Страница 37 из 105
“Let’s go!”
She ran across the room to the far doorway, paused, gave a quick look into the next with the flashlight. There was no sign of the figure, but there were plenty of nooks and cra
“Again!” They charged into the next room, immediately spreading out and taking cover.
This was the largest attic room yet, filled with gray metal shelves tightly packed with jars. In each jar resided a single staring eye, the size of a cantaloupe, roots dangling like tentacles. One shelf of jars had been thrown to the ground, and the eyeballs lay ruptured, oozing jelly amid the glass and preservative.
A quick search disclosed the room was empty. Hayward gathered the team.
“Slowly but surely,” she said, “we’re driving him into a corner. Remember that people, like animals, get progressively more dangerous as they become cornered.”
Nods all around.
She glanced around. “The whale eyeball collection, it seems.”
A few nervous, steadying laughs.
“Okay. We’ll take it one room at a time. No hurry.”
Hayward moved to the edge of the next door, listened, then ducked her head around, flashed the light. Nothing.
As they moved into the room, Hayward heard a sudden, rending scream from beyond the far doorway, followed by the tremendous crash of glass and the sound of ru
“That stuff is flammable,” Hayward said. “If he’s got a match, get ready to run.”
She moved forward, raking the next room beyond with her flashlight.
“I see it!” O’Co
Draaag-thump! A shriek like a banshee, and then a dark figure, scuttling sideways but with horrifying single-mindedness, came rushing at them, gray flint knife raised in a fisted hand; Hayward jumped back as it crossed the threshold, knife slashing the air.
“Police!” she called out. “Drop your weapon!”
But the figure paid no heed, shambling crablike at them, knife still slashing the air.
“Don’t shoot!” Hayward cried. “Mace him!”
She dodged the figure, drawing it around, while the other three cops flanked it on both sides, holstering their guns and pulling out their riot sticks and Mace. Visconti jumped forward and Maced the attacker and he howled like a demon, spi
“Cuff him!”
But Visconti had already sprung into action, slapping the cuffs on one wrist and then, with the help of O’Co
He screamed and bucked maniacally.
“Do his ankles!” Hayward ordered.
A minute later, the perp lay on his stomach, still pi
“Get the EMTs in here,” Hayward said. “We need a sedative.”
Most suspects, when cuffed hand and foot and pi
“Must be on angel dust,” said one of the cops.
“I’ve never seen angel dust do this.”
A minute later, an EMT arrived and plunged a needle into the shrieking man’s buttock. A few moments later, he began to quiet down. Hayward got up and dusted herself off.
“Jesus,” said O’Co
“Yeah, and it’s gone off in this heat. He stinks.”
“Fucker’s naked, too.”
Hayward stepped back. The perp was still lying on his stomach, face pressed to the floor by Visconti, whimpering and quivering in an unsuccessful attempt to fight off the sedative.
She bent down. “Where’s Lipper?” she asked him. “What did you do to him?”
More whimpering.
“Turn him over, I want to see his face.”
Visconti complied. The man’s face and hair were caked with dried blood and offal. He was grimacing strangely, his face seized by tics.
“Clean him up.”
The EMT broke out a pack of sterile gauze wipes and cleaned up his face.
“Oh, Christ,” Visconti said involuntarily.
Hayward merely stared. She could barely believe her eyes.
The killer was Jay Lipper.
Chapter 27
Spencer Coffey settled himself in a chair in Warden Imhof’s office, impatiently flicking his trouser crease. Imhof sat behind his desk, looking much as he had during the first meeting: cool and neat, with the same blow-dried helmet of light brown hair on his head. Nevertheless, Coffey could see the uneasy, perhaps even defensive look in his eye. Special Agent Rabiner remained standing, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.
Coffey let a strained silence build in the office before speaking.
“Mr. Imhof,” he began, “you promised you would take care of this personally.”
“As I have,” said Imhof in a coldly neutral voice.
Coffey leaned back. “S.A. Rabiner and I have just come from an interview with the prisoner. I’m sorry to say there’s been no progress-none-in teaching him the value of respect. Now, I told you earlier I wasn’t really interested in how you accomplished the task we set for you, that I was only interested in results. Whatever you’re doing, it isn’t working. The prisoner’s the same cocky, arrogant bastard who first walked in here. Refused to answer questions. Insolent as well. When I asked him how he was enjoying solitary confinement, he said, ‘I rather prefer it.’”
“Prefer it to what?”
“Being mixed in with ‘former clients’ is how he put it, the sarcastic bastard. Really emphasizing the point that he didn’t want to be mixed with the general prison population. He’s as unrepentant and combative as ever.”
“Agent Coffey, sometimes these things take time.”
“Which is exactly what we don’t have, Mr. Imhof. We’ve got a second bail hearing coming up, and Pendergast’s going to have a day in court. We can keep him from his lawyer only so long. I need him broken by then; I need a confession.” What he didn’t add were the growing problems they were having nailing down some of the evidence. That would make the bail hearing very tricky-whereas a confession would make it all so nice and clean.
“As I said, it takes time.”
Coffey took a breath, remembering Imhof’s particular buttons. A little carrot, a little stick.
“Meanwhile, our man is down there bad-mouthing you and Herkmoor to all who will listen: guards, staff, everyone. And he’s an eloquent bastard, Imhof.”
The warden remained silent, but Coffey noticed-with satisfaction-a slight twitching at one corner of his mouth. And yet the man made no move to suggest stronger measures. Maybe there weren’t any stronger measures…
And that’s when the idea came to him-the masterstroke. It was the “former clients” phrase that did it. So Pendergast was afraid of being mixed up with “former clients”?
“Mr. Imhof,” he said-but quietly, as if to disguise the freshness of his brainstorm-“is that computer on your desk linked to the Department of Justice database?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, then. Let’s check up on some of these ‘former clients.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Access Pendergast’s arrest records. Run them against your current prison population, see if you can find any matches.”
“You mean, see if any of the perps Pendergast arrested are currently in Herkmoor?”
“That’s the idea, yes.”