the first place. But it’s okay, because I have my whole family here now. We had breakfast on the beach, Alex. It was such a beautiful morning. Leopold made pancakes. And the chief said he’s going to go take care of things. So I’m fine.”
Leopold made pancakes. What the hell was I supposed to do with that? “Okay,” I said. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Good-bye, Alex. I hope you’ll think about me sometime.”
“I imagine I will, Maria. Good-bye.”
I went back to the bar. What a wonderful idea that was, giving her a call. I am so full of wonderful ideas.
“Leopold made pancakes,” I told the bartender. “Give me another beer.”
He slid one over.
“And the chief is going to go take care of everything,” I said. The chief who supposedly came over to sit with her until her family got there. The same chief I left lying on the floor with a bottle of Wild Turkey on his chest.
I froze, the beer bottle lifted halfway to my mouth. “Oh no,” I said.
I put the beer down.
“Oh my God.”
CHAPTER 23
I have an excuse. It’s not much, but here it is.
Have you ever picked up a baseball? Have you ever felt how hard it is? A good pitcher throws it at speeds approaching a hundred miles an hour. Sometimes the batter swings at the ball and just barely makes contact with it. In that case, the ball doesn’t slow down, and it doesn’t change its direction more than a few inches. But those few inches are enough to make the catcher miss it completely. That’s why a catcher wears a mask.
If you’ve ever worn an old catcher’s mask, you know that it’s basically just a metal cage with padding around the edges. If a foul tip catches you square in the mask, that metal cage is there to make sure you don’t lose half your teeth or break your nose. The problem is, if a fastball hits you right in the middle of your mask and then drops to the ground, all that force has to go somewhere. It doesn’t matter how much padding you’ve got on that thing. Your head is still absorbing the blow.
Nowadays, they’ve got these catcher’s masks that look more like the masks hockey goalies wear. They’re streamlined, so that anywhere you hit them, it’s just a glancing blow. A catcher never has to take a straight-on fastball in the head anymore. Of course, they didn’t have those when I played. So how many of those fastballs to the head had I taken? Two thousand? Three thousand? I couldn’t even guess. But I do remember what it felt like when I took a couple good ones in the same inning. I’d go back to the dugout feeling like a prizefighter staggering back to his corner.
So maybe I’d taken too many balls off the mask. That’s my excuse. Or maybe I was just born this way. Either way, sometimes I just do things without thinking. I usually end up paying for it.
I drove east, back across the state, toward the suburbs of Detroit. I knew the route well, having taken it twice already in the past few days. I didn’t think I could change anything. It was almost six o’clock at night. Whatever had been done had been done several hours ago. It was nothing more than curiosity at that point. That, and a sick sense of dread and something almost like fascination. I couldn’t believe they’d really done it. And I was sure they had. I just had to see for myself.
All that business about how her family had been there all day, breakfast on the beach, Leopold making pancakes, and about how Chief Rudiger had said he was going to take care of things. She’d told me all that for a reason. She hadn’t known I was with the chief the night before, didn’t know I would see right through it.
That’s what I thought about all the way down 1-96, then 1-275 to Farmington. I found the subdivision again. Corriedale Street to Romney Street. As soon as I turned the corner, I saw the two vehicles in the driveway.
The chief’s patrol car was closest to the garage, the long scrape still fresh on the passenger’s side. Harwood’s RV was right behind it. There were no other cars in the driveway, because, of course, they were all in Orcus Beach at that point.
I drove past the house, then doubled back and stopped on the street. I sat there and watched the house for a while. Nobody came or went. Nothing happened. As I sat there, it occurred to me that Whitley had done the same thing, maybe sitting in this exact same spot, watching the same house.
I sat there for at least an hour. A couple kids came down the street on their bikes. A few cars passed. Somewhere, a dog barked. Otherwise, it was a quiet, pleasant evening in the suburbs. The two vehicles sat in the driveway. I stared at the scrape on the side of Rudiger’s car, hypnotized by the shape of it. It didn’t take a fortune- teller to know something was very wrong in that house.
I should have left then. That’s what I should have done.
I didn’t.
I got out of the truck and walked up to the house. The beautiful April day was all but over, the warmth of the sun long gone. There were no neighbors outside to see me walking down the driveway to the front door. When I got there, I saw that it was ajar. I pushed it open and went inside.
Silence.
I went through the living room, then into the dining room.
No sign of life. Nothing.
The stairs. I knew these stairs. I went to the edge and looked down.
One wheel.
That should have been enough for me. One wheel. That’s all I needed to see. But I kept going. I took a step down. The stairway creaked. I stopped. I took another step. Another creak. With each step, I saw more of the wheelchair. It was turned onto its side.
It was empty.
I kept going, step after step. I saw a leg, then another. And then the blood.
Two men against the wall, each with one arm in handcuffs. The handcuffs going through the metal ring in the wall. The same ring in the wall, the same handcuffs. Two men. Whitley and Harwood. What is left of them. Each blown apart by a shotgun. This is what it looks like. Blood everywhere. The smell of death and blood. The pure evil sight of it.
Shotgun casings on the floor. Lying in the blood.
Look to the right. There is more. Chief Rudiger, the man I saw how many hours ago. The head destroyed now. Obliterated. All over the mirror behind him, pink and red. He is lying on the weight bench. The shotgun hanging from him onto the floor, one dead finger still caught in the trigger.
A piece of paper on the floor, one corner soaking up blood.
The chief wanted to call her. Those were his last words to me. He wanted to get up off the floor and call Maria. If he had managed to pull himself off the floor and call her, then what happened next? How long did it take her to see the opportunity? To see the whole scene laid out in front of her? It’s airtight. She calls Leopold. He wakes the entire family. They load up Leopold’s truck, Delilah’s car, Anthony’s car. The whole family goes to Orcus Beach in the middle of the night, just like Maria said. Is the chief already at Maria’s house when the family arrives? Maybe he is. Maybe Maria asked him to come, and somehow he pulled himself together and drove over there. Or maybe Leopold and Anthony had to go get him. Either way, the piece of paper is with him. Written in his own hand. He brought it with him, or it was there on the table when they picked him up. And the shotgun. Don’t forget the shotgun. They put him in the back of his patrol car, drive him back to Farmington. Two cars. Anthony following Leopold, who is driving the patrol car. It’s five in the morning then. Maybe six. Leopold has the chief’s hat on, just in case somebody sees him in the car. But it’s so early, there aren’t many cars on the road. When they get to the house in Farmington, they wait. Anthony parks the car down the road, of course. Only the patrol car can be seen in the driveway. Maria calls Harwood. She has his number now. She calls him and tells him to come to Farmington. Time to make a deal. Time to end this once and for all.
Which is exactly what they do.
After it is done, Leopold and Anthony drive back to Orcus Beach. The police will find them, of course. Three
