On, Off

“No, he’s Wesley le Clerc from now on. It has to look as if he acted for all black people, not just for the Black Brigade. That’s the way we’ll work it.”

It happened two minutes before Claire Ponsonby’s car was due to arrive, so she wasn’t witness to her brother’s fate. At first she was stranded in a moving mass of bodies, then police managed to clear enough space for the Lincoln to reverse back down Cedar Street to the County Services building.

“Jesus, Carmine, are you crazy?” Danny Marciano demanded, face ashen, body shaking. “My guys were on automatic pilot, they would have shot the Pope!”

“Well, luckily they didn’t shoot me. More importantly, Danny, there were no flying bullets to wing a cameraman or kill Di Jones – how could Holloman survive without her Sunday gossip column?”

“Yeah, I know why you did it – and so do they, give them that much credit. I gotta go disperse this crowd.”

Patrick was kneeling by Charles Ponsonby’s head, thrown up and back, an expression of outrage on its lean, beaky face; a lake of blood was spreading from beneath his body, thinning as it flowed onward.

“Dead?” Carmine asked, bending down.

“As a doornail.” Patrick brushed a hand across the fixed, disbelieving eyes to close them. “At least he won’t walk, and I for one think there’s a Hell waiting for him.”

Wesley le Clerc stood between two uniformed cops, looking harmless and insignificant; every camera was still aimed at him, the man who had executed the Connecticut Monster. Rough justice, but justice of a kind. It never occurred to anyone that Ponsonby had not been tried, might conceivably have been innocent.

Silvestri came down the courthouse steps wiping his brow. “The judge is not amused,” he said to Carmine. “Christ, what a fucking fiasco! And get him out of here!” he yelled at the men holding Wesley. “Go on, take him in and book him!”

Carmine followed Wesley into the squad car cage and sat back on the stained and smelly seat, his head turned sideways. Wesley was still wearing that fool hat with its heartrending message: WE HAVE SUFFERED. But the first thing Carmine did was to inform Wesley of his situation loudly enough for the cops in the front seat to hear. Then he plucked the hat off, turned it between his hands. A hard plastic hockey helmet that he had attacked with tin snips to fit it snugly around his ears. Jam it on, and it would stay in place long enough to be seen.

“I guess you thought it would come off in the hail of cop bullets you expected to cut you down, yet there it was on top of your head to the bitter end. It even survived getting into this shit-heap car. You’re a better craftsman than you realize, Wes.”

“I have done a great thing,” Wesley said in ringing tones, “and I will go on to do greater things!”

“Don’t forget that anything you say may be used in evidence.”

“What do I care about that, Lieutenant Delmonico? I am the avenger of my people, I killed the man who raped and murdered our women children. I am a hero, and so I will be regarded.”

“Oh, Wes, you’ve wasted yourself, can’t you see that? What gave you the idea, Jack Ruby? Did you think for one minute that I’d let you die the way he did? You have such a good mind! And, more’s the pity, if you had only done what I asked you to do, you might have made a real difference to your people. But no, you wouldn’t wait. Killing is easy, Wes. Anybody can kill. To me, it indicates an IQ about four points higher than plant life. Charles Ponsonby would probably have gone to prison for the rest of his days. All you did was let him off the hook.”

“Was that who it was? Dr. Chuck Ponsonby? Well, well! A Hugger after all. You don’t even begin to understand, Lieutenant. He was just a means to my end. He gave me the chance to become a martyr. Do I give a fuck whether he lives or dies? No, I do not! I am the one who must suffer, and suffer I will.”

As Wesley le Clerc was being led away to the cells Silvestri stomped in, chewing fiercely on his cigar. “There’s another one we’ll have to watch every second,” he growled. “Let him commit suicide and there’ll be hell to pay.”

“He’s also a very bright guy and manually skilled, so taking away his belt and anything he can tear into strips won’t prevent his trying if that’s the way his mind is going. Personally I don’t think it is. Wesley wants everything aired in public.”

They entered the elevator. “What do we do with Miss Claire Ponsonby?” Carmine asked.

“We drop the charges and release her forthwith. That’s what the D.A. says. A bucket of dead leaves is not enough evidence to hold her, let alone charge her. The only thing we can do is forbid her to leave Holloman County – for the time being.” The jowly face screwed up like a colicky baby’s. “Oh, what a pain in the ass this case has been from start to finish! All those beautiful, sainted young girls dead, and no one to bring them real justice. And how the hell do I handle the relatives about the heads?”

“At least the heads represent the closing of a door to the families, John. Not knowing is worse than knowing,” Carmine said as they left the elevator. “Where is Claire?”

“Back in the same office.”

“Mind if I do the deed?”

“Mind? Be my guest. I don’t want to see the bitch!”

She was sitting in a comfortable chair, Biddy lying at her feet, ignoring the two uncomfortable young women ordered never to take their eyes off her. Since she couldn’t see, somehow that seemed an unpardonable invasion of her privacy.

“Why, Lieutenant Delmonico!” she exclaimed, straightening as he walked in.

“No V-8 engine in my car to give me away this time. How do you do it, Miss Ponsonby?”

She achieved a simper that made her look old, sly, pinched, pitiful; something about the expression gave him one of those lightning flashes of insight so vital to his police career. It said that she was definitely the second Ghost. Oh, Patsy, Patsy, find me something to put her in the killing premises! Find me a photograph or a movie of her and Chuck in the middle of rape and murder. Grow up, Carmine! There is nothing. The only memorabilia they keep are the heads. What use is a picture, still or moving, to a blind person? What use, for that matter, is a head?

“Lieutenant,” she said with a purr, “you carry your V-8 with you wherever you go. The engine’s not in your car, it’s in you.”

“Have you been informed that your brother, Charles, is dead?”

“Yes, I have. I also know that he did none of the things you say he did. My brother was a highly intellectual, fastidious and terribly kind man. That peasant Marciano accused me of being his lover – pah! I’m glad that I don’t have a cesspool for a mind.”

“We have to take every possibility into account. But you’re free to go, Miss Ponsonby. All charges have been dropped.”

“So I should think.” She tugged the loop on Biddy’s harness.

“Where are you going to stay? Your house is still a crime scene under police investigation and will remain so for some time to come. Would you like me to phone Mrs. Eliza Smith?”

“Certainly not!” she snapped. “If it hadn’t been for that woman’s tale-telling, none of this would have happened. I hope she dies of cancer of the tongue!”

“Then where are you going?”

“I will be at Major Minor’s until I can move back into my home, so be warned. I intend to retain lawyers to watch for my interests as owner of Six Ponsonby Lane, therefore I suggest that you damage nothing. The house committed no crime.”

And out she swept. Winner take all, Carmine. Ghost or no Ghost, that is one formidable woman.

He went back to the house that committed no crime, though he hadn’t offered to drive Claire to Major Minor’s. Silvestri had donated his Lincoln for that. They were now entering upon the saddest time in any case – the flat, uninspiring aftermath.

By the time everyone arrived at the Hug, the news that the Connecticut Monster had been caught was, in news terms, quite old. Each face looked smoother, younger, and each pair of eyes glowed. Oh, the relief! Perhaps now the Hug could return to normal, for obviously the Monster was not a Hugger.

Desdemona hadn’t seen Carmine since she returned from her hike, nor had she expected to, with the Ghost watch keeping him away. But just as she was about to leave for her escorted squad car trip to the Hug on this Wednesday morning, the phone rang: Carmine, sounding curiously unemotional.

“There’s a TV in the Hug boardroom as I remember,” he said. “Turn it on and watch channel six, okay?” Click!