happened today makes sense? That it’s easy to swallow?”
Dez said nothing.
JT nodded. “What I thought. So, what would you have said if I’d told you that Doc Hartnup just got up and strolled off? You trying to tell me that you’d accept that without pause? Without question? No … you wouldn’t because it doesn’t make sense. But we know it happened. Just like we know the cleaning lady attacked you. None of this makes sense.”
JT and Dez stood staring at each other for several silent seconds. Far to the west there was a low mumble of thunder. The sound broke the moment, and Dez’s eyes flicked to the west and then down at the gravel.
“Shit,” she said.
“It’s okay,” JT said softly, touching her arm. “We’ll get it all sorted out.” He didn’t specify which issues would be resolved. The case, Billy, or the train wreck that was Dez’s life. Even so, she nodded slowly.
There was a dull crackle behind the trees. Dez looked up at the clouds. The radio said that a bad storm was coming, but …
The crackle came again.
Not distant thunder.
It was gunfire.
That’s when the screaming started.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dr. Herman Volker nearly shot himself when the phone rang. His nerves were fiddle-string taut, his heart fluttered like nervous fingers on a tabletop, the old Makarov pistol rattling in his hand. His clothes smelled of body odor, Old Spice, cigarettes, and fear. He had the barrel pressed to his temple but had not yet slipped his finger inside the trigger guard. If he had, he would already be dead. Instead his finger jerked tight round the outside of the guard.
“God!” he gasped aloud. There was no one to hear him there in the brown shadows of his house. The single word banged off the walls and burst apart into silent dust.
The phone rang again. It was an old hotel model. Kitschy when he bought it, merely cumbersome now. And loud. The bell seemed to shriek at him.
Volker’s entire body had jerked on the first ring and he could feel the tremulous echo still reverberating in his chest. The sensation grew worse with the second ring. Anxiety was a cold wire in his stomach.
Was it the police? Had his handler called them? Turned him in for what he’d done? Would the police call first or just burst in? Even after all these years working with prisons he didn’t really know.
Ring!
Mr. Price — Volker’s handler at the CIA — would call his cell rather than the home phone. So would the warden and the staff at Rockview.
The hand holding the pistol twitched like a dying fish. He slapped the pistol down on the table, jerking at the solid clunk the metal made against the hardwood. Then he jerked again a second later as …
Ring!
Volker knew that he was a dead man. Even if the police broke down the door and arrested him before he could pull the trigger, he was dead. A prison official in jail was marked. The convicts would tear him apart. Especially when what he did got out. Homer Gibbon was a legend at Rockview. A convict’s convict. They called him the Angel of Death. Some of them had Gibbon’s face tattooed on their arms.
When they learned what Volker had tried to do — had, in fact, done — they would … His mind refused to form any specific end to that thought.
Volker held his breath as he watched the phone ring two more times. Five in all. There was no answering machine attached to the phone. No voice mail. It would ring until the caller gave up. Or until Volker went mad.
Who was calling?
Then he abruptly lunged for it, snatching the receiver from the cradle before it could ring again, pressing the phone to his ear and mouth. And here he faltered once more, unable to speak a word.
A voice crackled down the line. “Hello?”
Volker closed his eyes in relief. A stranger’s voice. Not his handler. Not the warden. Not the cool formality he imagined the police would use.
After a moment, the voice said, “Dr. Volker?”
The doctor swallowed a lump in his throat that felt as big as a fist. “Y-yes…?”
“Oh, good,” said the caller brightly. “Thought I’d misdialed.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Ooops, sorry. This is Billy Trout, Regional Satellite News. I was at the prison yesterday and—”
“Please,” interrupted Volker, his irritation immediately overriding his fear, “I cannot comment on that event; and I would appreciate it if you—”
Trout cut him off. “This isn’t about the execution. Not exactly…”
Volker said nothing. God! Did this man know about Lucifer 113? If so — how?
“I apologize for calling you at your home, doctor,” Trout continued. “I tried your office and your cell.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“I’d like to talk with you about Aunt Selma.”
“Who?” He knew it sounded like the lie it was.
“Selma Conroy,” prompted Trout. “Homer Gibbon’s aunt. The one who claimed the body…? It’s my understanding that you released the body to her?”
“Yes,” said Volker woodenly. Even to his own ears his voice sounded dead. He glanced at the pistol lying on the table. He closed his eyes. “How do you know about her, Mr. Trout? It was
“Sorry, Dr. Volker. Confidential sources,” said Trout.
Volker gave a disgusted grunt. “What do you want? My part in this is over. If you were at the prison as you say, then you know that.”
“Ye-e-es,” Trout said, stretching the word to imply other possible meanings.
“Then what do you want?” Volker asked again. Was the phone tapped? It would not surprise him if the CIA had kept this place tapped since they moved him in. He looked around as if he could see agents huddled over elaborate wiretapping equipment, but all that surrounded him were the empty shadows of his sterile home.
“I want an opinion, Doctor,” said Trout. “As the prison’s senior medical officer you would be in a unique position to know Homer Gibbon. On a personal level, I mean. People talk to their doctors.”
“No,” Volker said evasively. “I was the doctor for the whole facility. I had a large staff. I was not that man’s therapist or caseworker.”
“I understand that, but can we agree that you knew Homer Gibbon? I mean, at least as well as anyone on the medical staff?”
“I…” Volker said and let his voice trail off, not knowing which answer was safest.
“So,” continued Trout as if Volker had given his agreement, “could you speculate, doctor, as to why someone might want to steal his body?”
“‘Steal’?” Volker’s chest heaved so sharply that he almost vomited onto the phone. He slammed down the receiver and backed away from the instrument as if it could bite him. “Oh, God,” he said to the brown shadows that filled the room. “Oh, God. What have I done?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
