Show of Evil

Vail thought for a moment. The name struck a chord.

Then he remembered the shrink at the Justine Clinic telling him Rene Hutchinson had taken computer lessons in Shelbyville.

'Jesus, Buddy, that's only a few miles from the Justine Clinic. My God! He's going after Molly Arrington. Call the Indiana patrol, tell them to get an address on a Dr Molly Arrington in Winthrop and get over there on the double. I'm going out to the airport and fly down there.'

 'Hell, that isn't necessary, Marty, they got—'

 'I'll call you from the airport. Just get on it, Buddy.' Vail turned to Naomi. 'Call Hawk Permar and tell him we need the chopper. There's going to be three of us and we're going about thirty miles southeast of Indianapolis, a town called Winthrop. If he starts bitching, tell him I'll personally throw in a two-hundred-dollar bonus.'

 'Three passengers?' St Clare said. 'You, me, and Flaherty. We're going down there to find that son of a bitch and bring him back.'

They were airborne, swinging south from the airport and following Interstate 65 towards Indianapolis. The pilot, Matt Permar, who had earned the nickname Hawk flying choppers in Vietnam, was grumbling about not getting enough sleep as he followed the interstate straight towards Indianapolis. A chunky, good-humoured man, he was an excellent pilot who loved to gripe - a hangover from his army days.

'What'ya mumblin' about?' St Claire asked.

'Cockamamie DA, never does anything at normal hours. It's always the middle of the night or dawn. Always spur of the moment - '

'Blah, blah, blah,' said Vail. 'You can always say no.'

'You pay too well,' Hawk answered.

'Then stop bellyaching,' Vail said.

'Bellyaching is good. Bellyaching is normal. I love to bellyache. If I didn't bellyache, I'd be a fruitcake by now.'

'Ain't nobody ever told ya, Hawk. You are a fruitcake,'

St Claire said, and stuffed a wad of tobacco under his lip.

The gripe session was cut short by the squawk of the radio. It was Harris, who was still on duty.

'I got some bad news from Winthrop, Marty,' he said, his voice getting hoarse from lack of sleep.

'I'm prepared for that. Lay it on me.'

'Molly Arrington's dead, Martin. Spread-eagled on her bed, body mutilated, probably was raped. The weirdest thing about it is, he pumped her full of enough morphine to kill her even if he hadn't cut her up. He also printed in blood on her torso the words 'I'm waiting'. Does any of that make sense to you?'

Vail was thinking about Molly. Gentle Molly, who had never hurt a soul in her life. 'Nothing that bastard does makes any sense,' he said angrily.

'He stole her car, probably been on the road at least two, maybe three hours. There's nothing you can do there, Marty. The creep could be anywhere.'

Vail did not answer immediately. He thought about the message.

'I'm waiting.' And then suddenly it did make sense. There was only one place Stampler could go. He couldn't go back to Chicago and by now the whole country knew the story. He would go back to where it had started. Vail grabbed the sectional map and traced a path with his finger south from Shelbyville. His finger finally found what he was looking for.

'I know where to find him,' he said. 'We'll pass on Winthrop. Head for Crikside, Kentucky.'

'Huh?' Hawk said.

'Where?' Harris said.

'Crikside, spelling C-r-i-k-s-i-d-e. Call the Kentucky HP and fill them in. Hold on a minute.' He made an arch with his thumb and forefinger and measured the distance south of Indianapolis.

'About one hundred and seventy-five miles and we're still one hundred miles from Indianapolis. How about it, Matt, how long?'

'What, two hundred and seventy-five miles? Hour and a half, maybe two. What's the weather like down there?'

'Who cares?' said Vail.

'I care!' Hawk hunched down in his seat and shoved the throttles forward. 'I know the weather's for shit,' he said.

'Just keep flying south towards Louisville.'

'You really think that's where the son-bitch's headin'?' St Claire said.