Raising Cain Page 7

  Sallie hit a key, and more file names rolled into view. She scanned hurriedly, looking for buzzwords.

  “STRIKE ANY KEY TO CONTINUE,” the prompt reminded.

  Sallie hit another key. Suddenly there was a sound down the hall: footsteps approaching.

  Sallie glanced at the screen as another set of files was revealed. Then she shut off the power and ran to the window, opening it and squeezing through as fast as she could.

  Sallie hit the ground running and didn’t look back until she turned the corner. By now she was at a walk, and she casually approached the storage room. Her heart was beating wildly, but it wasn’t just fear. She was pumped up because she’d seen something: several file names in the mix. The computer was Thomas Ruth’s alter ego, a visual insight into his complex mind. And now something on his mind had come to light, reflected by two of his files. “CONTINGENCIES,” the first one read. And that was followed by a subdirectory: “DEATH.”

  five

  At midnight, Gardner sat in his town house kitchen staring at a glass of iced tea. He sloshed the tea and took a halfhearted sip. Storm clouds were building, and he was worried.

  Jennifer descended the stairs and entered the room. She was dressed in blue silk pajamas; her face was scrubbed, her hair pulled back and tied.

  “You’re brooding,” she said.

  “I’m not brooding.” Gardner didn’t look up. “I’m thinking.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t think, you agonize.” Jennifer sat down at the table.

  Gardner finally raised his head. “Today was a first-class bitch.”

  “The funeral.”

  “If you can call it that.”

  “Reverend Taylor certainly electrified the crowd.”

  “Yeah.” Gardner drank another sip. “Amazing what a person can do with a well-turned phrase.”

  “You’re concerned about the Brown case.”

  “Yes, I am. Who the hell told Taylor about the investigation in the first place? It was supposed to be confidential.”

  Jennifer went to the refrigerator, poured some tea for herself, then returned to the table. “Brownie, maybe?”

  “Maybe. But that’s not important now. The cat’s out of the bag, and Blocktown’s mobilizing for paybacks, thanks to Taylor. This is how it starts, Jen. Rumors fly, innocent people get hurt. And for what?”

  “Joseph Brown’s murder.”

  “What murder? You read the reports. It was a heart attack. That has never been disputed. Natural causes do not equal murder.”

  “What about the scratches on his arms?”

  Gardner brushed back a stray hair. “God, Jen, the man was drinking and carousing just before he died. You know what Davis uncovered. Maybe the shantyville woman, Jackie Frey, tied him up. Maybe they were into some kinky stuff. Maybe that’s what killed him.”

  “Brownie doesn’t think so.”

  “No, he doesn’t. But we have to deal with reality here. We have to stay objective, keep our heads cool, even if no one else does. Right now this thing is being fueled with innuendos based on a false premise, and that’s bad.”

  Jennifer put her glass in the sink and returned to the table. “So you don’t believe there was any foul play in Joseph’s death at all?”

  Gardner shook his head. “Not from what I’ve seen so far. Davis is still digging, but unless he finds some hard evidence soon, I’d say it’s just about done.”

  “What if Brownie comes up with something?”

  “Pray that he doesn’t.”

  “Why? He has a right to know what happened to his father.”

  Gardner frowned. “You saw him at the church. He was sucked in by Taylor like the rest of the crowd. If he had any objectivity before, he sure as shit doesn’t have any now. That was a lynch mob forming in there today, and Brownie was ready to lead the charge.”

  “He just lost his dad. What do you expect?”

  “Nothing less. That’s why he has to back off till he cools down.” They stopped talking.

  “Now, there’s a definite brood,” Jennifer said. “I wish I had a mirror.”

  Gardner tried to smile. “I have to make a decision.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “Do I place Brownie on temporary suspension or…”

  Jennifer watched Gardner for a moment. “You’re having trouble deciding. Nothing new about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t decide anything lately.”

  Gardner knew that their professional/personal line was about to be crossed. “Jen…”

  “We can’t keep putting it off,” she said suddenly. “There’s always going to be a case, always an excuse.”

  “Please, Jen,” Gardner protested. “Not now, please.”

  “Now.”

  Gardner hated this. Jennifer had caught him in a pensive mood, and now she was trying to shift the agenda. “Please,” he begged.

  “I want to talk now.”

  “Okay… okay.”

  Jennifer looked into his eyes. “How old am I?”

  “Thirty-one?”

  “Thirty-three. I want to get married. I want a child. I want permanence.”

  “No…” Gardner moaned. Not this again.

  “Yes. You have to listen to me, try to understand.”

  “I do understand, Jen, it’s just… it’s just…”

  “You’ve had your life. You have a son. You don’t want to start over.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “What is it, Gard?”

  “Things are heating up right now…. It’s hard to think.”

  “It’s always hard to think when it comes to this. You never want to talk about it. You’re always putting me off. I want to get married,” Jennifer went on, “like normal people. We’ve been living together for four years, and it’s been great, but—”

  “It has been great,” Gardner interrupted. “We get along. We have the same interests, the same profession. You love Granville….” What’s to change? It was a great arrangement, convenient, comfortable.

  “I want more. My own family.”

  “But you, me, and Granville are family.”

  Jennifer adjusted her glasses. “It’s not the same.”

  “But I thought you loved him.”

  “I do. But he’s not mine. He’s hers and always will be. I want something that’s a part of us, a part of you and me alone!”

  Gardner looked down at the table.

  “I’m tired of this arrangement, Gard.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to do something about it.”

  “I know.”

  Jennifer stood up. “I’ll wait a little longer, but I can’t wait forever.”

  “I understand.”

  “I won’t wait forever.”

  “I…” Gardner’s reply was lost in the sound of Jennifer’s footsteps retreating up the stairs. He picked up his glass and pulled back his arm like he was going to throw it against the wall. Then he stopped, placed it on the table, and remembered.

  “Marriage is sacred,” his mother said. “You marry for life. “ They were sitting on the dock of the three-acre pond on the family estate. It was a blue-sky summer afternoon, and Gardner was twelve years old. A pair of wild geese paddled silently across the still water as he dangled his legs over the edge.

  Gardner looked at his mom. She wore a yellow towel on her head, and her bathing suit was still wet. Her toenails were painted crimson.

  “Your father is the only man I’ve ever loved,” she continued. “We met, courted, got engaged, married, and we’re still together.” She looked past the pond, past the trees, to a brick mansion on the far hill. “It’s important to stay together, son. Men and women need each other. And marriage is the glue. You will get married one day, Gardner, to a beautiful young woman. And you’ll stay married forever…. “

  Gardner got up from the table. “Marry f
or life….” What a joke. Carole had been his beautiful woman. They’d met, courted, gotten engaged, then married. But the tides had destroyed their sand-castle world. Inside forces, outside forces, a combination of both. It didn’t matter, really. The strongest bonds in the universe eventually came apart. And that was the problem.

  Gardner turned off the kitchen light and walked into the hall. Then he slowly climbed the stairs to his room.

  Brownie stood by the examining table in the crime lab, staring at the documents he’d laid out. It was late, but he wasn’t going home, not tonight. Mama was with the family, at the wake. Brownie had put in an appearance, then retreated here where he could be alone. A dead father and a live brother were more than he could handle in one day.

  The funeral had been tough. Mama’s tears had eaten him up. Faults and all, she’d adored the old man. But nothing had prepared him for the burial. When the casket went into the vault, Mama screamed and tried to jump in with it. Then she fainted, and the wails of the other mourners cut down to the bone. It was a living hell.

  Brownie shivered and tried to stifle the thoughts. Then he opened Frank Davis’s latest report, the one that had just come in this afternoon. Amazingly, the fuck-head had turned up a lead. He’d stumbled onto a possible suspect: a fundamentalist freak-o named Ruth. Brownie had already reviewed the report three times, but now he sat down to read it again, circling the important sections in red ink: “Church of the Ark, Inc., Abbreviation: CAIN.” “No alibi.” “Car phone.” “Mountain Bell.” “Suspicious behavior.” “Evasive during questioning.” “Denial of consent search.” “Antagonistic.” “Combative.” “Proximity to Cutler Road.” “Possible weapons violations.” At the bottom of the page was Davis’s preliminary conclusion: “Insufficient probable cause to justify search warrant or arrest. Investigation continuing.” Brownie underlined that part with his pen.

  There was a supplemental report attached, which Brownie had not highlighted. In it Davis had meticulously set out in writing what the Brown family had kept quiet for years: Joseph had a taste for liquor and ladies. He was a “good man, a kind man, a gentle man” like the reverend said, but he did have his faults. Brownie had brought him home in a squad car more than once, but the family had always managed to cover it up. And now redneck Davis had dug it out and written it up, the son of a bitch. Brownie tried to restrain his anger as he scanned down to the final paragraph of the report. “No clear correlation between these activities and the manner of death. Investigation continuing.” On that point, at least, he and Davis agreed. Daddy was a rake at times, but he was pretty normal in his needs. Bondage wasn’t his thing. The Frey girl hadn’t caused the scratches, he was almost certain.

  Brownie moved to another file. “Thomas Ruth,” he said aloud. “What the fuck kind of name is that?” Davis had run a background check on the man as soon as he returned to the station. There was no criminal history listed under that name. Checks into his family, educational, and employment history had drawn blanks also. “Who are you?” Brownie asked, walking to a bookshelf. He picked up a copy of Hatewatch and turned to the index. Hatewatch was published by a public interest foundation that tracked cults. They updated the whereabouts and activities of reclusive groups on a monthly basis. There was no Church of the Ark, Inc., listed. No CAIN. Brownie checked the date. September, current year. He flipped to the index. No luck.

  Brownie put down the publication. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. The wails at the grave site were echoing in his mind again. He tried to fight them, but he couldn’t. “Joseph!” Mama screamed. “Joseph!” The jaws of the grave were gaping.

  “No,” Brownie groaned. “No…” Another deluge was coming.

  “Joseph!”

  Brownie’s body spasmed, and the tears gushed. And there was nothing he could do to stop them.

  Brownie sat up, wiped his eyes, and looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. He stood and shook out his legs. The coffin was in the ground, and Daddy was gone, buried, never coming back. He’d have to accept it: Joseph was gone. Davis had tagged him a drunk and run-around, but Davis didn’t know shit. The fact remained that Daddy was gone. And someone had ended his life.

  Brownie slowly stacked the reports. The evidence wasn’t conclusive, but that didn’t matter. A good detective didn’t need evidence. A good detective could get the job done on instinct alone.

  Brownie walked to the door and turned off the light. He had a new lead to check out. And time was short.

  Althea’s house was filled with family and friends. It was well into the night, and the wake was still in progress. Ham, biscuits, and fruit were laid out on the table in the dining room. The uncles were in the kitchen smoking and tipping glasses of whiskey. The aunts and nieces sat in the flower-papered den. And Althea was upstairs, attended by a nurse. She was sedated in her bed, propped with pillows, corpselike, very still. The day had flogged her soul, and she was exhausted.

  On the porch, two men conferred. They spoke in whispers as the sounds of the mourners drifted through the house.

  “Hell of a job you did today,” Brownie’s brother said.

  “Thank you,” Reverend Taylor replied. He’d arrived late and missed consoling the widow. “Your pop was a good man.”

  Paulie Brown leaned his elbows against the wooden rail. “That’s what they say.”

  Taylor sensed anger. “You know about the woman thing?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  Taylor crossed his arms. “Poking some strange stuff every now and then doesn’t make a man bad. We’re all human. Don’t blame your dad for what he did wrong. Praise him for what he did right.”

  “We’re not in church.”

  “Didn’t mean to offend, brother,” Taylor replied. “What religion do you practice?”

  “I follow the old ways.”

  Taylor nodded. This Brown was odd, nothing like the policeman.

  “Who killed my daddy, Rev?” Paulie asked suddenly.

  “Who?” Taylor seemed surprised.

  “You were bustin’ a hell of a move up front today. Like you know what happened out on the road.”

  Taylor glanced around nervously. “Your brother has the details,” he said. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “We don’t exactly talk. I want you to tell me. Who’s behind this?”

  Taylor moved closer. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, who the fuck were you talkin’ about today?”

  “Calm down.”

  “I want to know!”

  “Have you ever been to church, brother?”

  “Yeah. Of course I have.”

  “Then you know you can’t place a literal interpretation on what a preacher says. I was being allegorical.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Take it easy, my man.”

  “You had no right!”

  “Hey! Get it under control. What I said, I meant. It was not your daddy’s time.”

  “So who cut it short?”

  “I said I don’t know. I got my suspicions… but I don’t know.” Paulie adjusted his hat. “Okay,” he said.

  “Let’s keep it together, brother. We’re on the same side.”

  “Yeah.”

  Taylor buttoned his coat and prepared to leave. “I’ve got to be going. You can get back to your folks.”

  Paulie didn’t move.

  “Please tell your mama that I was here. I’ll call again when she’s feeling better.”

  “Yeah,” Paulie muttered, his head down.

  The reverend walked off the porch toward his car. But then he turned. “Brother Paul?”

  Paulie raised his head.

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Remember that.” Then Taylor drifted out of the light and left Paulie alone in the shadows.

  Frank Davis put his feet up on the cluttered desk in his mobile home and kicked over his girlfriend’s photo. The cheating whore wasn’t returning his phone calls. Things had been rocky with the chunky brunette waitress for the
past few months, and now the picture was clear: she was seeing someone else.

  Davis popped a beer and surveyed his domain. A two-bedroom trailer on Lot 32 of the Greenhills Mobile Home Park, it was furnished with yard-sale rejects and West Virginia hand-me-downs. What a shit-hole. No wonder he couldn’t keep a steady squeeze.

  By this time in life, he’d contemplated more. A real detached house, on a real detached lot. But on a patrolman’s salary, that couldn’t be. And until he made the big score, this was where he’d stay.

  Davis threw Donna’s picture in the trash and opened the Brown investigation file. It was the only thing at this point to take his mind off the two-bit reality of his life.

  He was spitting out reports as fast as he could, turning them in to the lieutenant as soon as he came in from the field. That should keep the pump primed.

  A cassette tape fell out of the folder. “Interview with Jackie Frey,” it was labeled.

  Davis placed it in his recorder and fast-forwarded. Then he hit play.

  “Go over it again,” he heard himself say. “What time did Mr. Brown leave?”

  “Just about dark,” Jackie answered. Her voice was weak, barely audible.

  “Speak louder.”

  “Dark.” Her voice level was the same.

  “Which direction did he walk?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How drunk was he?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What sexual activities did you perform?”

  Silence.

  “I know you screwed him. Describe what happened.” Silence.

  “Jackie, I have a vagrancy charge just waiting to file against you. The only way to stop it is to get your damn mouth in gear. Now tell me about the sex!”

  There was a blubbering sound on the tape, and Davis hit the stop button. “Nigger bitch!” he snorted. Then he crumpled the beer can, popped another, and pulled a county road map out of his desk drawer.

  “Quarry,” he said, tracing his finger along the mountain road until he found the CAIN compound. Then he took a marking pen and circled several spots along the route west. Maybe Thomas Ruth did fuck up Old Man Brown, and maybe he didn’t. Only he and the Lord knew for sure. But there was more than one way to get the bastard to talk. He’d tried one approach out at the quarry. Now it was time to try something else. Now it was time to improvise.