Hocus ik-5 Page 9

  “No one saw anything?”

  “If they did, they aren’t saying a word. Like I said, it’s an isolated area. Riverside PD is doing all they can. You know Pete — he wouldn’t have come home if he thought he could pester them into doing more. Several freight trains passed by during the day, and Riverside is even trying to contact the crews, just in case anyone happened to see or hear anything.” She paused, then added, “They found a .38 slug in the porch railing; the bullet that killed Ross was the same caliber.”

  “Frank’s gun.”

  “Maybe — but even if it is, that doesn’t mean Frank was the shooter,” she said quickly. “And he wouldn’t just hand over his weapon. Like I told you last night, there were signs of a struggle — he probably fought them.”

  I covered my face with my hands, as if that act could block images of what “signs of a struggle” might really mean; the words had not registered in the same way the first time.

  “There was blood,” she said. “I mean, other than the victim’s.”

  I pulled my hands away and looked at her.

  “On the porch and in the house,” she said. “Could be Frank’s.”

  I groaned. “Oh, Jesus.” I thought of the trunk of the car. If that was Frank’s blood… and there was more in the house….

  “How much blood?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How much blood?”

  Still she hesitated.

  “Rachel, if our situations were reversed—”

  “Pete thought it could have come from a good-sized cut or gash.”

  As we grew closer to the time for Hocus’s call, conversation died off. I started pacing. Rachel seemed to be staring out into the backyard, but I think she was keeping an eye on Pete. Although she wasn’t touching him, she would look at him every time he moved. Pete sat staring at his wristwatch, his expression tight and strained. Henry Freeman kept checking the connections on his computer. Cassidy had positioned himself between Pete and the phone and was reading from a file folder — this one filled with old clippings about Hocus. He was wearing an earphone for a remote extension that Freeman had hooked up. Cody was on the mantel — he barely managed to keep most of his twenty pounds on it. His attempt to appear to be sound asleep was spoiled by the twitching of his tail. The dogs lay near me, heads on paws, brows raised in worried watch.

  Ten o’clock. Silence, except for Pete murmuring, “C’mon, c’mon….”

  The first ring brought everyone — man, woman, and beast — to their feet. Pete started to move closer to the phone, but Rachel blocked his way. Cassidy said, “You gave me your word, Baird.” Pete sat down.

  I clasped the receiver, nearly unable to restrain myself from answering until Henry nodded. I picked it up on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Irene Kelly,” a voice said. A young man’s voice, not the same as the one on the tape recording. “Give our regards to Detective Cassidy, too, please. There, that saves you having to resort to any silly business — what would it have been, a brother from Texas?” Before I could answer, he went on. “I suppose Detective Baird is there, also?”

  “I want to talk to Frank.”

  “Of course you do. But we haven’t got much time. In fact, let me call you right back.”

  There was a click and a dial tone.

  Henry Freeman made a call on a cellular phone.

  His face registered disappointment “Not long enough,” he said to Cassidy.

  “Tell them to stay on the line, we’re expecting another call,” Cassidy said. He turned to me. “Hank is in contact with the folks who are working with the phone company to trace the call. Notice anything different about this last call?”

  “It wasn’t a tape recording this time,” I said. “The caller replied directly to what I said. I couldn’t hear any background noise this time, and the voice was much clearer.” My hands were shaking.

  “What did they say?” Pete asked, frantic.

  “Hang in there, Baird. I’ll go over it with you in just a sec. You all set up, Hank?” Cassidy asked.

  Freeman nodded just as the phone rang again.

  “Ms. Kelly? Sorry.” The same man’s voice. “This should work a little better. Cassidy will try to trace all of these calls, of course, so you and I will have very brief conversations.”

  “You know my name, what’s yours?”

  “We’ll get to introductions later. Now, listen carefully. I’ll be speaking rapidly, but you’ll undoubtedly have a tape to work from. First, you must learn how we met Detective Harriman. We met him where you met him. Drive out to your former employer’s offices there. Go to the library. Talk to Brandon North. He’s expecting you to arrive at one-thirty.”

  “But it takes three hours—”

  “Yes, and that’s if traffic isn’t bad. Mr. North isn’t usually there on Saturdays, so he might not wait around. You’d better get going. And don’t make Mr. North wait, because that forces us to wait. I’m sure you understand that Detective Harriman’s health depends upon your willingness to follow instructions in a timely manner.”

  “Wait—”

  “Oh, we can’t wait too long. But you want to talk to him, don’t you?”

  “Yes—”

  “We’ll call back.”

  He hung up again.

  “Hank?” Cassidy asked.

  “No, sir.”

  This time the silence began to stretch out longer.

  “After we get this next call, I’ll let you listen to the tape, Pete,” Cassidy said. “Irene, did you—”

  The phone rang again.

  “Irene?”

  “Frank! Oh, Jesus—”

  “You sound scared. Don’t worry, I’m okay,” he said, his speech thick and slow. “God, I had the best dream about you.” He started laughing. “I’d better not tell.”

  Laughing? “Frank?”

  “You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

  “God, no, Frank—”

  “So where are you?”

  “Where am I? Frank, are you—”

  The call was disconnected.

  “No!” I cried out.

  The phone rang again.

  “He’s fine,” the young man’s voice came on again. I could hear Frank saying, “Hey, I wanna talk to her.”

  “He doesn’t sound fine. His speech was slurred. What have you done to him?”

  “Versed. Just a small dose, a little something to take the edge off. You give it to someone, and later they tend not to remember what happened to them while they were on it. Thought we’d use it this time instead of the morphine.”

  “Instead of morphine? Why was—”

  “He’ll be fast asleep in a few minutes. We’ll take care of him, Ms. Kelly. As long as you cooperate, of course.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Let’s just take this one step at a time. Meanwhile, I assure you, we sincerely hope we won’t be required to cause Detective Harriman any further injury.”

  “Further injury?”

  “Not to worry. We’re taking good care of him. He’s our hero, after all.”

  “Your hero?”

  “Henry Freeman has probably made some progress by now, so we’ll say good-bye.”

  “Henry Freeman hasn’t got a clue where you are. Let me talk to Frank again, I have to tell him—”

  A click.

  Henry, still on the cellular phone, looked at Cassidy and shook his head.

  Pete started shouting questions.

  “Play the tape for them, Hank,” Cassidy said.

  We all listened together. Freeman had made a very clear recording. This time around I was prepared for Frank’s laughter, so it affected me differently. He was alive. He could speak to me, he could laugh. He was alive. I felt tears of relief welling up. I needed more sleep, I told myself, and made another grab at a slender thread of self-control.

  Focus on the immediate problem. Think about what they said. I glanced at Cass
idy. He was studying me. “What’s Versed?” I asked.

  Freeman opened a black nylon packet and pulled out a compact disc, then slid it into his computer. He typed something, then said, “Schedule Four drug.”

  “It’s a product that’s subject to the Controlled Substances Act of 1970,” Cassidy translated. “Morphine is Schedule Two, the category for drugs with high potential for abuse; they may lead to severe dependence. Schedule Four has a low potential for abuse.”

  “What are you reading from, Detective Freeman?” I asked.

  He looked up. “The PDR — Physician’s Desk Reference — I’ve got it on CD.”

  “What else does it say about Versed, Hank?” Cassidy asked, then added quickly, “Just the basics.”

  “Short-acting benzodiazepine CNS depressant,” Freeman went on. “Sedates three to five minutes after IV injection, fifteen minutes after IM.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Pete asked.

  “It’s a central nervous system depressant,” Cassidy said, and began reading over Freeman’s shoulder. “Looks like they’ve been around hospital drug supplies — had access to them or stolen from them. Hank, let’s make sure we get calls going on that. This isn’t something that’s popular out on the streets. My guess is, Frank’s hooked up to an intravenous feeding device; I’d assume that means his hands aren’t free, or they’d have to worry that he could take it out. IM means ‘intramuscular’ — a needle injection.”

  “A shot?” Pete asked.

  “Yes. Versed has to be given as a shot or through an IV. Isn’t available in pill form. Sounds like they started him out on morphine, but gave him this for the phone call. It’s something like Valium. When you first give someone a dose of it, he may be giddy and talkative.”

  “You’re saying Frank was high,” Rachel said.

  “Absolutely. They’re clearly sedating him,” Cassidy said.

  “Is he in danger from these drugs?” I asked.

  Cassidy paused, then said, “Any sedative can be dangerous, especially if the person administering it doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m guessing these people know something about medicine, because they’ve chosen to use a drug that isn’t commonly on the street, and knew its effects.”

  Pete put an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Irene. I’m so damned sorry.”

  “Not your fault, Pete. No one is blaming you but yourself. I want to talk to you more about that later, but right now I’ve got to get out to Bakersfield.”

  “That’s what he was asking you to do? To go to Bakersfield?”

  “Yes.”

  “You used to work for the library there?” Hank asked, regarding me with new respect.

  “No, the newspaper. The Californian. He means the library at the newspaper — newspapers used to call that part of the paper ‘the morgue.’ Among other things, it’s where you find back issues, file photos, stuff like that. Brandon North has worked there for a long time. We haven’t talked to each other for a couple of years now, but we used to keep in touch. I’m sure he’ll help if he can.”

  “Hank,” Cassidy said, “start making calls to the other CIT members. Let them know where things stand — start by giving Captain Bredloe a call.”

  Hank nodded.

  “CIT?” I asked

  Cassidy turned back to me. “Critical Incident Team. I’ll give you the rundown on it later — for now, think about the voices on the calls. Anything recognizable? Maybe someone who used to work with you in Bakersfield?”

  I shook my head. “No. Too young. Everyone I worked with would be older. I haven’t worked there since I first graduated from college.”

  “What can we do to help, Irene?” Rachel asked before Pete or Cassidy could ask another question.

  “Call Bea and Cassie and Jack, let them know he’s alive.” Alive. I held on to the word. “I’m going to take a quick shower and change clothes. I’ve got to get on the road.”

  “I’ll drive,” Cassidy said.

  “I don’t know if they’ll—”

  “Don’t go alone,” Pete said. “It could be a trap. Maybe they want to take you as a hostage, too.”

  “They know I’m involved,” Cassidy said. “They don’t seem especially concerned about it. I’m sure my ego will recover eventually, but in the meantime, I’m thinking that Pete’s absolutely right — you shouldn’t go alone. Besides, I’d follow you out there anyway. No reason to take two cars. And I think it’d be easier to get my frail little old granny to climb Mount Everest than it would be to get that old car of yours over the Tejon Pass.”

  “I hope your granny has fewer miles on her,” I said, and heard Pete laugh for the first time all day. I started to leave the room. I stopped and looked back at Cassidy. He was grinning. “Okay, you can drive me out there. Can you make a strong cup of coffee?”

  “If we put my coffee in the tank of that Karmann Ghia, it just might make it over the pass after all.”

  “Thermos is in the cabinet over the refrigerator,” I said. “I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

  “And they say Texans lie,” he said, but I was on my way to prove him wrong.

  11

  I DIDN’T DRINK ANY of Cassidy’s java-flavored rocket fuel until the trip was more than halfway over, after I awoke with a start while we were somewhere on I-5 between Castaic and Pyramid Lakes. At his suggestion I held off on the coffee before that, sleeping from Torrance to the Tehachapis. I had argued with him at first, insisting on trying to stay awake, but he does, after all, earn part of his living by negotiating, and he won that round. I’m still not sure how it happened.

  My awakening was abrupt, but to a pleasant view. The previous winter’s rains had been heavy, so the mountainsides were softly covered in a hundred shades of green. Cassidy had turned off his air conditioner — a wise precaution on the steep grades leading up to the pass — and his window was rolled down. I rolled mine down, too. The air was cool and clean, the sky a deep, dark blue. L.A. was out of sight, out of mind.

  I stretched, took in the scenery, and shook off the dream that had awakened me. Cassidy glanced over at me. I was startled to see him looking worried. Mr. Calm, worried? In the next moment I knew what had happened.

  I uncapped the thermos, avoiding his eyes. Inhaled the aroma of the coffee, poured it, praying he wasn’t glancing at my hands. “What was it this time?” I asked. “Just talking, or did I yell and scream?”

  “You didn’t scream,” he said. Calm again.

  “Oh, so just yelling, then. Well! Not bad under the circumstances.”

  “No need to be embarrassed,” he said.

  “Who’s embarrassed?” I took a sip of the coffee. Strong. Very strong.

  “You are. But you needn’t be. Fact of the matter is, I’d forgotten your history.”

  “My history,” I said flatly. Held both hands around the cup, held it up close to my lips, felt the steam warm my face. “Now, that’s a term used for patients and parolees, isn’t it? People who can’t be trusted to behave themselves. ‘Subject has a history of — ’ ”

  “Is that what you think I’m implying?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “By ‘your history,’ ” he said, “I was simply referring to what has happened to you in the past. The fact that you were once held captive.”

  “I had forgotten that you’d have access to that information. No photos, of course. Did they do a pretty good job of describing it in the police files? The bruises, the dislocated shoulder?”

  “More than that,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, looking out the window. “More than that.”

  “You have any permanent physical problems?”

  I shook my head, not caring if he could see my response.

  “Your physical recovery isn’t what’s remarkable, you know.”

  “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  “You’re doing very well. Most people—”

  “How well I’m doing isn’t what’s real
ly important right now,” I said. “Do you want any of this coffee?”

  “Every hostage has dreams.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Freud. Mine are of large bananas, snakes, tunnels, and pomegranates. What do you suppose it all means?”

  He smiled but didn’t reply.

  The silence stretched out. “Sorry,” I said after a while. “I just don’t like to talk about it.”

  “I didn’t get the information from a department file,” he said, as if I had invited him to take up where he left off. “Frank talked to me after you came home.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, not very directly, ’least not at first. Stopped by my desk one day, started asking about posttraumatic syndrome in hostages. What was typical, how long did it last, and such.”

  I just stared at him in disbelief.

  “Frank’s a quiet man,” he went on. “I didn’t figure it was too easy on him to bring the subject up. I knew you had been home for a few days. Everyone else was patting him on the back, saying how glad they were that you had been found alive. He was glad, too, but he looked tired.”

  “Exhausted,” I said. “We were both exhausted. For weeks afterward, I rarely slept through a night.”

  “And now?”

  “Better. Much better, for the most part. I wouldn’t leave the house at first.”

  He waited.

  “It takes more to trigger a nightmare,” I said, giving in. “Some things still bother me — I still can’t stand to be in confined spaces for very long. Sometimes, I’ll think, Oh, it’s all behind me, and then I’ll find myself standing in line in a grocery store, and someone is saying, ‘Lady? Lady? Are you okay?’ because I’ve let my mind wander, and it’s wandered to that time, and I’m remembering.”

  “But it isn’t like a memory.”

  “No. It’s as if I’m there.”

  “You think about being hurt?”

  “No, not usually. If I’m thinking about myself, I think about being scared, afraid of what would come next. Other times….”