The Society (35 page)

As Patty turned onto the narrow, winding access road, she wondered about the person or people who owned the decaying camp, which, even nearly a decade ago, was simply begging to be turned into condominiums or some other kind of profitable development. Perhaps there were zoning constraints, perhaps a clause in a will, or perhaps the owners were sentimental eccentrics. No matter. Tonight, serial killers had selected their camp to humiliate the state police and Wayne Brasco. It was never about a vendetta against managed care. It was never about a mother tragically dead. It was never about principle. It was never about Will Grant. It was always about business.

Smoke and mirrors.

Misdirection and mayhem.

Remember Clementine.

Remember Tombstone.

Death to the policeman who thinks he’s smarter than we are.

A hundred yards or so down the road, two men stepped out of the forest, their powerful flashlights intersecting upon Patty’s face. Blinded, she skidded to a stop, grabbed her shield from the passenger seat, and held it up in front of the lights. At the same time, she smoothly opened her window, hoping that neither of the men thought she was reaching for a weapon. They split up and headed for her car from both sides, their lights still fixed on her face.

“Police,” the man to her left whispered harshly, holding a semiautomatic weapon, possible some sort of MP5, where she could see it. “Both hands, let me see ’em.”

Patty lifted her hands palms out, dangling the leather case with her shield and ID from between her thumb and index finger.

“Detective Patty Moriarity, State Police,” she said urgently. “I’ve got to get in there. I have reason to believe this is a trap, and the officer in charge is in danger. Maybe others, too.”

The policeman, dressed in black with a black watch cap and greasepainted face, told her to cut her headlights, then motioned her out of the car.

“Kara, you got her,” he said, stepping back and sliding a radio from his belt.

Patty actually managed a wry smile at herself for assuming the two cops were men. A slight woman, who looked absolutely gigantic with a semiautomatic at the ready, moved around the Camaro and kept her at bay from a respectful distance.

“Weapon?” she said stonily.

“On the floor, driver’s side. Listen, I’ve got to—”

“Quiet!”

The woman sidestepped around so she could shine her flash inside the car, then motioned Patty to get her gun and drop it on the ground. Patty could hear the man conversing in hushed tones with, she suspected, Lieutenant Court.

“We’re close to being out of time,” she whispered.

“Shut up!” Kara punctuated the order with a menacing flick of the muzzle of her MP5.

Patty sighed and did as she was commanded. No sense getting her head blown off by a cop. Finally, the other officer shoved his radio back into its holder and returned.

“Those people down there aren’t exactly your biggest fans,” he said.

“That’s because I don’t leave the toilet seat up in the precinct loo.”

Patty thought she saw Kara crack a smile beneath her blackface.

“Kara, take her down the road to the others. I’ll stay here with B Squad and take care of her car. Be careful.”

“Did they say if anything’s happened down there?” Patty asked.

“Nope.”

“I think that’s good.”

“Your car’ll be on a little road into the woods off this one, about ten yards down there on the right. There may be some camouflage netting on it.”

“Fine. My weapon?”

“Why not?”

Patty retrieved her shoulder holster from the trunk, slid in her Smith & Wesson .38 five-shot, and slipped it on.

“Nice piece,” Kara whispered as they made their way into the darkness.

Fifty feet from the parking lot, another SWAT team member materialized from the heavy underbrush, quickly got the skinny on Patty from her guide, then took charge, leading her across the narrow parking lot, over the rotting logs, and down a rocky, uneven trail toward the waterfront. Thirty yards from the lake, he motioned her off the path and into the woods, raised a finger to his lips, and pointed to a spot nearby, gesturing that she should stay there.

With the forest and dense cloud cover, the scene ahead was impressively dark, although Patty knew that somewhere overhead the moon was nearly full. The rain had given way to a fine mist, which was being blown by a steady wind from directly behind her. Across the lake, isolated lights from scattered houses battled feebly against the night. Closer, Patty thought she could make out the two-story blackness of the rec hall.

“What in hell are you doing here?”

The man’s voice, a harsh, angry whisper from behind the trees to her right, nearly stopped her heart. Lieutenant Court. Either the rustling of leaves had masked his footsteps or he was incredibly good at this sort of thing.

“I’ve unearthed some information about the victims,” she risked saying, knowing that staying on the case after Court had removed her would be grounds for a suspension, if not worse. “Something’s wrong. I think this is a trap. The killers want to punish you and Wayne for messing with them like this.”

Court, dressed like the others, was wearing earphones.

“Moriarity, you are a total screwup,” he said, “and furthermore, you’ve been mucking about on a case that I specifically removed you from.”

“I had to finish some things I had started.”

“Bullshit! You’ll answer to me tomorrow at the office. Now just stay here out of the way until this thing plays itself out.”

“But—”

He had already started off, moving smoothly and silently through the trees toward the water. Patty hesitated, then followed.
Fired for a penny, fired for a pound
, she was thinking. Ten yards from the shore, just inside the tree line, Court dropped to one knee, adjusting his earphones as if something was coming in for the first time. Patty inched toward him. She was no good to anyone if he wouldn’t listen to her, and she had no chance of being listened to if she didn’t try.

“Lieutenant?”

Court’s glare would have cut glass. He lifted one earphone an inch.

“What is it with you? I told you to—”

“Lieutenant, I really need to speak with you. I went through Ben Morales’s office and—”

“Shut up, it’s him!” Court hissed. “Brasco’s wearing a wire. He’s talking to the bastard right now.”

Patty moved back into the densest shadows, six feet to Court’s left. Did he mean the killer was there at the waterfront? If so, she was wrong about everything. The killers weren’t shrewd at all, and the only misdirection and mayhem that was going on was between her ears, in which case she and the help-wanted sections were about to become serious friends. Five silent minutes passed. Finally, Court turned to her.

“We’ve got him,” he whispered, his tone an equal mix of excitement and triumph. “He’s coming in.”

“In from where?”

“It’s not clear. He left a two-way radio on the beach for Grant.”

“When did he do that if your people have been here?”

“I don’t know. Must have been before the SWAT guys infiltrated the area. Fortunately, we predicted he might do something like that. Our technicians brought the VDS here and hooked it up. Brasco just spoke to him through it.”

“And what did the killer say?”

“He ordered Brasco—I mean Grant—to take the radio, go up to the center of the balcony off the second floor, and wait for instructions.”

“Why the—”

“Shit, there’s no way he can get the VDS mike up there. Brasco’ll just have to wing it.”

“What makes you think the killer’s coming in?”

“He said so. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Grant.’ That’s what he said. Now, just shut the F up, will you?”

A chill knifed up Patty’s spine. She wasn’t wrong after all. Brasco and Court were outmatched—way outmatched. Either this was going to be a Godzilla-size joke at their expense, no harm done, or Wayne Brasco was a dead man.

With Jack Court focused on the rec hall, she edged further away from him to the right, dropped to her hands and knees, and began a silent crawl toward the water. In moments she was at the tree line, facing a sandy beach that was eight or ten feet across. The wind had died off, and the thin mist was gone. The lake was an ebony mirror. Overhead, Patty thought she saw moonlight filtering through a rent in the clouds.

Was he out there in a boat, she wondered? That made no sense. Escape would be impossible if, as was the case, “Will Grant” had ignored his demand to come to Camp Sunshine alone. SCUBA gear? Elaborate and James Bondish, but risky. Could he be somewhere on land nearby, right now, right here in the camp, thumbing his nose at a legion of highly trained police, setting up for a close-in shot?
Insane.
There was no way the killers she was coming to know would put themselves in that kind of jeopardy. What about explosives? The fatal blast at 3 Serenity Lane was an expert job. Could the rec hall be wired? Wired and waiting to go up like a giant tinderbox? Noisy, colorful, and undeniably effective, she thought, but really not that much of a challenge, and open to discovery if the police took precautions. Still, what other options were there? A big bang—that had to be it.
Bend over, you fraud, put your head between your legs, and kiss your dumb butt good-bye.

To her left, perhaps fifteen yards away, Patty could see Brasco making his way to the side of the building and up the outside set of stairs to the second-story porch, which ran the full length of the building. She imagined him getting edgy, maybe panicking, as he thought about trying to improvise without the VDS.

Why the second story?
Was the killer waiting inside the building? No chance, unless he actually believed it was Will waiting for him, and waiting alone.

This is very weird
, she thought.
Why the second story?

Patty inched out so that she could see Brasco, positioned midway across the porch, staring out like a sea captain searching for land. The gap in the clouds had widened, and moonlight was now pouring through, sparkling off the still water and illuminating the far shore.

The far shore.

Carefully, Patty rose to her feet. Brasco was motionless—a dark statue, silhouetted against the brightening sky.

Motionless . . .

Patty panned across the lake. The far shore seemed closer now than she had estimated from the scattered lights—closer even than she remembered. With the right weapon and the right sniper scope in the right hands, Wayne Brasco was nothing much more than a target in a shooting gallery. Granted, a successful head shot at this distance would be Olympian, but any number of rifles, tripod-mounted and fired by someone who knew the physics of long-distance shooting, could pull it off. That was why the killer had picked this spot and why Brasco had been so meticulously set up. A single shot.

Patty squinted as she scanned the far shore. Her imagination visualized the man she suddenly felt certain was out there, grinning as he tightened the bolts holding his Galil or L42A1 in place, or peering through the infrared scope on his FN 30–11.

The CEOs were dead—two or three that mattered, one or two that probably didn’t. The mergers, forged in the heat of their blood, were nearly complete. So much misdirection. And now the killer was playing the police like marionettes, sowing the seeds of chaos as he prepared for what was probably going to be his last kill, at least for this operation—the exclamation point on the managed-care murders.

Barely aware of what she was doing, and well beyond considering the consequences of her act, Patty broke past the line of trees and onto the beach, sprinting toward the stairs Brasco had ascended to the porch.

“Brasco, down!” she shouted. “It’s a trap. Get down!”

Totally bewildered, Brasco stood riveted in place as Patty took the wooden stairs two at a time.

“Get down!” she heard herself scream again.

She was just a few feet away when she saw a bright light flash in the darkness across the water. Launching herself at Brasco’s midsection, Patty slammed him backward against the railing at the instant a bullet ripped through her scalp and gouged the bone just above her right ear. The two detectives, one totally stunned, the other barely conscious, exploded through the dry, weakened wood and arced downward, twisting in the air so that when they landed on a rocky corner of the beach, Brasco’s full weight was on top. Patty’s head snapped against a boulder, cracking the already weakened bone in her skull. Instantly, what little awareness she had left was replaced by a deep, impenetrable darkness.

In slow motion, Patty’s rag-doll body toppled off the rock and came to rest facedown in the wet, pebbly sand.

CHAPTER
27

It was two-thirty in the morning before Augie Micelli stopped celebrating his coup with a wide variety of spirits and lurched off to bed. By that time, Will had pulled out the sofa bed and tucked in a rumpled pair of forest-green sheets printed with an armada of mallards. For the past hour he had more or less been a detached observer of the battle between his need for sleep and his desire to share the moment with Micelli. Of course, the moment he finally killed the lights and settled onto the wafer-thin pullout mattress, he became unable to sleep.

With the aromas of Micelli’s alcohol and cigars hanging heavy in the air, Will lay in the darkness, wondering why he hadn’t heard from Patty. He had left a message on her machine trumpeting the find in the ER and asking her to call anytime to share the good news and to explain why he was spending the night with the Law Doctor.

Competing with his concerns for Patty were thoughts about what the day ahead held in store. From the moment he spotted Will’s clothing bag, Micelli had been on his cell phone, wheeling and dealing. He was now optimistic that preliminary results of the analysis of Will’s sneaker insoles might be performed as early as noon. Calls to Sid Silverman and Tom Lemm had brought their promises that if the Chuck Taylors tested positive for any amount of fentanyl, they would immediately urge the Board of Registration to restore Will’s license and would then reinstate him at the hospital and in the Society as soon afterward as possible.