whacking another across the ear with his stick.
“Cut it! Enough!”
Doyle charged in beside him, Taser in hand, and the other guards waded in as well. In less than thirty seconds, the inmates had been restrained. The special prisoner lay on his back, unconscious, the blood covering his face a striking contrast to his skin, his pants nearly torn off at the waistband, his shirt split down the side.
One of the other prisoners was screaming hysterically somewhere in the background. “You seen what that crazy fucker do? You seen that, man?”
“What’s happening, Fecteau?” came the warden’s voice over the radio. “What’s this about a fight?”
As if he didn’t know. “The new prisoner got nailed, sir.”
“What happened to him?”
“We need EMTs!” one of the other guards was calling in the background. “We got at least three prisoners hurt bad! EMTs!”
“Fecteau, are you there?” came Imhof’s strident voice.
“Yeah, the new prisoner’s hurt, don’t know how bad, though.”
“Find out!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Another thing: I want the EMTs on the new prisoner first. You understand?”
“Copy, sir.”
Fecteau looked around. Where the hell was Pocho?
Then he saw the form of Pocho huddled in a frozen corner of the yard, motionless.
“Oh, God,” he said. “Where are those EMTs? Get them here now!”
“Motherfucker!” came the hysterical voice. “You seen what he done?”
“Secure the others,” Fecteau cried. “Hear me? Cuff them and get them the hell out of here into lockdown!”
It was an unnecessary order. The gang members who could still stand were already being marched to the yard door. The shouting faded, leaving behind the high-pitched whimpering of one of the injured inmates. Lacarra lay in grotesque imitation of a supplicant, knees and face in the snow, head twisted in an unnatural angle. His motionlessness creeped out Fecteau most of all.
The EMTs arrived, two of them, followed by two more wheeling stretchers.
Fecteau pointed to the special prisoner. “Warden wants him taken care of first.”
“What about that one?” The EMTs had fixed their horrified eyes on Lacarra.
“Take care of the new prisoner first.”
Even as they worked on the new prisoner, Fecteau couldn’t take his eyes off Lacarra. And then, as if in slow motion, Lacarra’s body began to move, began to topple on its side, where it lay, again unmoving, the grinning face and wide-open eyes now turned to the sky.
Fecteau raised the radio to his lips, wondering just what to tell the warden. One thing was clear: Pocho Lacarra wasn’t likely to be making anybody his bitch, ever again.
Chapter 31
On a cold March day, eastern Long Island did not much look like the playground of the rich and famous it was supposed to be. At least, that was Smithback’s impression as he cruised past yet another muddy, stubble-strewn potato field, a bedraggled flock of crows wheeling about overhead.
Since his meeting with Hayward, Smithback had tried everything in his journalistic bag of tricks to find out more about Diogenes. He’d written suggestive articles, hinting at imminent breakthroughs and soliciting tips. He’d poked around the museum, asking questions and sifting rumors. Nothing. Pendergast remained in prison on charges of murder. Just as bad, Diogenes remained utterly vanished, free. The image of Pendergast’s brother at large and no doubt hatching some fresh outrage both angered and frightened Smithback.
He wasn’t sure, exactly, when the idea had come to him. But come it had… and now he was driving eastward on the island, heading for a house that he hoped-rather fervently hoped-was unoccupied.
Chances were, he’d find nothing. After all, what could he find that the police hadn’t? But it was the only thing still left for him to do.
“In five hundred feet, turn right on Springs Road,” spoke a mellifluous female voice from the dashboard.
“Thanks, Lavinia darling,” Smithback said with a jauntiness he didn’t feel.
“Turn right on Springs Road.”
Smithback complied, swinging onto a cracked macadam road sandwiched between more potato fields, shuttered beach houses, and bare-limbed trees. Beyond lay a marsh of dead cattails and sawgrass. He passed a faded wooden sign in a picturesque state of dilapidation. Welcome to the Springs, it told him. This was an unpretentious corner of eastern Long Island, only faintly perfumed with the odor of quiet money.
“The town, my dear Lavinia, is small and unremarkable, but not wholly without atmosphere,” said Smithback. “Wish you could see it.”
“In five hundred feet, turn right on Glover’s Box Road.”
“Very well.”
“Turn right on Glover’s Box Road,” came the smooth response.
“With a voice like that, you could make a fortune in the phone sex business, you know that?” Smithback was glad Lavinia was only a voice in his dashboard. The GPS navigation system couldn’t know just how nervous he felt.
He now found himself on a broad sandy spit of land, beach houses on either side among scraggly pines, cattail marshes, and scrub. A gray sheet of water lay to his left: Gardiners Bay. On his right was a bedraggled harbor, shut up for the winter, the yachts gone into tender.
“In three hundred feet, you will arrive at your destination.”
Smithback slowed. Ahead, he could see a sandy driveway leading through a sparse scattering of oaks to end at a gray, shingled house. Police sawhorses had been placed across the driveway, but there was no sign of a police presence. The house was shut up and dark.
The road curved past a few more houses, then ended in a loop where the spit came to an end. A sign to one side announced a public beach. Smithback pulled the car onto the side of the loop-he was the only one there-and stepped out, inhaling the fresh cold air. He zipped his jacket against the damp wind, shrugged his arms into a backpack, picked up a rock from the ground, placed it in his pocket, and strolled out onto the beach. The small waves slopped and hissed up the strand in a regular cadence. Strolling along, he picked up a few shells, tossed them back again, scuffed his sneakers along the sand, all the time making his way down the beach.
The houses stood just beyond the beginning of the sawgrass and dunes: gray shingles and white trim, silent and boarded up for the winter. The house he wanted was easy to identify: pieces of yellow crime scene tape still fluttered from stakes driven into the unkempt yard. It was a large house from the twenties, weather-beaten, with pitched roofs, a deep sea-facing porch, and two gables. Smithback continued past the house, but still there was no sign of any official presence. Still kicking sand nonchalantly, he strolled up through the dunes and sawgrass, hopped over a split rail fence, ducked under the police tape, and scooted across the yard into the lee of the house.
He pressed himself against the wall, hidden from sight behind a half-dead yew, and slipped on a pair of leather gloves. The house would be locked, of course. He edged around until he came to a side door, then peered inside. He made out a tidy, old-fashioned kitchen, devoid of the usual utensils.
Smithback removed the rock from his pocket, along with a handkerchief. He wrapped the handkerchief around the rock, gave the window a smart rap.
Nothing happened. He struck harder, this time making a fairly audible thump, but still it did not break.
