The Door To December Part 45

With an hour and a quarter to kill before he could meet Palmer Boothe in Bel Air, Dan Haldane decided to drop around to the precinct house in Westwood where, the previous night, charges had been filed against Wexlersh and Manuello. The two detectives were being held solely on Earl Benton's sworn statement, and Dan wanted to add his testimony as another weight against their cell door. He had left Ross Mondale under the impression that he would not accuse Wexlersh and Manuello of a.s.sault with intent to kill, and he had told Mondale that Earl would withdraw his accusations in a couple of days, when the McCaffreys were safe, but he had been lying. If he achieved nothing else in this case, if he failed to save Melanie and Laura, he would at least see Wexlersh and Manuello behind bars and Ross Mondale ruined.

At the precinct house, the officer in charge of the case, one Herman Dorft, was glad to see Dan. The only thing that Dorft wanted more than Dan's statement was one from Laura McCaffrey. He was not happy to learn that Dr. McCaffrey was unavailable for the foreseeable future. He took Dan to a small interrogation room with a battered desk, VDT, table, and five chairs, and he offered to provide either a stenographer or a tape recorder.

'I'm so familiar with this routine,' Dan said, 'I'd rather just compose the statement myself. I can use the computer if that's all right with you.'

Herman Dorft obligingly left Dan alone with the computer, with the harsh fluorescent light and the sound of rain on the roof, and with the stale, bitter smell of cigarette smoke that had precipitated a thin yellowish film on the walls since the last time the room had been painted.

Twenty minutes later, he had just finished typing the statement and was about to go looking for a police notary, in whose presence he would sign what he had written, when the door opened and Michael Seames, the FBI agent, took one step inside. He said, 'h.e.l.lo there.' He still seemed, to Dan, to be suffering chronological confusion: His face was that of a thirty-year-old, but his slumped shoulders and stiff movements made him seem like a seasoned Social Security recipient. 'I've been looking for you, Haldane.'

'Good day for ducks, huh?' Dan said, getting to his feet.

'Where are Mrs. McCaffrey and Melanie?' Seames asked.

'Hard to believe that everyone was worried about the drought just a few years ago. Now the winters get rainier every year.'

'Two detectives charged with attempted murder, police violations of civil rights, several potential breaches of national security - the Bureau now has plenty of reasons to step into this case, Haldane.'

'Myself, I'm building an ark,' Dan said, picking up his typed statement and moving toward the door.

Seames didn't get out of his way. 'And we have have moved in. We're no longer just observers here. We've exercised the right of federal jurisdiction in these homicides.' moved in. We're no longer just observers here. We've exercised the right of federal jurisdiction in these homicides.'

'Good for you,' Dan said.

'You are, of course, obliged to cooperate with us.'

'Sounds like fun,' Dan said, wishing Seames would get the h.e.l.l out of his way.

'Where are Mrs. McCaffrey and Melanie?'

'Probably at the movies,' Dan said.

'd.a.m.n it, Haldane-'

'On a dreary day like this, they aren't going to be at the beach or at Disneyland or having a picnic in Griffith Park, so why not the movies?'

'I'm beginning to think you're an a.s.shole, Haldane.'

'Well, at least it's comforting to hear that you're beginning to think.'

'Captain Mondale warned me about you.'

'Oh, don't take that seriously, Agent Seames. Ross is such a kidder.'

'You're obstructing-'

'No, it's you who's obstructing,' Dan said. 'You're in my way.' And as he spoke, he shouldered past Seames, through the door.

The FBI agent followed him down the hall to the busy uniformed-operations room, where Dan located a notary. 'Haldane, you can't protect them all by yourself. If you insist on handling it this way, they're going to get s.n.a.t.c.hed or killed, and you're going to be to blame.'

Signing his statement in front of the notary, Dan said, 'Maybe. Maybe Maybe they'll get killed. But if I turn them over to you, they'll they'll get killed. But if I turn them over to you, they'll positively positively be killed.' be killed.'

Seames gaped at him. 'Are you implying that I ... that the FBI ... that the government government would murder that little girl? Because maybe she's a Russian or Chinese research project? Or maybe because she's one of would murder that little girl? Because maybe she's a Russian or Chinese research project? Or maybe because she's one of our our projects and she knows too much and now we want to shut her up before this mess becomes too public? Is projects and she knows too much and now we want to shut her up before this mess becomes too public? Is that that what you think?' what you think?'

'Crossed my mind.'

Spluttering and fuming, filled with either genuine outrage or a good imitation of it, Seames followed Dan from the notary to another desk where Herman Dorft was drinking black coffee and looking through a file of mug shots.

'Are you crazy, Haldane, or what?' Seames demanded.

'Or what.'

'We're the government, for Christ's sake. The United States United States government.' government.'

'I'm happy for you.'

'This isn't China, where the government knocks on a couple of hundred doors every night and a couple of hundred people disappear.'

'How many disappear here? Ten a night? Makes me feel so much better.'

'This isn't Iran or Nicaragua or Libya. We aren't killers. We're here to protect the public.'

'Does this stirring speech come with background music? It ought to, but I don't hear any.'

'We don't murder people,' Seames said flatly.

Handing his notarized statement to Dorft, Dan said to Seames, 'All right, so the government itself, the inst.i.tution of government in this country, doesn't make a policy policy of killing people - except maybe with taxes and paperwork. But the government is composed of people, individuals, and your agency is composed of individuals, and don't tell me that some of those individuals aren't capable of murdering the McCaffreys in return for money or for political concerns, misguided idealism, or any of a thousand other reasons. Don't try to tell me that everyone in your agency is so saintly and so G.o.d-fearing that a homicidal thought has never entered any of their minds, because I remember Waco, Texas, and the Weaver family in Idaho and more than a few other Bureau abuses of power, Agent Seames.' of killing people - except maybe with taxes and paperwork. But the government is composed of people, individuals, and your agency is composed of individuals, and don't tell me that some of those individuals aren't capable of murdering the McCaffreys in return for money or for political concerns, misguided idealism, or any of a thousand other reasons. Don't try to tell me that everyone in your agency is so saintly and so G.o.d-fearing that a homicidal thought has never entered any of their minds, because I remember Waco, Texas, and the Weaver family in Idaho and more than a few other Bureau abuses of power, Agent Seames.'

Dorft stared up at them, startled, as Seames shook his head violently and said, 'FBI agents are-'

'Dedicated, professional, and generally d.a.m.ned good at what they do,' Dan finished for him. 'But even the best of us have the capacity for murder, Mr. Seames. Even those of us who appear to be the most dependable - or the most innocent, the gentlest. Believe me, I know. I know all about murder, about the murderers among us, the murderers within within us. More than I want to know. Mothers murder their own children. Husbands get drunk and murder their wives, and sometimes they don't have to be drunk, just suffering from indigestion, and sometimes it doesn't even take indigestion. Ordinary secretaries murder their two-timing boyfriends. Last summer, right here in L.A., on the hottest day in July, an ordinary salesman murdered his next-door neighbor over an argument about a borrowed lawn mower. We're a twisted species, Seames. We mean well, and we want to do good for each other, and we us. More than I want to know. Mothers murder their own children. Husbands get drunk and murder their wives, and sometimes they don't have to be drunk, just suffering from indigestion, and sometimes it doesn't even take indigestion. Ordinary secretaries murder their two-timing boyfriends. Last summer, right here in L.A., on the hottest day in July, an ordinary salesman murdered his next-door neighbor over an argument about a borrowed lawn mower. We're a twisted species, Seames. We mean well, and we want to do good for each other, and we try try, G.o.d knows we try, but there's this darkness in us, this taint, and we've got to struggle against it every minute, struggle against letting the taint spread and overwhelm us, and we do struggle, but sometimes we lose. We murder for jealousy, greed, envy, pride ... revenge. Political idealists go on murderous rampages and make life h.e.l.l on earth for the very people whose lives they profess to want to make better. Even the best government, if it's big enough, is riddled riddled with idealists who'd open up extermination camps and feel with idealists who'd open up extermination camps and feel righteous righteous about it, if they were just given a chance. Religious zealots kill each other in the name of G.o.d. Housewives, ministers, businessmen, plumbers, pacifists, poets, doctors, lawyers, grandmothers, and teenagers - all have the capacity to murder, given the right moment and mood and motivation. And the ones you've got to mistrust the most are the ones who tell you they're men and women of peace, the ones who tell you they're absolutely nonviolent and safe, because they're either lying and waiting for an advantage over you - or they're dangerously naive and know nothing important about themselves. Now, you see, two people I care about - the two people I care about most in the world, it seems - are in danger of their lives, and I won't entrust their care to anyone but me. Sorry. No way. Forget it. And anybody who tries to get in my way, tries to stop me from protecting the McCaffreys, is at least going to get his a.s.s kicked up between his shoulder blades. Oh, at least. And anyone who tries to harm them, tries to lay a finger on them ... well, h.e.l.l, I'll waste the son of a b.i.t.c.h, sure as h.e.l.l. I have no doubts about that, Seames, because I have absolutely no illusions about my about it, if they were just given a chance. Religious zealots kill each other in the name of G.o.d. Housewives, ministers, businessmen, plumbers, pacifists, poets, doctors, lawyers, grandmothers, and teenagers - all have the capacity to murder, given the right moment and mood and motivation. And the ones you've got to mistrust the most are the ones who tell you they're men and women of peace, the ones who tell you they're absolutely nonviolent and safe, because they're either lying and waiting for an advantage over you - or they're dangerously naive and know nothing important about themselves. Now, you see, two people I care about - the two people I care about most in the world, it seems - are in danger of their lives, and I won't entrust their care to anyone but me. Sorry. No way. Forget it. And anybody who tries to get in my way, tries to stop me from protecting the McCaffreys, is at least going to get his a.s.s kicked up between his shoulder blades. Oh, at least. And anyone who tries to harm them, tries to lay a finger on them ... well, h.e.l.l, I'll waste the son of a b.i.t.c.h, sure as h.e.l.l. I have no doubts about that, Seames, because I have absolutely no illusions about my own own capacity for murder.' capacity for murder.'

Shaking, he walked away, heading toward the door that opened on the parking lot beside the precinct house. As he went, he became aware that the room had fallen silent and that everyone was looking at him. He realized that he had been speaking not only angrily and pa.s.sionately but at the top of his voice as well. He felt fevered. Sweat sheathed his face. People moved out of his way.

He had reached the door and put his hand on it by the time Michael Seames had recovered from that emotional outburst and had come after him. 'Wait, Haldane, for Christ's sake, it just can't work that way. We can't let you play the Lone Ranger. Think Think, man! There are eight people dead in two days, which makes this case just too d.a.m.ned big to-'

Dan stopped before opening the door, turned sharply to Seames, and interrupted him. 'Eight? Is that what you said? Eight dead?'

Dylan McCaffrey, w.i.l.l.y Hoffritz, Cooper, Rink, and Scaldone. That made five. Not eight. Just five.

'What's happened since last night?' Dan demanded. 'Who else has been hit since Joseph Scaldone?'

'You don't know?'

'Who else?' Dan demanded.

'Edwin Koliknikov.'

'But he got out. He ran, went to Las Vegas.'

Seames was furious. 'You knew about Koliknikov? You knew he was an a.s.sociate of Hoffritz's, in on this gray room business?'

'Yes.'

'We didn't know until he was dead, for G.o.d's sake! You're withholding information from a police investigation, Haldane, and it doesn't matter a rat's a.s.s that you're a cop!'

'What happened to Koliknikov?'

Seames told him about the gaudy public execution in the Vegas casino. 'It was like a poltergeist,' the agent repeated. 'Something unseen. An unknown, unimaginable power that reached into that casino and beat Koliknikov to death in front of hundreds of witnesses! Now there's no longer any doubt that Hoffritz and Dylan McCaffrey were working on something with serious defense applications, and we're G.o.dd.a.m.ned determined to know what it was.'

'You've got his papers, the logbooks and files from the house in Studio City-'

'We had had them,' Seames said. 'But whatever reached into that casino and wasted Koliknikov also reached into the evidence files in this case and set fire to all of McCaffrey's papers-' them,' Seames said. 'But whatever reached into that casino and wasted Koliknikov also reached into the evidence files in this case and set fire to all of McCaffrey's papers-'

Astonished, Dan said, 'What? When was this?'

'Last night. Spontaneous f.u.c.king combustion,' Seames said.

Obviously Seames was teetering on the edge of blind rage, for a federal agent simply did not shout the F-word at the top of his voice in a public place. Such behavior wasn't good for the image, and to the feds, their image was as important as their work.

'You said eight,' Dan reminded him. 'Eight dead. Who else besides Koliknikov?'

'Howard Renseveer was found dead in his ski chalet this morning, up in Mammoth. I guess you know about Renseveer too.'

'No,' Dan lied, afraid that the truth would so enrage Seames that he would put Dan under arrest. 'Harold Renseveer?'

'Howard,' Seames corrected in a sarcastic tone that indicated he was still half convinced that Dan knew the name well. 'Another a.s.sociate of w.i.l.l.y Hoffritz and Dylan McCaffrey. Evidently he was hiding up there. People in another chalet, farther down the mountain, heard screaming during the night, called the sheriff. They found a mess when they got there. And there was another man with Renseveer. Sheldon Tolbeck.'

'Tolbeck? Who's he?' Dan asked, playing dumb in the name of self-preservation.

'Another research psychologist who was involved with Hoffritz and McCaffrey. Indications are that Tolbeck was in the cabin when this thing ... this power power, whatever it is, showed up and started to bash Renseveer's brains in. Tolbeck ran into the woods. He hasn't been found yet. He probably never will be, and if he is ... well, the odds are pretty d.a.m.ned high that the best we can hope for is that he froze to death.'

This was bad. Terrible. The worst.

Dan had known that time was running out, but he hadn't known that it was pouring away like floodwater through the broken breast of a d.a.m.n. He had thought that at least five of the conspirators from the gray room remained to be disposed of before It It would turn its attention to Melanie. He had figured those executions would require another day or two and, long before the last of the conspirators had been destroyed, he would have confirmed his suspicions about the case and would have found a way to bring the slaughter to an end in time to save Melanie. He'd thought he might even be in time to save one or more of those manipulative and amoral men, although they didn't deserve to be saved. But suddenly his chances of saving anyone were diminished: Three more were gone. As far as he knew, two conspirators remained: Albert Uhlander, the author; and Palmer Boothe. As soon as they were terminated, would turn its attention to Melanie. He had figured those executions would require another day or two and, long before the last of the conspirators had been destroyed, he would have confirmed his suspicions about the case and would have found a way to bring the slaughter to an end in time to save Melanie. He'd thought he might even be in time to save one or more of those manipulative and amoral men, although they didn't deserve to be saved. But suddenly his chances of saving anyone were diminished: Three more were gone. As far as he knew, two conspirators remained: Albert Uhlander, the author; and Palmer Boothe. As soon as they were terminated, It It would turn to Melanie with a special rage. It would tear her apart. It would hammer her head to bits, hammer the last glimmer of life out of her brain before finally releasing her. Only Boothe and Uhlander stood between the girl and death. And even now, either the publisher or the author - or both - might be in the merciless grip of their invisible but powerful adversary. would turn to Melanie with a special rage. It would tear her apart. It would hammer her head to bits, hammer the last glimmer of life out of her brain before finally releasing her. Only Boothe and Uhlander stood between the girl and death. And even now, either the publisher or the author - or both - might be in the merciless grip of their invisible but powerful adversary.

Dan turned away from Seames, jerked open the door, and plunged out into the parking lot, where a cold wind and a stinging rain and an early fog were industriously putting the lie to the standard postcard image of Southern California. He sloshed through several puddles, getting water in his shoes.

He heard Seames shouting at him, but he didn't pause or reply. When he got in the car, dripping and shivering, he looked back and saw Seames standing in the open door of the precinct house. From this distance the agent's face seemed to have aged in the past few minutes; now it was more in harmony with his gray hair.

Driving out of the lot, into the street, Dan was surprised that Seames let him go. After all, a great deal was at stake, perhaps even grave national-defense issues; eight people were dead, and the FBI had officially stepped into the case. Seames would have been justified in detaining him; in fact, it was a dereliction of duty not to have done so.

Dan was relieved to be free, of course, because it was more important than ever that he talk to Boothe soon, d.a.m.ned soon. If Melanie's life had been hanging by a string, it was now hanging by a thread, and time like a razor was relentlessly sawing through that fragile filament.

Delmar, Carrie, Cindy Lakey ...

No.

Not this time.

He would save this woman, this child. He would not fail again.

He drove through Westwood, reached Wilshire, swung left, heading toward Westwood Boulevard, which would take him to Sunset and to the entrance to Bel Air. He would be arriving at the Boothe house ahead of schedule, but maybe Boothe would be early too.

Dan went three blocks before it dawned on him that Michael Seames had probably had his car bugged while he was in the precinct house preparing his statement against Wexlersh and Manuello. That was why he hadn't been detained for questioning or arrested for obstructing a federal officer. Seames had realised that the quickest method of finding Laura and Melanie McCaffrey was to allow Dan to lead the way.

As a traffic light turned red ahead of him, Dan braked and glanced repeatedly in the rearview mirror. Traffic was heavy. Spotting a tail would be difficult and time-consuming when there was precious little time to consume. Besides, those tracking him were not necessarily within sight of his car; if they had bugged his car, if they were running an electronic tail, they could be several blocks away, watching his progress on a lighted scope overlaid with a computer-generated map of the streets.

He had to lose them.

He wasn't going to the McCaffrey's yet, but he didn't want to be followed to Boothe's place, either. A tag-along band of FBI agents would not particularly encourage Boothe to open up. Furthermore, if Boothe did spill everything he knew, Dan didn't want anyone to hear what the publisher had to say, for if Melanie did - by some miracle - survive, that information would be used against her. Then she would have no chance whatsoever of finding her way back from autism, no hope of leading a normal life.

Already, there was little hope for her, though there was at least a spark. Right now, it was Dan's job to preserve that spark of hope and try to nurture it into a flame.

The traffic light changed to green.

He hesitated, not sure which way to go, what action to take in order to rid himself of his tail.

He looked at his watch.

His heart was pounding.

The soft ticking of his watch, the thump-tick of his heartbeat, and the ticking of the rain on the car all blended together in one metronomic sound, and it seemed as though the entire world were a time bomb about to explode.

36.

Melanie's eyes followed the action on the screen. She didn't make a sound, and she didn't shift an inch in her seat, but her eyes moved, and that seemed to be a good sign. It was one of the few times in the past two days that Laura had seen the girl actually looking at something in this this world. For almost an hour, the movement of her eyes had indicated that she was involved with the movie, which was certainly the first that she had focused on external events for any substantial length of time. Whether Melanie was following the plot or was merely fascinated by the bright images didn't matter. The important thing was that the music and the color and Spielberg's cinematic artistry - his imaginative scenes and archetypal characters and bold use of the camera - had done what nothing else could do, had begun to draw the child out of her self-imposed psychological exile. world. For almost an hour, the movement of her eyes had indicated that she was involved with the movie, which was certainly the first that she had focused on external events for any substantial length of time. Whether Melanie was following the plot or was merely fascinated by the bright images didn't matter. The important thing was that the music and the color and Spielberg's cinematic artistry - his imaginative scenes and archetypal characters and bold use of the camera - had done what nothing else could do, had begun to draw the child out of her self-imposed psychological exile.

Laura knew there would be no miraculous recovery, no spontaneous rejection of autism simply because of the movie. But it was a start, however small.

In the meantime, Melanie's interest in the film made it easier for Laura to monitor her and keep her awake. The girl exhibited no signs of being sleepy or of slipping back into a more profound catatonic state.

Dan drove back and forth through Westwood, winding from street to street. Each time that he came to a stop sign or a red traffic light, he shifted the car into Park, got out, and hastily searched one small portion of the sedan's body for the compact transmitter that he knew must be attached to some part of the vehicle. He could have pulled to the curb and examined the entire car methodically from end to end, but then the Bureau agents tailing him would catch up and see what he was doing. If they realized that he suspected being monitored they would not give him an opportunity to find and discard the bug and slip away from them; they would most likely arrest him and take him back to Michael Seames. So at the first stop sign, he frantically checked up under the left front fender and in the wheel well around the tire, groping for a magnetically attached electronics package about the size of a pack of cigarettes. At the next stop he checked the left rear wheel well; during the two stops after that, he ran to the right side of the car and explored under those fenders. He knew other motorists were gawking, but because of his zigzagging route of randomly chosen streets, none of them were behind him for more than two stops, so none had enough time to begin to think that his behavior was suspicious rather than merely odd or eccentric.

Eventually, at a stop sign at an intersection in a residential neighborhood, two blocks east of Hilgarde and south of Sunset Boulevard, when he was the only motorist in sight, with rain pasting his hair even tighter to his scalp and drizzling under the collar of his coat, he found what he was looking for under the rear b.u.mper. He tore it loose, pitched it into a line of plum-thorn shrubs in the front yard of a big pale-yellow Spanish house, got behind the wheel of the sedan again, slammed his door, and got the h.e.l.l out of there. He repeatedly checked the rearview mirror during the next few blocks, afraid that the men tailing him had gotten close enough to see him discard the bug and were following visually. But he was not pursued.

His pants legs and shoes were soaked, and a lot of water had gotten under the collar of his coat while he'd twisted and strained to feel beneath various portions of the car. Waves of shivers swept through him. His teeth chattered.

He turned the car's heater control to its highest position. But this was a cheapjack city vehicle, and even when the equipment worked, it didn't work well. The vents spewed a vaguely warm, moist, slightly fetid breeze in his face, as if the car had halitosis, and he didn't stop shivering until he had driven all the way into the heights of Bel Air, had wound through the tangled network of very private streets, and had found the Boothe estate on the most secluded street of all.