Steel Breeze (14 page)

Garrett
chuckled. “Want to put down a fresh one?”

“Hell
no,” Parsons said. “Game’s still close. I can hit it out of there.”

Garrett
watched Parsons stroll over to the wood line, the limp from his old injury
barely visible today. He considered following to give moral support and to see
just how badly the ball was trapped but decided not to. Parsons might think he
was watching out of distrust, and that wouldn’t be true. He didn’t think Phil
Parsons would move an unwatched ball so much as a millimeter. Vie for leverage
with a judge? Sure, but that was part of the judicial game, and Parsons was a
man who stuck to the rules of whatever game he played. He’d certainly never
been the kind of cop who would dream of tampering with evidence, and Garrett
knew that to a cop, the location of a trapped ball fell squarely into the
category of physical evidence. Too bad Parsons had never expressed an interest
in becoming a Mason. He would have made a fine one.

Parsons
had only just disappeared into the thicket when a shriek ripped the tranquil
air like a knife through a bed sheet. Garrett’s stomach dropped at the sound,
sudden and visceral. He looked around for a woman; maybe someone struck by a
flying club that had slipped free of a player’s grip…but he saw no one. Perspiration
tingled in his armpits, eliciting a burning sensation from his deodorant. He
knew exactly which direction the sound had come from. The wood. A clang of
metal on metal followed.

Garrett
scrambled to free his phone from his pocket with fingers that suddenly felt distant
from his hands. He clicked it on, hoping, praying, for signal bars.
“Phil?”
he called to the sky, taking a few tentative steps toward the wood line.

Parsons
staggered backwards out of the trees, his white polo shirt emblazoned with a
vivid crimson slash. He was holding his club with one hand at each end,
guarding his face with it. Garrett pulled a nine iron from his own bag and hurried
down the slope toward the bleeding man.
“Phil!”

Parsons
shot a quick glance in Garrett’s direction, then looked back at whatever had
cut him. That half second of eye contact was enough to tell Garrett that Phil
Parsons was a man about to die. A man who knew it. A loop of purple intestine
squirmed out of the bottom of the gash that ran from his right collarbone to
his left hip. He made an awful groaning sound and dropped one hand from the
club to try to push his guts back in where they belonged. It was enough to
present his attacker with an opening.

Garrett
couldn't take his eyes off of Parsons. He knew he should, knew he had a camera
in his phone, knew he needed to identify the attacker. But that red line kept
his eyes locked. What else would fall out of that horrible red line? He saw a flurry
of black and a flash of silver. It was all too fast for his eyes, indistinct
like a scribbled charcoal sketch. Garrett would hate himself for it later, but
at the sight of that black and silver tornado flashing out and back into the
trees, he stopped running and felt his club-wielding arm go limp at his side.

Phil
Parsons’ head tilted back at a very wrong angle, blood gushing down his slit
shirt as he fell to his knees.

Garrett
dropped his club and ran up the hill. Parsons was dead, but a voice was still
screaming, ragged and shrill. He eventually recognized it as his own.

Chapter 14

Desmond was
packing some of Lucas's clothes and toys when he was startled by a pounding
fist on the front door downstairs, followed by a shout: “Police! Open up!” He
felt a surge of anger flush through his body. He'd had enough of the police.
Showing up in the night to take his sleeping child and now coming back to beat
his door down?
What the fuck?

He
tromped down the stairs with a stuffed penguin still in his hand. The knock and
shout came again. Hearing the voice at close range he was pretty sure it wasn't
Fournier, but if Fournier wasn't standing on his doorstep right now, it
wouldn’t necessarily mean that the man wasn’t behind this somehow.

“Hang
on!” Desmond yelled at the door as he reached the bottom of the stairs. But it
was too late. He'd come too slowly. The door flew inward with a crack and
rebounded off the jackets and sweatshirts hanging from the coat rack on the
adjacent wall. Two uniformed cops moved into the entryway, pointing their guns
at him, barking at him like German shepherds to get down on his knees and put
his hands behind his head
now, do it now.

Desmond
was stunned by the intensity of the scene. What the hell was this anyway? His
anger turned tepid in the face of the over-the-top performance confronting him,
and he stood dumbstruck, not moving, not obeying, just thinking that it was
weird how much this looked like the scenes on TV. But those were real guns
aimed at his head and chest. Looking into the black hole in the muzzle of a 9mm
pointed at his face and realizing that his own death could be in there waiting
for a finger twitch to shift quantum uncertainty to bloody reality, he raised
his hands and bent down on one knee. He almost regretted the submissive pose
when a second later Chuck Fournier stepped into the room between the two
uniforms.

Fournier
didn't have his weapon drawn. He stepped up to Desmond and without a word,
slugged him in the solar plexus with an uppercut. Desmond felt the wind knocked
out of his lungs and thought he might vomit as he collapsed on the floor. Fournier
followed up with a kick to the ribs—pain seared through Desmond’s midsection. One
of the officers yelled at Fournier to stop. The other holstered his gun,
stepped behind Desmond, and yanked his arms back until it felt like they were
about to be dislocated. The officer holding him spoke from just behind his ear,
“Not the face, Chuck. Don't hit him in the face.”

Fournier
punched him in the gut again. His vision tunneled slightly, and when it cleared
Fournier was squatting in front of him holding his head up by the hair. Desmond’s
arms, still pinned behind him, were going numb. The other cop produced a pair
of handcuffs from a belt pouch and ratcheted them open.

“Where's
the sword?” Fournier said.

“What?”

“The
sword you killed Phil Parsons with. Same one you killed Sandy with. Where is
it?”

Desmond
felt like Fournier had just dropped him down an elevator shaft, every blood
vessel in his body contracting inward and downward. Phil was
dead?
Phil
had Lucas.

“Where’s
Lucas?” He struggled for breath. “Where is he?”

“I'm
asking the questions, shitbag. Where's the sword? We have a warrant, but you
can save yourself the rest of a beating by just telling me.”

“Listen
to me…Chuck. I don't know…what’s going on here. Phil is
dead?
”

“Don't
fuck with me, Des. We have enough to arrest you. You had a grudge with Parsons
and you own a sword. He was cut in half this morning, and you're going to tell
me where that weapon is or I will beat the filthy fuck out of you. You're a
cunt hair away from being a cop killer, and we will take turns on you here and
at the station if you don't confess.”

“No.
No, no, no. Lucas…Phil had
Lucas.
What about Karen?”

“Shut
up. Where's the weapon?”

“Is
Lucas okay? Did he see it happen?”

Fournier
slapped Desmond across the face. “Stop acting and answer my question.”

Desmond
tried to clear his head, tried to tune out the pain, but merely breathing was
making his abdominal muscles burn. Fournier wasn’t asking
him
where Lucas
was, so that meant that whoever killed Phil didn't abduct Lucas or the police
would be sure
he
had. The cops would already be calling Lucas’s name and
looking for him upstairs if he was missing. Lucas had to be alive.
Had
to be. But if they believed that the only threat to Lucas was his own father,
then soon no one would be guarding him.

“When?”
Desmond asked, “When was Phil killed?” He felt the cuffs tightening around his
wrists. Too tight. Fournier ignored the question and told the officer who
wasn’t holding Desmond, “Start tearing the place apart.”

“I
was at Cedar Junction this morning,” Desmond said. “I'm in the visitor's log. Check
it.”

“We
will.”

“What
time was Phil killed? You know how long it takes to get back here from Walpole,
what time?”

“Did
you ditch the blade on your way back here?”

Desmond
could hear the cop who had gone upstairs, his footsteps creaking through the
ceiling, and the sound of a closet door sliding open on rollers.

“I
know you took the sword that killed Sandy into this apartment. Why would you do
that, Desmond? Huh? Why would you want that thing around your boy?”

Fournier
had been watching him, spying on him. Was that with the approval of his
superiors? Was there a tap on the phone line from a court order? Desmond's head
was swimming. He didn't know if the surveillance would help or hurt him, and it
was too hard to think it through with the shock of Phil's death and the
delirium of the beating.

He
felt as if the cursed
katana
were dangling from a string above his head,
like the sword of Damocles. If he told them where to find it, the string would
break and the fact that he had concealed it would come down on him for better
or worse. Maybe the dry joint compound would be evidence that the weapon had
been placed in the wall before Phil was killed. Or maybe not. And maybe wasn't
good enough. Fournier had a hard-on for convicting him, and the two uniforms
were an unknown factor.

Now
that Desmond was handcuffed, the cops left him kneeling on the living room
carpet while they searched the apartment and bagged his laptop. Fournier
brooded over him.

“You're
not going to find what you're looking for,” Desmond said. “You might as well
take me in because I'm not talking to anyone but a lawyer. And the first thing
I’ll have him do is photograph the bruises, so you should quit while you're
ahead.”

“Is
that right?” Fournier said. His face contorted with a flash of frustration, then
he sucked on his teeth and hitched up his slacks while apparently contemplating
the effectiveness, or at least the satisfaction, that might be afforded by
further violence. Desmond couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him. Fournier
had lost a mentor in Phil Parsons and a friend in Phil's daughter. They had
that in common. Only, Fournier believed that he had the killer of both right
here in front of him.

Desmond
opened his mouth, afraid of what might come out, but before he could say
anything, the other cop descended the stairs and handed Fournier a small slip
of paper, a receipt. “I found it in his jeans pocket.”

Fournier
studied the slip, then squinted at Desmond and held it out for him to look at. Desmond
felt that sinking sensation again.

“I
wouldn't peg you as the home improvement type, Des. Home Depot, huh? Just
yesterday, in fact. Care to tell me why a renter like you would need…spackle,
drywall tape, razor knife, sandpaper, and a lock set?“

Desmond
kept his mouth shut.

“Doesn't
your landlord handle repairs?”

“I
replaced the back door lock after the break-in.”

Fournier
snorted. “Break-in…right. And what does that have to do with wall repair?”

Desmond
knew that any little lies he spun now would only entangle him later. Damn, it
was hard to not talk when you were being prodded by cops. When they had you
cornered it was too goddamn easy to forget the Miranda. Anything he said would
be remembered, written down, and used against him.

“You
lose your temper with your son and punch a wall, Desmond? No crime in that, but
a violent man might want to hide the evidence of it.”

“I
don't....“

“You
don't what? Punch walls? What did you do, Desmond? Huh? Don't want to talk
about wall repair. Why is that? Oh, you didn't! You sly devil…you put the sword
in a wall?”

Desmond
tried for a poker face and saw his failure written all over Fournier's.

“He
did, he put it in a wall. Holstein, check the floors and molding for dust, and
start looking behind posters and shit. Check for wet paint.”

“I'm
on it. Bound to be a rough job if he was in a hurry and got no skills.”

“That's
what I'm thinking,” Fournier said.

The
shorter of the two officers, Holstein apparently, climbed the stairs again, and
Desmond contemplated just giving it up. He didn't have long to consider the
benefits of cooperation. Only about a minute had passed when he heard a whistle
from upstairs, followed by, “Think I found it.”

Fournier
hoisted Desmond to his feet and frog-marched him up the stairs. When they
reached the landing where the staircase turned, Desmond could see that the
mirror had been removed from the wall. At the top of the stairs Holstein was kneeling
in front of the patch, running his hand over the smoothly sanded joint
compound. His fingers came away white with fine powder. “Not a bad patch,” he
said with teasing admiration, “but it's not painted.”

Fournier
squatted and ran his fingers over the wall. “Looks long enough. But maybe too
smooth for fuckface here. Could be the landlord never painted it because he
knew he was gonna hang the mirror there.”

Holstein
shook his head. “I found it from dust on the carpet. See? Looks vacuumed but he
missed a spot.”

Fournier
turned to Desmond. “You vacuum one spot in the whole shitty apartment and it
kinda stands out, Des.”              

“It's
dry,” Desmond said. “Look at how dry it is. If you think I patched it today and
had time to sand it, you're crazy.” He thought Fournier would look for the
razor knife, or some kind of tool to cut the wall with. Instead, Fournier just
raised his knee and kicked the sheetrock in, leaving a cavity of torn paper and
crumbling chalk. Through the hole Desmond could see part of the scabbard. If
he'd had any doubts before, he knew in that moment that Chuck Fournier was one
brash son of a bitch. No concern for preserving evidence, no concern for the
possibility that the sole of his shoe might be sliced open by a bare blade
inside the wall.

Fournier
grabbed a chunk of sheetrock and pulled on it to widen the gap, tearing away an
even larger section of wall until it folded and broke off in his hand. He
brushed away some dust and peered in at the sword.

“I
dunno, Holstein,” he said absently, “That spackle look dry to you before I
kicked it? Felt a little mushy to me.” Fournier took a latex glove from his
back pocket, blew into it and rolled it over his meaty hand. Then he cracked
more of the wall with his elbow, ripped the sheetrock away with his ungloved
hand, and gingerly removed the sword with the gloved one.

The
scabbard and hilt were speckled with white dust. Fournier appraised the weapon
with a grimace, wrapped his gloved hand around the hilt and drew the blade from
the metal sheath, turning it over in the light that spilled into the hallway
from the window in Lucas's room. Desmond knew the blade was as clean as a steak
knife in a drawer, and he could see the disappointment registering on
Fournier's face. No blood. Fournier slid the sword back down into the scabbard.
He shone a small flashlight into the hole, up and down, making sure there wasn't
anything else in there—maybe a bloody rag, a pair of gloves or a mask that
Desmond might have worn for the kill. Fournier’s jaw had an odd set to it, like
he was grinding his teeth. He wheeled around, cocked the metal barrel of the
flashlight back and clipped Desmond across the temple with it.

* * *

At
the station, Desmond kept his mouth shut while they booked him. It was a pretty
quick process because his prints were already in the system from his wife's
murder case. He was grateful for the slight reduction in the amount of time he
had to spend among men who believed he had killed a veteran cop.

They
left him in the cell for what felt like an hour before moving him to one of the
interrogation rooms with the mirrors and microphones. There was a sheet of
paper and a pen on the table. A man was waiting for him. Desmond recognized him
as one of the men who had worked on Sandy's case, but he couldn't remember the
name. One of the incompetents who had put away a blind drunk lunatic and let
the real psychopath run amok to revisit the family with a blade, and the best
they could do now was rerun the harassment they had doled out on him a year ago.