OWNED BY KURTZ IVORY INTERNATIONAL, serving as the principal vehicle for Robin Goodfellow, the Land Rover must never be seen at Corky’s home. It might too easily link him to criminal activities committed by his fascistic alter ego.
He parked around the corner and walked home in the rain, singing bits of Das Rheingold by Richard Wagner, admittedly not well but with feeling.
In the garage, he stripped naked and left his sodden clothes on the concrete floor. He took the wallet, National Security Agency ID fold, and the Glock into the house with him, because he was not yet done being Robin Goodfellow for the day.
He toweled dry in the master bedroom. He slipped into a pair of thermal underwear.
From the walk-in closet, he retrieved a black Hard Corps Gore-Tex/Thermolite storm suit made for skiers. Waterproof, warm, allowing a full range of easy movement, this would be the perfect costume for the assault on Palazzo Rospo.
[470] Hazard could have phoned Vladimir Laputa or whoever had recently entered the professor’s house through the garage, but after brooding for a minute about the wisest approach, he decided to appear at the doorstep unannounced. Something might be gained by the surprise—or lack of it—with which the swaggering man would react to the sight of Hazard and his badge.
He switched off the engine, got out of the car, and came face to face with Dunny Whistler.
As pale as a sun-bleached skull, features drawn from his days in deathlike coma, Dunny stood in the rain yet remained untouched by it, drier than bone, than moon sand, than salt. “Don’t go in there.”
Hazard startled and embarrassed himself by doing the next best thing to a feets-don’t-fail-me-now routine. He tried to back up but had nowhere to go because the car was immediately behind him, yet he couldn’t stop his shoes from slipping against the wet pavement, as his feet tried to propel him backward through the sedan.
“If you die,” Dunny said, “I can’t bring you back. I’m not your guardian.”
As solid as flesh one instant, liquid the next, Dunny collapsed without a splash into the puddle in which he stood, as though he had been an apparition formed of water, shimmering to the wet pavement in vertical rillets, vanishing in an instant, even more fluidly than he had slipped away into a mirror.
The waterproof storm suit featured a foldaway hood, anatomically shaped knees, and more pockets than a kleptomaniac’s custom-tailored overcoat, all with zippers. Two layers of socks, black ski boots, and leather-and-nylon gloves—almost as flexible as surgical gloves but less likely to arouse suspicion—completed the ensemble.
Pleased by his reflection in a full-length mirror, Corky went down [471] the hall to the back guest room, to learn if Stinky Cheese Man was dead and to give him a scare if he wasn’t.
He took with him the 9-mm pistol and a fresh sound suppressor.
At the door to the dark room, the stench of the incapacitated captive could be detected even in the hallway. Past the threshold, what had been a mere stink became a miasma that even Corky, an ardent suitor of chaos, found less than charming.
He switched on the lamp and went to the bed.
As stubborn as he was stinky, the cheese man still held on to life, although he believed his wife and daughter had been tortured, raped, and murdered.
“What kind of selfish bastard are you?” Corky asked, his voice thick with contempt.
Weak, having for so long received all liquid by intravenous drip, kept perilously close to mortal dehydration, Maxwell Dalton could not have replied except in a fragile voice so full of rasp and squeak as to be comical. He answered, therefore, only with his hate-filled stare.
Corky pressed the muzzle of the weapon against Dalton’s cracked lips.
Instead of turning his head away, the lover of Dickens and Twain and Dickinson boldly opened his mouth and bit the barrel, though this act had the flair of Hemingway. His eyes were fiery with defiance.
Behind the wheel of the sedan, parked across the street from the Laputa house, trying to get a grip on himself, Hazard thought of his Granny Rose, his dad’s mother, who believed in mojo though she didn’t practice it, believed in poltergeists though none had ever dared to trash her well-kept home, believed in ghosts though she’d never seen one, who could recite the details of a thousand famous hauntings that had involved spirits benign, malign, and Elvis. Now eighty years old, Granny Rose—Hoodoo Rose, as Hazard’s mom called her [472] with affection—was respected and much loved, but she remained a figure of amusement in the family because of her conviction that the world was not merely what science and the five senses said it was.
In spite of what he had just seen in the street, Hazard couldn’t get his mind entirely around the idea that Granny Rose might have a better grasp of reality than anyone he knew.
He had never been a man who harbored much doubt about what to do next, either in daily life or in a moment of high peril, but sitting in the car, in the rain, in the dark, shivering, he needed time just to realize that he should turn on the engine, the heater. Whether or not he should ring the bell at the Laputa house, however, seemed to be the most difficult decision of his life.
If you die, I can’t bring you back, Dunny had said, with the emphasis on you.
A cop couldn’t back off just because he feared dying. Might as well turn in the badge, get a job in phone sales, learn a craft to fill up the empty hours.
I’m not your guardian, Dunny had said, with the emphasis on your, which was a warning, of course, but which also had implications that made Hazard dizzy.
He wanted to pay a visit to Granny Rose and lie with his head on her lap, let her soothe his brow with cool compresses. Maybe she had homemade lemondrop cookies. She could brew hot chocolate for him.
Across the street, through the screen of rain, the Laputa house didn’t look the same as it had when he’d first seen it. Then it had been a handsome Victorian on a large lot, warm and welcoming, the kind of home that protected families in which all the kids became doctors and lawyers and astronauts, and everyone loved one another forever. Now he looked at it and figured that in one of the bedrooms there had to be a young girl strapped to a levitating bed, vomiting violently, cursing Jesus, and speaking in the voices of demons.
As a cop, he must never allow fear to inhibit him, but also as a [473] friend, he couldn’t walk away from this and leave Ethan with no one to guard his back.
Information. In Hazard’s experience, doubt came from having too little information to make an intelligent decision. He needed someone to chase down the answers to a couple questions.
The problem was that officially he had no reason to be pursuing these leads. If this cheese-eater were related to any active case, it was Mina Reynerd’s murder, which was on Kesselman’s desk, not on Hazard’s. He couldn’t seek information through the usual department channels.
He phoned Laura Moonves in the Detective Support Division. She had dated Ethan, she still cared for him, and she had helped him track down Rolf Reynerd from the plates on the Honda that had been filmed by one of the estate’s video cameras.
Hazard worried that she would have left for the day, but she took his call, and with relief he said, “You’re still there.”
“Am I? I thought I’d left. I thought I was halfway home, already stopped for a bucket of takeout fried chicken, double slaw. No, son of a bitch, here I still am, but what does it matter, since I don’t have a social life.”
“I tell him he’s an idiot for letting you slip away.”
“I tell him he’s an idiot, too,” she said.
“Everyone tells him he’s an idiot.”
“Yeah? So maybe we all ought to get together and come up with a new strategy, because this telling-him-he’s-an-idiot thing isn’t working. I like him so much, Hazard.”
“He’s still getting over Hannah.”
“Five years, man.”
“When he lost her, he lost more than her. He lost his sense of purpose. He couldn’t anymore see a bigger meaning to things. He needs to see it again, ’cause that’s him.”
“The world’s full of sexy, smart, successful guys who wouldn’t [474] recognize a bigger meaning to life if God punched them in the face wearing a ring that left His initials in their foreheads.”
“That would be your pissed-off Old Testament version of God.”
“Why do I have to fall for a guy who needs meaning?”
“Maybe because you need it, too.” That thought silenced Laura, and into the silence, Hazard said, “Remember that guy you helped him track down yesterday morning—Rolf Reynerd?”
“Famous wolf,” she said. “Rolf means ‘famous wolf.’ ”
“Rolf means dead. Don’t you watch the news?”
“I’m not a masochist, am I?”
“So check the homicide overnights. But not now. Right now I need you to do something for me, for Ethan, but off the record.”
“What do you need?”
Hazard glanced at the house. The place still radiated that dual atmosphere: as if the Brady Bunch had built their home over the gate to Hell.
“Vladimir Laputa,” Hazard said. He spelled it for Laura. “Let me know as quick as you can, does anyone with that name have a rap sheet, even just a DUI, failure to pay parking tickets, anything.”
Instead of pulling the trigger, Corky withdrew the barrel from Dalton’s mouth, bearing down to scrape the steel across the teeth, which were loose from malnutrition.
“One shot would be too easy for you,” Corky said. “When I’m ready to finish you, it’ll be slow ... and memorable.”
He put the pistol aside, told Dalton some delicious lies about disposing of the bodies of Rachel and Emily, and eventually selected a fresh infusion bag from the nearby refrigerator.
“I’ll be bringing someone back with me this evening,” Corky said as he worked. “An audience for your final suffering.”
In the wasted face, surrounded by a raccoon mask of livid skin, glistening in sunken sockets, the eyes rolled to follow Corky during [475] his caregiving, no longer radiant jellies spiced with hatred, but once more flavored with fear, the haunted eyes of a man who at last believed in the power of chaos and understood its majesty.
“He’s a ten-year-old boy, my new project. You’ll be surprised at his identity when I introduce you.”
After replacing the infusion bag, he went to the drug cabinet, from which he withdrew a packaged hypodermic syringe and two small bottles of drugs.
“I’ll strap him in a chair next to your bed. And if he can’t watch what I’ve got planned for you, I’ll tape his eyes open.”
Laura Moonves could find no rap sheet for Vladimir Laputa, not even a history of unpaid parking tickets. But when, after less than fifteen minutes, she called Hazard back, she had interesting news.
Robbery/Homicide had an open case under the name Laputa. The investigation wasn’t currently active, due to a lack of evidence and leads.
Four years ago, a woman named Justine Laputa, age sixty-eight, had been murdered in her home. The crime-scene address proved to be the residence that Hazard now had under surveillance.
Watching the house as he spoke with Laura, Hazard said, “How did she die?”
“The entire file isn’t on computer-network access, just the open-case extract. According to that, she was bludgeoned to death with a fireplace poker.”
Mina Reynerd had been shot in the foot, but the actual cause of her death had been bludgeoning with a marble-and-bronze lamp.
A fireplace poker. A heavy lamp. In both cases, the killer had resorted to a blunt instrument near at hand. This might not be proof enough of one modus operandi, one killer, but it was a start.
“Justine’s murder was savage, unusually violent,” Laura said. “The medical examiner estimates the killer delivered between forty and fifty blows with the poker.”
[476] Mina Reynerd’s death, by lamp, had been likewise brutal.
“Who were the detectives on the case?” Hazard asked.
“Walt Sunderland, for one.”
“I know him.”
“I got lucky,” Laura said, “caught him on his cell phone five minutes ago. Told him I couldn’t right now explain why I needed to know, then asked if he’d had a suspect in that case. Didn’t hesitate. Said Justine’s son inherited everything. Walt says he was a smug creep.”
“The son’s name is Vladimir,” Hazard guessed.
“Vladimir Ilyich Laputa. Teaches at the same university that his mother retired from.”
“So why isn’t he in some hard-time joint, trading romance for cigarettes?”
“Walt says Vladimir had an alibi so six-ways airtight that an astronaut could go to the moon and back in it.”
Nothing in this world was perfect. A designer alibi with triple-stitched seams always cocked the trigger of a cop’s suspicion because it looked made, not found.
The house waited in the rain, as though alive, alert, its few lighted windows like irregularly positioned eyes.
In the syringe, Corky blended a paralytic cocktail of drugs to keep his captive quiescent, immobile, but alert.
“By dawn you’ll be as dead as Rachel and Emily, and then this will be the boy’s room, his bed.”
He didn’t administer either a sedative or a hallucinogenic. When he returned well before midnight, he didn’t want Dalton to be fuzzy-minded or lost in illusions. The vile man must be clearheaded to experience every subtle nuance of his long-planned death.
“I’ve learned so much from this adventure of ours.”
[477] Corky introduced the hypodermic needle into the drug port on the IV drip line.
“It’s given me so many good ideas, better ideas.”
With his thumb, he slowly depressed the plunger, feeding the contents of the syringe into the saline solution that seeped into Dalton’s vein.
“The boy’s experiences in this room will be only somewhat like yours, but more colorful, more shocking.”
Having administered the full dosage, he withdrew the needle from the port and discarded it in the trash can.
“After all, the whole world will be watching the videos I send out. My little movies must have tremendous entertainment value if I’m to keep so many millions of people enthralled.”
Already, Stinky Cheese Man’s wobbly teeth had begun to chatter. For some reason, this brew of paralytic drugs gave him spasmodic chills.
“I’m sure the boy will be thrilled when, in his first starring role, he fascinates the masses in greater numbers than his father ever has.”
The storm lost its strength, became a windless drizzle. Fog plumed through the street, like cold breath come down out of the hidden moon.
Alerted now to the nature of the individual with whom he was dealing, Hazard sat in the car, mulling over how best to approach Vladimir Laputa.
His cell phone rang. When he answered it, he recognized the voice that he had heard a short time ago, in the street, issuing from the apparition.
Dunny Whistler said, “I’m Ethan’s guardian, not yours, not Aelfric’s. But if I save him—if I can—there’ll be no point to it if either you or the boy dies.”
[478] Usually able to draw upon a rich account of words, Hazard found himself bankrupt in this case. He had never talked to a ghost before. He didn’t want to start.
“He’ll blame himself for the loss of either of you,” Whistler continued. “And then the shadow on his heart will become a darkness deep within it. Don’t go in that house.”
Hazard found a voice not too much thinner and shakier than the one he usually could rely upon: “Are you dead or alive?”
“I’m dead and alive. Don’t go in that house. The Kevlar vest won’t matter. You’ll be head shot. Two bullets in the brain. And I have no authority to resurrect you.”
Dunny hung up.
Corky in the kitchen, stylishly outfitted to storm the castle of Hollywood’s reigning king, glanced at the wall clock and saw that he had less than an hour until his rendezvous with Jack Trotter in Bel Air.
Murder and mayhem sharpened the appetite. On his feet, roaming back and forth from refrigerator to pantry, he made a makeshift meal of cheese, dried fruit, half a doughnut, a spoonful of butterscotch pudding, a taste of this, a bite of that.
Such a chaotic dinner was well suited to a man who had brought so much disorder into the world in one day, and who still had much work to do before lying down to sleep.
The Glock, with sound suppressor attached, lay on the kitchen table. It would just fit in the deepest pocket of his storm suit.
In other pockets, he had spare magazines, far more ammunition than he ought to need, considering that he didn’t expect to have to kill anyone else today except Ethan Truman.
[479] If Hazard had been nothing more than a man who wanted to live, he would have driven away without crossing the street to ring that doorbell.
He was, however, also a good cop and Ethan’s friend. He believed that police work was not just a job, that it was a calling, and that friendship required commitment exactly when commitment was hardest to give.
He opened the door. He got out of the car.
He parked around the corner and walked home in the rain, singing bits of Das Rheingold by Richard Wagner, admittedly not well but with feeling.
In the garage, he stripped naked and left his sodden clothes on the concrete floor. He took the wallet, National Security Agency ID fold, and the Glock into the house with him, because he was not yet done being Robin Goodfellow for the day.
He toweled dry in the master bedroom. He slipped into a pair of thermal underwear.
From the walk-in closet, he retrieved a black Hard Corps Gore-Tex/Thermolite storm suit made for skiers. Waterproof, warm, allowing a full range of easy movement, this would be the perfect costume for the assault on Palazzo Rospo.
[470] Hazard could have phoned Vladimir Laputa or whoever had recently entered the professor’s house through the garage, but after brooding for a minute about the wisest approach, he decided to appear at the doorstep unannounced. Something might be gained by the surprise—or lack of it—with which the swaggering man would react to the sight of Hazard and his badge.
He switched off the engine, got out of the car, and came face to face with Dunny Whistler.
As pale as a sun-bleached skull, features drawn from his days in deathlike coma, Dunny stood in the rain yet remained untouched by it, drier than bone, than moon sand, than salt. “Don’t go in there.”
Hazard startled and embarrassed himself by doing the next best thing to a feets-don’t-fail-me-now routine. He tried to back up but had nowhere to go because the car was immediately behind him, yet he couldn’t stop his shoes from slipping against the wet pavement, as his feet tried to propel him backward through the sedan.
“If you die,” Dunny said, “I can’t bring you back. I’m not your guardian.”
As solid as flesh one instant, liquid the next, Dunny collapsed without a splash into the puddle in which he stood, as though he had been an apparition formed of water, shimmering to the wet pavement in vertical rillets, vanishing in an instant, even more fluidly than he had slipped away into a mirror.
The waterproof storm suit featured a foldaway hood, anatomically shaped knees, and more pockets than a kleptomaniac’s custom-tailored overcoat, all with zippers. Two layers of socks, black ski boots, and leather-and-nylon gloves—almost as flexible as surgical gloves but less likely to arouse suspicion—completed the ensemble.
Pleased by his reflection in a full-length mirror, Corky went down [471] the hall to the back guest room, to learn if Stinky Cheese Man was dead and to give him a scare if he wasn’t.
He took with him the 9-mm pistol and a fresh sound suppressor.
At the door to the dark room, the stench of the incapacitated captive could be detected even in the hallway. Past the threshold, what had been a mere stink became a miasma that even Corky, an ardent suitor of chaos, found less than charming.
He switched on the lamp and went to the bed.
As stubborn as he was stinky, the cheese man still held on to life, although he believed his wife and daughter had been tortured, raped, and murdered.
“What kind of selfish bastard are you?” Corky asked, his voice thick with contempt.
Weak, having for so long received all liquid by intravenous drip, kept perilously close to mortal dehydration, Maxwell Dalton could not have replied except in a fragile voice so full of rasp and squeak as to be comical. He answered, therefore, only with his hate-filled stare.
Corky pressed the muzzle of the weapon against Dalton’s cracked lips.
Instead of turning his head away, the lover of Dickens and Twain and Dickinson boldly opened his mouth and bit the barrel, though this act had the flair of Hemingway. His eyes were fiery with defiance.
Behind the wheel of the sedan, parked across the street from the Laputa house, trying to get a grip on himself, Hazard thought of his Granny Rose, his dad’s mother, who believed in mojo though she didn’t practice it, believed in poltergeists though none had ever dared to trash her well-kept home, believed in ghosts though she’d never seen one, who could recite the details of a thousand famous hauntings that had involved spirits benign, malign, and Elvis. Now eighty years old, Granny Rose—Hoodoo Rose, as Hazard’s mom called her [472] with affection—was respected and much loved, but she remained a figure of amusement in the family because of her conviction that the world was not merely what science and the five senses said it was.
In spite of what he had just seen in the street, Hazard couldn’t get his mind entirely around the idea that Granny Rose might have a better grasp of reality than anyone he knew.
He had never been a man who harbored much doubt about what to do next, either in daily life or in a moment of high peril, but sitting in the car, in the rain, in the dark, shivering, he needed time just to realize that he should turn on the engine, the heater. Whether or not he should ring the bell at the Laputa house, however, seemed to be the most difficult decision of his life.
If you die, I can’t bring you back, Dunny had said, with the emphasis on you.
A cop couldn’t back off just because he feared dying. Might as well turn in the badge, get a job in phone sales, learn a craft to fill up the empty hours.
I’m not your guardian, Dunny had said, with the emphasis on your, which was a warning, of course, but which also had implications that made Hazard dizzy.
He wanted to pay a visit to Granny Rose and lie with his head on her lap, let her soothe his brow with cool compresses. Maybe she had homemade lemondrop cookies. She could brew hot chocolate for him.
Across the street, through the screen of rain, the Laputa house didn’t look the same as it had when he’d first seen it. Then it had been a handsome Victorian on a large lot, warm and welcoming, the kind of home that protected families in which all the kids became doctors and lawyers and astronauts, and everyone loved one another forever. Now he looked at it and figured that in one of the bedrooms there had to be a young girl strapped to a levitating bed, vomiting violently, cursing Jesus, and speaking in the voices of demons.
As a cop, he must never allow fear to inhibit him, but also as a [473] friend, he couldn’t walk away from this and leave Ethan with no one to guard his back.
Information. In Hazard’s experience, doubt came from having too little information to make an intelligent decision. He needed someone to chase down the answers to a couple questions.
The problem was that officially he had no reason to be pursuing these leads. If this cheese-eater were related to any active case, it was Mina Reynerd’s murder, which was on Kesselman’s desk, not on Hazard’s. He couldn’t seek information through the usual department channels.
He phoned Laura Moonves in the Detective Support Division. She had dated Ethan, she still cared for him, and she had helped him track down Rolf Reynerd from the plates on the Honda that had been filmed by one of the estate’s video cameras.
Hazard worried that she would have left for the day, but she took his call, and with relief he said, “You’re still there.”
“Am I? I thought I’d left. I thought I was halfway home, already stopped for a bucket of takeout fried chicken, double slaw. No, son of a bitch, here I still am, but what does it matter, since I don’t have a social life.”
“I tell him he’s an idiot for letting you slip away.”
“I tell him he’s an idiot, too,” she said.
“Everyone tells him he’s an idiot.”
“Yeah? So maybe we all ought to get together and come up with a new strategy, because this telling-him-he’s-an-idiot thing isn’t working. I like him so much, Hazard.”
“He’s still getting over Hannah.”
“Five years, man.”
“When he lost her, he lost more than her. He lost his sense of purpose. He couldn’t anymore see a bigger meaning to things. He needs to see it again, ’cause that’s him.”
“The world’s full of sexy, smart, successful guys who wouldn’t [474] recognize a bigger meaning to life if God punched them in the face wearing a ring that left His initials in their foreheads.”
“That would be your pissed-off Old Testament version of God.”
“Why do I have to fall for a guy who needs meaning?”
“Maybe because you need it, too.” That thought silenced Laura, and into the silence, Hazard said, “Remember that guy you helped him track down yesterday morning—Rolf Reynerd?”
“Famous wolf,” she said. “Rolf means ‘famous wolf.’ ”
“Rolf means dead. Don’t you watch the news?”
“I’m not a masochist, am I?”
“So check the homicide overnights. But not now. Right now I need you to do something for me, for Ethan, but off the record.”
“What do you need?”
Hazard glanced at the house. The place still radiated that dual atmosphere: as if the Brady Bunch had built their home over the gate to Hell.
“Vladimir Laputa,” Hazard said. He spelled it for Laura. “Let me know as quick as you can, does anyone with that name have a rap sheet, even just a DUI, failure to pay parking tickets, anything.”
Instead of pulling the trigger, Corky withdrew the barrel from Dalton’s mouth, bearing down to scrape the steel across the teeth, which were loose from malnutrition.
“One shot would be too easy for you,” Corky said. “When I’m ready to finish you, it’ll be slow ... and memorable.”
He put the pistol aside, told Dalton some delicious lies about disposing of the bodies of Rachel and Emily, and eventually selected a fresh infusion bag from the nearby refrigerator.
“I’ll be bringing someone back with me this evening,” Corky said as he worked. “An audience for your final suffering.”
In the wasted face, surrounded by a raccoon mask of livid skin, glistening in sunken sockets, the eyes rolled to follow Corky during [475] his caregiving, no longer radiant jellies spiced with hatred, but once more flavored with fear, the haunted eyes of a man who at last believed in the power of chaos and understood its majesty.
“He’s a ten-year-old boy, my new project. You’ll be surprised at his identity when I introduce you.”
After replacing the infusion bag, he went to the drug cabinet, from which he withdrew a packaged hypodermic syringe and two small bottles of drugs.
“I’ll strap him in a chair next to your bed. And if he can’t watch what I’ve got planned for you, I’ll tape his eyes open.”
Laura Moonves could find no rap sheet for Vladimir Laputa, not even a history of unpaid parking tickets. But when, after less than fifteen minutes, she called Hazard back, she had interesting news.
Robbery/Homicide had an open case under the name Laputa. The investigation wasn’t currently active, due to a lack of evidence and leads.
Four years ago, a woman named Justine Laputa, age sixty-eight, had been murdered in her home. The crime-scene address proved to be the residence that Hazard now had under surveillance.
Watching the house as he spoke with Laura, Hazard said, “How did she die?”
“The entire file isn’t on computer-network access, just the open-case extract. According to that, she was bludgeoned to death with a fireplace poker.”
Mina Reynerd had been shot in the foot, but the actual cause of her death had been bludgeoning with a marble-and-bronze lamp.
A fireplace poker. A heavy lamp. In both cases, the killer had resorted to a blunt instrument near at hand. This might not be proof enough of one modus operandi, one killer, but it was a start.
“Justine’s murder was savage, unusually violent,” Laura said. “The medical examiner estimates the killer delivered between forty and fifty blows with the poker.”
[476] Mina Reynerd’s death, by lamp, had been likewise brutal.
“Who were the detectives on the case?” Hazard asked.
“Walt Sunderland, for one.”
“I know him.”
“I got lucky,” Laura said, “caught him on his cell phone five minutes ago. Told him I couldn’t right now explain why I needed to know, then asked if he’d had a suspect in that case. Didn’t hesitate. Said Justine’s son inherited everything. Walt says he was a smug creep.”
“The son’s name is Vladimir,” Hazard guessed.
“Vladimir Ilyich Laputa. Teaches at the same university that his mother retired from.”
“So why isn’t he in some hard-time joint, trading romance for cigarettes?”
“Walt says Vladimir had an alibi so six-ways airtight that an astronaut could go to the moon and back in it.”
Nothing in this world was perfect. A designer alibi with triple-stitched seams always cocked the trigger of a cop’s suspicion because it looked made, not found.
The house waited in the rain, as though alive, alert, its few lighted windows like irregularly positioned eyes.
In the syringe, Corky blended a paralytic cocktail of drugs to keep his captive quiescent, immobile, but alert.
“By dawn you’ll be as dead as Rachel and Emily, and then this will be the boy’s room, his bed.”
He didn’t administer either a sedative or a hallucinogenic. When he returned well before midnight, he didn’t want Dalton to be fuzzy-minded or lost in illusions. The vile man must be clearheaded to experience every subtle nuance of his long-planned death.
“I’ve learned so much from this adventure of ours.”
[477] Corky introduced the hypodermic needle into the drug port on the IV drip line.
“It’s given me so many good ideas, better ideas.”
With his thumb, he slowly depressed the plunger, feeding the contents of the syringe into the saline solution that seeped into Dalton’s vein.
“The boy’s experiences in this room will be only somewhat like yours, but more colorful, more shocking.”
Having administered the full dosage, he withdrew the needle from the port and discarded it in the trash can.
“After all, the whole world will be watching the videos I send out. My little movies must have tremendous entertainment value if I’m to keep so many millions of people enthralled.”
Already, Stinky Cheese Man’s wobbly teeth had begun to chatter. For some reason, this brew of paralytic drugs gave him spasmodic chills.
“I’m sure the boy will be thrilled when, in his first starring role, he fascinates the masses in greater numbers than his father ever has.”
The storm lost its strength, became a windless drizzle. Fog plumed through the street, like cold breath come down out of the hidden moon.
Alerted now to the nature of the individual with whom he was dealing, Hazard sat in the car, mulling over how best to approach Vladimir Laputa.
His cell phone rang. When he answered it, he recognized the voice that he had heard a short time ago, in the street, issuing from the apparition.
Dunny Whistler said, “I’m Ethan’s guardian, not yours, not Aelfric’s. But if I save him—if I can—there’ll be no point to it if either you or the boy dies.”
[478] Usually able to draw upon a rich account of words, Hazard found himself bankrupt in this case. He had never talked to a ghost before. He didn’t want to start.
“He’ll blame himself for the loss of either of you,” Whistler continued. “And then the shadow on his heart will become a darkness deep within it. Don’t go in that house.”
Hazard found a voice not too much thinner and shakier than the one he usually could rely upon: “Are you dead or alive?”
“I’m dead and alive. Don’t go in that house. The Kevlar vest won’t matter. You’ll be head shot. Two bullets in the brain. And I have no authority to resurrect you.”
Dunny hung up.
Corky in the kitchen, stylishly outfitted to storm the castle of Hollywood’s reigning king, glanced at the wall clock and saw that he had less than an hour until his rendezvous with Jack Trotter in Bel Air.
Murder and mayhem sharpened the appetite. On his feet, roaming back and forth from refrigerator to pantry, he made a makeshift meal of cheese, dried fruit, half a doughnut, a spoonful of butterscotch pudding, a taste of this, a bite of that.
Such a chaotic dinner was well suited to a man who had brought so much disorder into the world in one day, and who still had much work to do before lying down to sleep.
The Glock, with sound suppressor attached, lay on the kitchen table. It would just fit in the deepest pocket of his storm suit.
In other pockets, he had spare magazines, far more ammunition than he ought to need, considering that he didn’t expect to have to kill anyone else today except Ethan Truman.
[479] If Hazard had been nothing more than a man who wanted to live, he would have driven away without crossing the street to ring that doorbell.
He was, however, also a good cop and Ethan’s friend. He believed that police work was not just a job, that it was a calling, and that friendship required commitment exactly when commitment was hardest to give.
He opened the door. He got out of the car.
