Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (31 page)

Mary checked once again. "Yes, name was
Margaret. He said she wasn't home because she was a psychologist and
had early appointments today."

Foster took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You
are sure that's what he said? Did he say anything else?"

"I’m sure, and that's all he said."

He turned to Sloan. "Is. there someplace we can
talk?"

Sloan understood. "Right here . . ." In a
louder voice to the group: "That’ll be it for now, we’ll
take this up again at rollcall."

Reluctantly the group filed out, except the Captain
Zinkowsky. She hadn't been there much during the lycanthropy talk
earlier and he didn't much want her to hear what was going to be
said, but he had no choice. She was, after all, the captain of the
station.

As Mercanto started to go Dr. Foster said,
"Detective, it might be helpful if you stay, too."

Mercanto closed the door and joined them.

"The coincidence is too great. . ." Dr.
Foster began, as if trying to convince himself to say what he was
thinking.

"Go on," Sloan said.

Looking at Mercanto, he said, "This morning when
you were leaving my office, remember I said I had something to do
before coming out here . . . ?"

Mercanto nodded.

"I went to see a colleague of mine, a
psychologist who has been treating a very disturbed patient, one
suffering from hallucinations similar to the profile of a
lycanthropic. I went to convince her to give me his name." He
added quickly, "Not that I exactly believed he was the killer,
but to be on the safe side . . . schizophrenia is a highly
individualized disorder that often resembles many other disturbances
we treat. Still, it worried me . . ."

"What did she say?" Sloan said.

"She refused. I expected that, but during
our-talk she mentioned his first name . . . an unusual one, the same
that Detective Kane just mentioned. Loring."

He paused. "That’s why I asked about the wife.
I'm confident our killer is single, but you heard what he said . . .
his wife's name was Margaret and she was a psychologist . . .
Margaret is the name of my colleague . . ."

Sloan was on his feet. "Goddamn, you're right,
it sure does sound like too great a coincidence. Same first name,
blond hair, and from the neighborhood." He crossed the room in a
couple of strides and opened the door, yelling, "Kane, in here."

As soon as she gave the
address, Mercanto was out the door, the others close behind. He got
in his car and took off, not waiting for Sloan to assemble the
backup. As he drove he checked his revolver, made sure it was loaded,
anger boiling inside for the killer who now had a name.

* * *

He pulled to a stop in front of the cottage.

The drive was empty, the house gloomy dark in the
rain. Before he had approached the front door Sloan arrived with two
blue-and-whites, lights flashing.

Kane and Dr. Foster piled out of Sloan's car with
him. Sloan took charge. "You two wait here," he said,
indicating Mary and the doctor. "Two of you take the front. Two
go around to the rear," he said to the uniformed officers armed
with shotguns. "And be careful. Don't get trigger happy, but
remember what this guy could be."

Sloan and Mercanto followed the team to the front
door, guns drawn. Standing out of the line of fire, Sloan rapped on
the door with the butt of his revolver. "Police, open up. We
want to talk to you."

No sound from the house. Sloan repeated it, no
results. One of the uniformed officers hustled around from the rear
of the house, rain streaming on his slicker.

"Lieutenant, there's a bunch of windows on the
back. Looks like nobody’s home."

"Wait here," he said to the team at the
front door, and he and Mercanto followed the officer to the rear of
the house. They peered in but couldn't make out much because of the
darkness inside. "Looks like he’s not here," Sloan said,
"and we don't have a search warrant."

Mercanto stepped forward and smashed one of the
windows with his revolver, the sound of the breaking glass loud in
the late afternoon. "Looks like we just discovered a burglary in
progress. Probable cause."

Sloan gave him a look of grudging approval. "Okay,
Mercanto, go around front and alert the other team so they don't
start shooting."

As he hurried around the side of the house, he heard
them entering the house.

In a moment Sloan came through and let them in,
motioning for Mary Kane and Dr. Foster to join him. "He's our
man . . ."

They followed him into the house. In the living room
the other team of uniformed officers was standing by the fireplace,
staring down. On the mirror above the mantlepiece someone had written
in large red letters . . . ABADDON.

"
Search the place," Sloan said. "Now,
get a move on."

As the men began to move about the house, Sloan said,
"Come over here."

Mercanto, Kane and Dr. Foster followed him to the
fireplace, and he pointed down at it. There, nestled among the burned
logs, was the remains of Catherine Poydras’ arm.

Dr. Foster backed away to the sofa. Sloan was all
business, in his element. "Looks like he wrote it in blood. What
do you think it means?"

"
No idea," Mercanto said, staring at the
word on the mirror. Dr. Foster spoke up behind them. "It’s
from the book of Revelation . . . the Hebrew name for the angel who
is the keeper of the keys to the bottomless pit where Satan is to be
ultimately imprisoned . . . It helps to know that book when you treat
disturbed patients," he said, thinking of Margaret's deep
involvement with the man.

The officers came back then from the other rooms.
"Nothing," one of them said.

Dr. Foster got to his feet. "Margaret Priest is
his psychologist. During his treatment he’s become obsessed with
her. It’s very possible that's where he’s gone — "

Sloan turned to Mary Kane. "You stay here with
one team. If he comes back you make sure nothing goes wrong with the
arrest. We don’t want to blow this case . . ." Looking back at
Dr. Foster, he said, "Where will this Margaret Priest be now?"

"Probably at home, although she could be seeing
patients late at her office," he said, and gave them both
addresses.

Sloan told the other team of officers, "You take
her office . . . Kane, get on the phone to Spivak and have him meet
them there. Mercanto and I will take the house."
 

CHAPTER 27

MARGARET PARKED in front of her house and sat for a
moment. Her last appointment had been a group session, which always
left her exhausted. Charles' earlier appearance in her office made it
worse.

After he left she had tried to deal with what he had
said. At lunch she had even gone so far as to look up the articles on
lycanthropy he had mentioned. Even though there was much in them that
fit Loring's behavior, at least on the surface, she still was not
convinced. She felt she knew the man too well to believe him capable
of such . . . well, atrocities.

Still, it frightened her. She needed to talk to him
and called his office. He had not come in today, they said. Then his
home, no answer. Should she have given Charles Loring's name? Prove
to him she was right? No, it would have been too traumatic for Loring
to go through such an interrogation. It could push him over the edge,
beyond any help by anybody. . .

She got out and started for the house, too tired even
to hurry in the rain. Adam’s car was across the street. Good, he
was home. She didn’t want to be alone. And since what had happened
at that party he’d been at least trying to make amends. Not that
she had much hope there, but still . . .

She used her key to open the door, surprised that the
house was dark? "Adam? Where are you?" No answer. He must
be upstairs, maybe taking a nap. She turned on the hall-table light,
hung up her raincoat, started upstairs . . .

In the study Loring heard her voice and moved out of
sight behind the door. He didn’t want to startle her. But he was
eager to tell her what he’d done, that with Abaddon’s help he had
finally rid himself of his old enemy, that his life now had a purpose
as never before . . .

Upstairs she walked into the bedroom, and even in the
darkness saw the bed was empty. Maybe he was in the study, he
sometimes took catnaps on the sofa there . . .

Loring heard her footsteps on the stairs. There was
so much to say, to tell her, to prepare her before he gave her
eternal life. He was glad for that, but he also didn’t like to
think about losing her. He would be lonely, but was still willing to
do it for her . . .

Margaret flipped the switch at the entrance to the
study that operated the light on the table at the end of the sofa,
and in its glow she saw Adam’s body on the floor.

The carnage was surreal, and so much so it took time
to register before her hands went to her face and she screamed.
Loring moved forward now from behind the door. "Margaret, don't
. . . it's all right." He kept coming, his arms outstretched.
She backed away. "No . . . no . . ." Oh God, Charles, he
was — so right. . .

"Please, Margaret, calm yourself. We have to
talk. There are so many things I want to tell you."

She looked at him, couldn’t stand the sight, blood
all over him. Not a word from her . . . at least she knew enough for
that.

He smiled. More a rictus in his blood-smeared face,
like the mask she had seen at the museum that night with Adam.

"
It was all part of the Plan," he was
saying. "That's why I wanted to talk to you, to make you
understand. It was all revealed to me that night after you left my
house," he said, his eyes blank, looking more through her than
at her.

"Abaddon came to me and did what you were never
able to do. He let me see my past, and future . . ."

She fought for breath, and the strength to mask her
fear. There was no doubt she was to be his next. No escape, nothing
to defend herself with.

Get a grip on yourself. Talk to him, try to reach
him. You've got to bring him down, get through to him somehow. Use
your skills, what you know. Your life depends on it . . .

"I don't understand, who is Abaddon?" Get
him talking, try to distract and get to him.

He smiled again, a smile that was terrifying with the
unrealness of his eyes. "He’s my angel, Margaret. My Angel
Margaret." He was pleased with his cleverness. "He keeps
the keys to the bottomless pit."

She managed to say, "The bottomless pit?"

At least he made no move toward her as he shook his
head. "Yes, where Satan is to be imprisoned, but not until the
new Jerusalem. That can’t happen until all those with the mark of
the beast are cleansed. That’s what I'm doing, helping to cleanse
them. Then Abaddon and I will stand guard over Satan for a thousand
years. It's my reward."

Too clearly, she realized, he thinks when he kills
it's in some higher service.

"Tell me more about Abaddon."

Loring remembered the comfort, the relief he had felt
since he surrendered himself. A note of . . . of near-tenderness was
detectable in his voice as he said, "He is the changer of men's
shapes, he can make men seek death but keep it from them. He is very
powerful . . ."

She noticed the change. It was a step, a small one,
but seemingly away from the murderous anger. Abaddon was the changer
of men's shapes, he said, and she began to remember what she had read
at lunch about lycanthropy . . . "Did he change your shape?"

He looked across the room to the windows, where he
saw the reflection of his face, changed feral in its wolf shape, and
was no longer frightened by it, welcomed it . . . "He allowed me
to become the wolf, the cleanser of the herd."

And with the word "wolf" she remembered the
picture on his mantelpiece. "Like your friend Wolf, your dog. .
."

Yes, yes, Margaret understood, and the old feeling of
just the two of them alone in her office began to come back to him.
Margaret was the only one who had ever even tried to understand what
he thought, what he felt. That made what he had to do especially
hard, but he knew that was her only way, her only hope for real
salvation.

She noticed his eyes seemed to clear slightly when
she asked about his dog. But she knew that one wrong word, one wrong
gesture could retrigger him.

"Tell me what it's like when you're the wolf,"
she said, trying to let him know that to her he was still human,
still Loring. . .

"Words can't describe it, Margaret. It's beyond
. . ." He stopped, the blankness back in his eyes. Then: "At
first I was afraid, that’s why I didn't remember, but Abaddon
explained it to me."

"What did he say?"

He looked down at Adam’s body. "That I was
selfish, self-centered, that I was jealous of my mother and even
wanted my stepfather to do those things to me. He made me remember,
told me it was the first step to redemption. The second was to obey."