Watchers (30 page)
Daddy dropped to his knees beside her. “Baby, what the hell happened, what’s wrong?”
Her mother arrived, too.
Daddy saw the blood. “Call an ambulance!”
Her mother, not given to hesitation or hysterics in time of trouble, turned immediately and ran back toward the house.
Tracy was getting dizzier. Creeping in at the edges of her vision was a darkness that was not part of the night. She wasn’t afraid of it. It seemed like a welcoming, healing darkness.
“Baby,” her father said, putting a hand on her wounds.
Weakly, realizing she was slightly delirious and wondering what she was going to say, she said, “Remember when I was very little . . . just a little girl . . . and I thought some horrible thing . . . lived in my closet . . . at night?”
He frowned worriedly. “Honey, maybe you’d better be still, be quiet and still.”
As she lost consciousness, Tracy heard herself say, with a seriousness that both amused and frightened her, “Well . . . I think maybe it was the boogeyman who used to live in the closet at the other house. I think maybe . . . he was real . . . and he’s come back.”
At four-twenty Wednesday morning, only hours after the attack at the Keeshan house, Lemuel Johnson reached Tracy Keeshan’s hospital room at St. Joseph’s in Orange. Quick as he was, however, Lem found Sheriff Walt Gaines had arrived ahead of him. Walt stood in the corridor, towering over a young doctor in surgical greens and a white lab coat; they seemed to be arguing quietly.
The NSA’s Banodyne crisis team was monitoring all police agencies in the county, including the police department in the city of Orange, in whose jurisdiction the Keeshan house fell. The team’s night-shift leader had called Lem at home with news of this case, which fit the profile of expected Banodyne-related incidents.
“You relinquished jurisdiction,” Lem pointedly reminded Walt when he joined the sheriff and doctor at the girl’s closed door.
“Maybe this isn’t part of the same case.”
“You know it is.”
“Well, that determination hasn’t been made.”
“It
was
made—back at the Keeshans’ house when I talked with your men.”
was
made—back at the Keeshans’ house when I talked with your men.”
“Okay, so let’s say I’m just here as an observer.”
“My ass,” Lem said.
“What about your ass?” Walt asked, smiling.
“It’s got a pain in it, and the name of the pain is Walter.”
“How interesting,” Walt said. “You
name
your pains. Do you give names to toothaches and headaches as well?”
name
your pains. Do you give names to toothaches and headaches as well?”
“I’ve got a headache right now, and its name is Walter, too.”
“That’s too confusing, my friend. Better call the headache Bert or Harry or something.”
Lem almost laughed—he loved this guy—but he knew that, in spite of their friendship, Walt would use the laughter as a lever to pry himself back into the case. So Lem remained stone-faced, though Walt obviously knew that Lem
wanted
to laugh. The game was ridiculous, but it had to be played.
wanted
to laugh. The game was ridiculous, but it had to be played.
The doctor, Roger Selbok, resembled a young Rod Steiger. He frowned when they raised their voices, and he possessed some of the powerful presence of Steiger, too, because his frown was enough to chasten and quiet them.
Selbok said the girl had been put through tests, had been treated for her wounds, and had been given a painkiller. She was tired. He was just about to administer a sedative to guarantee her a restful sleep, and he did not think it was a good idea for policemen of any stripe to be asking her questions just now.
The whispering, the early-morning hush of the hospital, the scent of disinfectants that filled the hall, and the sight of a white-robed nun gliding past was enough to make Lem uneasy. Suddenly, he was afraid that the girl was in far worse condition than he had been told, and he voiced his concern to Selbok.
“No, no. She’s in pretty good shape,” the doctor said. “I’ve sent her parents home, which I wouldn’t have done if there was anything to worry about. The left side of her face is bruised, and the eye is blackened, but there’s nothing serious in that. The wounds along her right side required thirty-two stitches, so we’ll need to take precautions to keep the scarring to a minimum, but she’s in no danger. She’s had a bad scare. However, she’s a bright kid, and self-reliant, so I don’t think she’ll suffer lasting psychological trauma. Still, I don’t think it’s a good idea to subject her to an interrogation tonight.”
“Not an interrogation,” Lem said. “Just a few questions.”
“Five minutes,” Walt said.
“Less,” Lem said.
They kept at Selbok, and at last they wore him down. “Well . . . I guess you’ve got your job to do, and if you promise not to be too insistent with her—”
“I’ll handle her as if she’s made of soap bubbles,” Lem said.
“
We’ll
handle her as if she’s made of soap bubbles,” Walt said.
We’ll
handle her as if she’s made of soap bubbles,” Walt said.
Selbok said, “Just tell me . . . what the devil happened to her?”
“She hasn’t told you herself?” Lem asked.
“Well, she talks about being attacked by a coyote . . .”
Lem was surprised, and he saw Walt was startled, too. Maybe the case had nothing to do with Wes Dalberg’s death and the dead animals at the Irvine Park petting zoo, after all.
“But,” the physician said, “no coyote would attack a girl as big as Tracy. They’re only a danger to very small children. And I don’t believe her wounds are like those a coyote would inflict.”
Walt said, “I understand her father drove the assailant off with a shotgun. Doesn’t he know what attacked her?”
“No,” Selbok said. “He couldn’t see what was happening in the dark, so he only fired two warning shots. He says something dashed across the yard, leaped the fence, but he couldn’t see any details. He says that Tracy first told him it was the boogeyman who used to live in her closet, but she was delirious then. She told
me
it was a coyote. So . . . do you know what’s going on here? Can you tell me anything I need to know to treat the girl?”
me
it was a coyote. So . . . do you know what’s going on here? Can you tell me anything I need to know to treat the girl?”
“I can’t,” Walt said. “But Mr. Johnson here knows the whole situation.”
“Thanks a lot,” Lem said.
Walt just smiled.
To Selbok, Lem said, “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the case. Anyway, nothing I could tell you would alter the treatment you’d give Tracy Keeshan.”
When Lem and Walt finally got into Tracy’s hospital room, leaving Dr. Selbok in the corridor to time their visit, they found a pretty thirteen-year-old who was badly bruised and as pale as snow. She was in bed, the sheets pulled up to her shoulders. Though she had been given painkillers, she was alert, even edgy, and it was obvious why Selbok wanted to give her a sedative. She was trying not to show it, but she was scared.
“I wish you’d leave,” Lem told Walt Gaines.
“If wishes were filet mignon, we’d always eat well at dinner,” Walt said. “Hi, Tracy, I’m Sheriff Walt Gaines, and this is Lemuel Johnson. I’m about as nice as they come, though Lem here is a real stinker—everybody says so—but you don’t have to worry because I’ll keep him in line and make him be nice to you. Okay?”
Together, they coaxed Tracy into a conversation. They quickly discovered that she’d told Selbok she’d been attacked by a coyote because, though she knew it wasn’t true, she didn’t believe she could convince the physician— or anyone else—of the truth of what she’d seen. “I was afraid they’d think I’d been hit real hard on the head, had my brains scrambled,” she said, “and then they’d keep me here a lot longer.”
Sitting on the edge of the girl’s bed, Lem said, “Tracy, you don’t have to worry that I’ll think you’re scrambled. I believe I know what you saw, and all I want from you is confirmation.”
She stared at him disbelievingly.
Walt stood at the foot of her bed, smiling down at her as if he were a big, affectionate teddy bear come to life. He said, “Before you passed out, you told your dad you’d been attacked by the boogeyman who used to live in your closet.”
“It was sure ugly enough,” the girl said quietly. “But that’s not what it was, I guess.”
“Tell me,” Lem said.
She stared at Walt, at Lem, then sighed. “You tell me what you think I should’ve seen, and if you’re close, I’ll tell you what I can remember. But I’m not going to start it ’cause I know you’ll think I’m looney tunes.”
Lem regarded Walt with unconcealed frustration, realizing there was no way to avoid divulging some of the facts of the case.
Walt grinned.
To the girl, Lem said, “Yellow eyes.”
She gasped and went rigid. “Yes! You do know, don’t you? You know what was out there.” She started to sit up, winced in pain as she pulled the stitches in her wound, and slumped back against the bed. “What was it, what
was
it?”
was
it?”
“Tracy,” Lem said, “I can’t tell you what it was. I’ve signed a secrecy oath. If I violated it, I could be put in jail, but more important . . . I wouldn’t have much respect for myself.”
She frowned, finally nodded. “I guess I can understand that.”
“Good. Now tell me everything you can about your assailant.”
As it turned out, she had not seen much because the night was dark and her flashlight had illuminated The Outsider for only an instant. “Pretty big for an animal . . . maybe as big as me. The yellow eyes.” She shuddered. “And its face was . . . strange.”
“In what way?”
“Lumpy . . . deformed,” the girl said. Though she had been very pale at the start, she grew paler now, and fine beads of sweat appeared along her hairline, dampening her brow.
Walt was leaning on the footrail of the bed, straining forward, intensely interested, not wanting to miss a word.
A sudden Santa Ana wind buffeted the building, startling the girl. She looked fearfully at the rattling window, where the wind moaned, as if she was afraid something would come smashing through the glass.
Which was, Lem reminded himself, exactly how The Outsider had gotten to Wes Dalberg.
The girl swallowed hard. “Its mouth was huge . . . and the teeth . . .”
She could not stop shaking, and Lem put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, honey. It’s over now. It’s all behind you.”
After a pause to regain control of herself, but still shivering, Tracy said, “I think it was kind of hairy . . . or furry . . . I’m not sure, but it was very strong.”
“What kind of animal did it resemble?” Lem asked.
She shook her head. “It wasn’t like anything else.”
“But if you had to say it was like some other animal, would you say it was more like a cougar than anything else?”
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