Son of the endless night, p.15
Son of the Endless Night, page 15
The next thing Conor heard was the telephone.
When he opened his eyes at the third loud ring the room was dark. Gina had gotten up at some point after lovemak-ing, probably to sit on the toilet and read her missal before putting her nightgown back on and turning off the TV. She was lying on her side at the far edge of the king-size bed. He got up on one elbow, was stabbed in the back, grimaced, and reached over her to grope for the phone. The luminous clock face showed the time: three thirty-five A.M.
Gina suddenly rose up in front of him. "'S okay, I'll get it."
Conor groaned crankily and lay down again.
"Hello? Yes— yes. Well, he's asleep now, could you tell me— "
Conor had been half afraid it was bad news about her mother, but apparently the call was for him, which caused no anxiety. It wasn't an unusual occurrence. Some inconsiderate wrestling buff who'd found out his home number despite the alias he used and wanted beerily to challenge Irish Bob to a no-holds-barred fight behind the challenger's favorite tavern. He tuned out the interruption and was sinking gently back into sleep when he heard Gina cry out.
"What? Are you sure? Richard Devon?"
Conor was up again, a hand on Gina's shoulder. She was rigid, holding the receiver of the phone in both hands.
"Yes. Yes. Oh, my God. I don't believe it! Not Richard!"
"Gina— " Conor said, a lump dark and hot as coal tar rising in his throat. His back ached fiercely.
She turned to him. In the mild light, frozen halogen from a distant street lamp, her face was frightened. Worse, to him, the light her mind gave back in the bedroom dark was as shocking as a scream. Wordlessly she held out the receiver to Conor and, as soon as he took it from her, reached for her rosary, which was always close to hand on the bedside table.
"This is Conor Devon," Conor said, feeling Gina's breath coming to the side of his neck like a fog. Tremulous, dimly outraged, sensing that the life they had so meticulously made and cherished so deeply was now threatened by forces beyond his control, he cleared his throat harshly and continued, "What about my brother?"
28
Haden County, Vermont, bounded by the Connecticut River on the east and, roughly, by the Green Mountains on the west, has a population of 35,000 permanent residents. The Appalachian Trail bisects the northwest corner of Haden County, and several of the most popular ski areas in the eastern United States lie within its borders. Some famous old inns in quiet little villages attract large numbers of both summer and winter vacationers, and at peak times of the year the county's population nearly doubles with transients, many of them from the nearby metropolitan areas of Boston and New York. Major crimes are still a rarity in Haden County, but in recent years misdemeanors have quadrupled; the freedom to acquire and abuse drugs has become a much-discussed problem. Murders, most frequently involving local drug merchants, have been committed here, six in the last four years. And murderers have been prosecuted in Haden County, in the superior and district courts.
But the killing of Karyn Vale was unusual, partly because of its sensational nature and partly because it involved nonresidents, vacationing college students from Yale University. And Karyn's father was a stockbroker, president of a large firm his grandfather had begun: the family was wealthy, they had impeccable social credentials and close friends in high places both at home and abroad. The murder, consequently, commanded major space in the newspapers and on the network news programs within twenty-four hours.
Before much news had leaked out of Haden County, however, before the TV people began to arrive to do their preliminary reports on the courthouse steps or in front of the Davos Chalet Lodge where the murder took place, Conor Devon drove into Chadbury shortly before sunrise on the twenty-first of January, a Saturday, and received directions to the state police unit from a couple of telephone company linemen working to repair an ice-damaged cable on the Post Road.
The state police unit was surrounded by cyclone fencing. It was a low concrete building with narrow dark-toned windows inset on a diagonal and communications gear all over the roof. There was a helicopter on a pad in a cleared area to one side of the fenced parking lot, and a hell of a lot of cars pulled up in front. Conor found space for the ten-year-old Lincoln he cherished because of the leg room it afforded and went into the building.
He asked the officer on the desk for Captain Moorman, referring to a scrap of paper he took from his pocket. The captain, he was told, was busy; they were all busy this morning. The telephone console was lit up, with nearly a dozen lines in use, and the phone kept ringing.
Conor was directed to a seat in the lobby and offered coffee, which he accepted. The coffee was old and the shell plastic chair, a bright orange that didn't go well with the pastel blue walls, wasn't accommodating to his bulk. He stood, his back against a cold concrete-block wall beside a framed portrait of the governor, a man with silver-tipped sideburns and a canny smile, flanked by towering flags of the state and country.
Conor picked up a wrinkled old supermarket tabloid to stare at well-tended faces he had seen around, before bedtime, in early afternoon, the TV on while he doggedly worked at his Soloflex conditioning machine in the converted den at home. Fixed by the almost nuclear glare of photoflash, they seemed curiously poignant fossils, condemned to stratification in endless back numbers of the National Enquirer. He lived himself at the very fringe of their kind of celebrity, miles from the severing arc, a gimp-kneed dinosaur bellowing in the pits of stagnant towns, answered by catcalls and the bloodyminded insults of savage strangers. He shuddered from knowledge of the speed at which they were all being hurried to extinction, his stomach hollow, a hellish rumble of gases within. Painful. Threatening. He thought of his brother. His mind froze then out of gear at the concurrent thought of murder; of Karyn, dead, somewhere.
A couple of kids in their early twenties came from inside the building through sliding glass doors. Pretty girl with a flippantly upturned nose and dark, tangled tresses, a lanky boy with shoulders narrow as a goat's and crinkled carroty hair. Both looked as if they had spent a sleepless night under interrogation. Conor's scalp prickled. Witnesses. They had seen. The girl had a cold, red-rimmed nostrils. She paused to light a filtertip cigarette while the boy jittered, perhaps from coffee nerves, a starey, aimless look of exhaustion in his eyes.
She spat out smoke and complained that the cigarette had no taste. "Shid."
"Come on, let's get out of here," the boy muttered.
"Do you think we'll have to come back today?"
"I don't know, Caitlin."
"Whad's a grand jury do? Is id like a trial? Shid. Thad could take months." She flung a hand wide, to indicate the immensity of a span of time to which she, not a criminal, had been unfairly sentenced. "I have to be back on campus tomorrow nide."
The boy shrugged.
"I wish I hadn't seen anything," Caitlin said wanly, using nasal spray. She looked at Conor, standing wild and red and disheveled against the wall, looking quickly away when their eyes met. He had wanted at that instant to take a step forward, speak to her— is it true, what my brother did? But something about him— his size, the desperation in his face— had disturbed her.
"I wish to God I could forget what I saw," the boy replied. He held the outside door open and the girl went out with a leggy stride. She flipped the unsmoked cigarette into a snowbank and shrugged into a classy fur jacket.
The sliding glass doors behind Conor whooshed apart again.
"Mr. Devon?"
Lady cop. Yellow-bordered green stripes on her khaki sleeve. Elfin blond haircut, Valkyrie bust, a raspy complexion; but pretty despite the flaws. She was tall enough in her boots almost to look him in the eye.
"I'm Sergeant Wilde. Would you come this way, please?"
"Could you tell me— "
"Captain Moorman will be able to answer your questions; I just came on." She smiled, waiting. Conor went first. She told him to turn left inside the doors. All the way to the end, past doors of blond simulated oak to an end office with Venetian blinds closed, a glare of fluorescence overhead. Nearly the whole ceiling.
"Did you have a long drive?"
"It's about a hundred and twenty-five miles, I guess."
"Coffee?"
"No thanks. Where's— "
"Captain Moorman will be right with you," she said, smiling again; and she went out, closing the door behind her.
Conor stood in the middle of the room, clenching and unclenching his hands. Two metal chairs in front of a small desk, a computer terminal, screen and modem on the desktop. Green blotter pad, manila file folders, telephone.
There'd been no name on the door. Most of the keys on the telephone console were alight. He thought about picking up the receiver, eavesdropping at random; his itch to be informed was nearly unendurable. What the hell is going on? He went to the windows instead, opened the blinds, looked out. The day was clear, the sun a perfect orb, milky orange through a screen of tall evergreens along the road. It was five minutes after eight by his watch.
The door opened and Captain Moorman came in. He was barely the acceptable height for policemen in this country. Conor could have put him in his hip pocket and had room left for a couple of cub scouts. Moorman was about forty-five, with a weekend skier's bronze-toned face, a neat dark mustache, and not much hair on his head, like the nap left on a worn-out teddy bear.
Conor turned from the windows, tears flowing freely. The captain was taken aback.
"Mr. Devon?"
"Yes."
"Are you all right?"
"What do you think?" Conor said, his face screwing up. He reached for a handkerchief. He cried easily when frustrated or unhappy, and didn't care who saw him. Weeping also inflamed his face, which always made him look dangerous and unpredictable.
"Under the circumstances I— I'm very sorry. Would you like to sit down?"
"No. I want to hear about my brother."
"Of course." Moorman took a photocopied report from a slim black leather case under one arm, referred to it quickly.
"I can tell you at the moment that your brother is under arrest, suspicion of murder. The victim— "
"I know all that already. But why did he do it? What made him— what in sweet Jesus' name— " Conor sobbed and paused to blow his nose. "None of this makes any sense. Rich is my half brother, actually; we had the same father. But I was like his father. Even though I was in seminary part of the time while he was growing up. He just isn't— he couldn't— my God, she's such a sweet girl! Why?"
"I'm afraid Richard hasn't been very clear about his motives. He was in an agitated, nearly incoherent state when we took him into custody several hours ago."
"Incoherent?"
"He appeared incapable of fully understanding what had taken place. When he spoke, according to the arresting officers, at times his words were foreign, a language they didn't understand."
"What did he say when his rights were read to him?"
"He indicated comprehension."
"Well, then, he must know what he did!"
"Not necessarily. Forty-five minutes had elasped. His rights were read to him a second time on his arrival here. He knew that he was under arrest. He asked that we contact you, and provided the telephone number."
"Was he drunk?"
"That hasn't been established. It was the opinion of the officers who were the first to arrive at the scene that he didn't exhibit common symptoms of alcohol or narcotic intoxication. We'll have to wait for the lab report. Your brother agreed to give us a blood sample."
"What did he do, Captain? I mean, how— "
Moorman consulted his report again. "Five witnesses saw him repeatedly bludgeon Karyn Vale with a tire tool, which we believe is from the trunk of his own car. This happened on a terrace outside the tavern at the Davos Chalet Lodge on Hermitage Mountain, at approximately two o'clock this morning. The victim had no opportunity to defend herself or run away. Richard allegedly struck her more than twenty times. The victim was pronounced dead on arrival at the E.R. of Good Shepherd Hospital in Braxton. An autopsy will be conducted to determine the exact nature of— "
"Where do you have Richard?"
"He's in the county jail, under sedation."
"Can I see him now?"
"No. After two o'clock this afternoon. In the meantime you could be helpful— "
"How?"
"We'd like to know more about your brother. He's a graduate student at Yale, works for the school's publicity office, and has a part-time job with the New Haven Register. That much we've learned from the cards he carries in his wallet. But you may be able to tell me something that will— let's say, shed more light on his motivations. Does he have a history of mental instability?"
Conor hesitated. "Hold it. I don't want to go into this. I don't think I want to discuss Rich with anyone until after I've seen him, and talked to a lawyer."
"I appreciate that," Moorman said. "Because both you and your brother are from out of state, you may want some assistance in choosing an attorney. Why don't you drop by the public defender's office when they open this morning, and see what they recommend."
"Thank you," Conor said numbly. "What will he be charged with, first-degree murder? Is there a death penalty in this state?"
"It's up to the grand jury to indict. Death penalty? No. First-degree murder carries a sentence of thirty-five or forty years to life."
"What about bail?"
"Unlikely, under the circumstances. The nature of the crime, no local ties, and so forth. If you want to petition, the superior court judge for Haden County is Sam Bracken. But get legal help first."
"I will. Do Karyn's parents— "
"They've just been notified. It took some time to locate them. They were vacationing in Barbados."
"I— I think I want to call them. But I don't know how to get in touch— "
"I can't help you there, Mr. Devon."
"What a tragedy. He really loved that girl. I just— it can't be. Because. Something. Something must have got into him, not his fault, it just couldn't have been Rich."
Moorman looked queerly at him. "What do you mean?"
"Maybe somebody slipped something into his drink. PCP. One of those drugs that makes you crazy. Rich wasn't a doper himself. I swear to that. He spent two and a half days with us at Christmas, I think I know the kid well enough. Who were the witnesses? Who saw it happen? Is it okay if I talk— "
"I don't know how advisable that would be. But we can't stop you. We're still interrogating two of the eyewitnesses. All of them were employed by or vacationing at the Davos Chalet. Will you be staying in Chadbury?"
"Yes. I don't know where. I just got here."
"After you've checked in, please let us know where we can find you."
"All right."
"You look familiar to me. I know I've seen you before."
"I'm a professional wrestler. Irish Bob O'Hooligan."
"That's it. My father never misses the wrestling on cable. Again let me say how sorry I am. We'll try to help you if it's at all possible. Ask Sergeant Wilde for the address of the public defender's office. Third door on the right on your way out."
29
"Gina?"
Conor was crying again; he'd had trouble making out the numbers on the stainless steel studs of the pay phone. "They won't let me see him until two o'clock. He's probably sleeping now; he was sedated. The police said he was incoherent. Didn't seem to know where he was or what he'd done. Can you imagine that? Maybe Rich doesn't realize yet that he killed Karyn. I'll have to tell him."
"Oh, Conor!" She was struggling against tears herself. "What are you going to do now?"
"I checked into a place in Chadbury called the Waites Inn. I'm in room 16. I want to talk to some of the kids who saw it happen. There's a girl named Caitlin— then I— I just don't know, I have a list of lawyers to choose from. Criminal lawyers. Rich has to have a lawyer right away, I don't think the public defender can handle this."
"If he didn't know what he was doing, then can't he plead— "
"Temporary insanity? I think so. There's no telling what got into him. Rich was a tough kid, but always a fair fighter. That's the way I taught him. And he'd cut off his hand before he would hit somebody with a rock or a club. Gina, there's no reason; just no reason on earth for him to— until they tell me otherwise, I'm assuming he was drugged."
Gina broke down. "Oh, Mary. Mother of mercy. I want to be there with you, Conor."
"I know. I need you too. Just pray for him, Gina. If anything's going to help now, it's prayer."
"I will. I'm praying hard. I love you. Take care of yourself. Call me after you've seen him. That poor girl. Rich adored her! Conor, what's it going to cost? I mean, lawyers? Can we manage?"
"I can't think about that right now, Gina," he said, with a hint of irritation. He wiped his swarming eyes.
"I shouldn't have brought it up. Rich comes first, we have to help Rich. There's enough equity in the house, I'm sure no matter what we'll be able to handle it. Listen, I've got to pick Charley-chuck up at hockey and drop Hillary at jazz ballet."
"I'll call you later at the shop. Try not to worry."
30
It was one thirty in the afternoon before Caitlin Miller woke up in the overheated room at the chalet which she had shared on this skiing holiday with her cousin from Biloxi, Mississippi. The pleasant holiday that had gone so disastrously wrong: a microsecond after she sat up in bed the memory was back, tormenting her like a scene from a tacky slice-and-dice horror movie she was condemned to go on watching with the mind's eye forever. She couldn't breathe very well and she had a thumping headache. She held her stuffy head and groaned pathetically.
Crystal came out of the bathroom still beaded with water from her shower, a slight varnish of freckles across the backs of her shoulders; otherwise her skin was as fresh and slightly pinked as the inside of a cut strawberry. Lashes wet, heavy, gorgeous. Limpid brown eyes. Hair in hazy tendrils peeked from beneath her shower cap.
