is critical.”

That immediate crisis had passed, but it had launched a whole new lifestyle for the Taylors, one predicated on preventing Davey suffering even the slightest injury. Simple things would send them rushing to the hospital emergency room—bumps, bruises, cutting baby teeth, Davey biting his tongue when he fell taking his first steps.

Those had been bitter days and Sara, in particular, had agonized over the situation. Hemophilia was a blood disorder passed from mother to son. Having no brothers or uncles on her maternal side, Sara had been completely ignorant of the fact that she carried the gene. She was burdened with a guilt that could never be overcome. It was
her
fault that Davey was imperfect. She had immediately planned a campaign to protect her son in every way possible. The baby's crib and play areas were padded. Expensive special shoes with rubber soles were purchased so Davey wouldn't slip. Occasionally braces were necessary to assure that his limbs grew straight. Each little episode bordered on catastrophe. In addition to dealing with the harrowing medical problems of hemophilia, the Taylors had to live with anxiety and uncertainty every day. And still accidents would occur. Because of Davey's young age, his tiny veins sometimes could not accommodate transfusion equipment, and he would have to be strapped to a hospital bed for hours.

Sara's strength of will kept the family on as even a keel as was possible. She could ease Andrew's mind and offer hope when there was none, holding out for the day when Davey could be put on an antigen program. Before researchers had succeeded in isolating the two anti-hemophilic factors—Factor VIII and Factor IX—patients with bleeding had to lie in bed while bottles of plasma containing clotting factors were dripped into their veins. Then pharmaceutical companies had developed a way to freeze and concentrate the factors, making it possible for patients to self-administer the drug with daily shots. Unfortunately, Davey had developed antibodies against Factor VIII. It took more and more of the concentrate to block his bleeding, and Sara and Andrew feared that he would die from his next injury or spontaneous bleed. So when he was accepted into the antigen program researching suppression of antibodies, his parents were relieved. As long as Davey received an uninterrupted daily dosage of antigen, he would be able to live a normal life.

That word “uninterrupted” still made Andrew uneasy. In this life of uncertainties, was that really possible? It had to be. At this point, Davey's hemophilia was controlled. But, by the very nature of the antigen, it was possible that Davey's own body defenses could reject the drug. Then it would be useless, and the only treatment that would be effective would entail hours strapped to transfusion devices. Sara and Andrew had been instructed how vitally important it was that Davey received the antigen at the same time every single day. Even one day without the injection could set up a chemical reaction in his body, whereby the drug would be rejected and rendered useless forever. There would be no turning back. Once a week, Davey's antigen level had to be checked; it was imperative that it be kept at a level which coincided with his growth.