Catherine Coulter - Eleventh Hour

“No elderly person I’ve treated has ever been shot in the foot. Let’s get him to the hospital.”

Dane nodded. “We’ll follow. We’ve got lots more to talk about with Mr. DeLoach.”

Delion and Flynn read the riot act to the two policemen assigned to keep an eye on Captain DeLoach, then rode with Weldon to the hospital. The rest of them walked back to Captain DeLoach’s room.

It appeared that Captain DeLoach’s brain had faded into the ether again. Or it was all an act, one at which he excelled.

He was still singing “Eleanor Rigby.” Nurse Carla said, just shaking her head, “The fact that his son tried to kill him-I think it knocked him right off his mental pins again. I was with him several times during the morning and he was with it the whole time, but not now. Poor old man. How would you like to have a son who keeps trying to kill you?”

Nick moved away from Captain DeLoach and said, her voice low, “Something is very strange here. When Weldon was in the captain’s room, he called his father a monster, said he had to stop him. But Captain DeLoach, he wasn’t afraid at all. He taunted Weldon.”

Savich walked to the old man, who was still singing softly, vacantly, in his wheelchair.

“Captain DeLoach? You’ve met me before. I’m Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent.”

Slowly, the old man stopped singing “Eleanor Rigby” and raised his eyes to Savich’s face. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and saluted.

Savich, without pause, saluted him back.

“I saluted that girl, too,” Captain DeLoach said in a singsong voice. “I thought it was weird to have to salute a girl, but I did it. Respect for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you know? It’s a sign of the times that the Feds would allow a girl to join up. I always wanted to be an FBI agent, but I couldn’t. And now it turns out she isn’t a cop, just a girl who’s homeless, leastwise that’s what Weldon said. Hey, is that little redheaded girl a cop?”

“She certainly is, an excellent FBI agent.”

The old man gave her a toothy grin and saluted her. Sherlock didn’t salute him back, just gave him a little wave with her fingers. He gave a dry, cracking laugh, shook his head. “That girl over there, the homeless one, she saved me from Weldon, the little pissant. I don’t think he would have killed me. You see, Weldon’s a coward. I never could teach him to be a man. He’s always hated blood, wouldn’t ever go hunting with me. Once I tried to get him to butcher a buck, but he vomited all over his shoes and hid. He’s never even used a gun as far as I know.”

“How was he going to kill you, sir?” Dane said. “I believe he struck you the first time.”

“Nah, that first time, I fell over all on my own. That last time he could only bring himself to shove my chair over.”

The old man started laughing, more spittle spotted with blood sprayed on his chin. “What a hoot this all is, best time I’ve had in years. Nah, I don’t think Weldon could have killed me. But I could tell he was going to try. He was going to strangle me with a string. The girl there thought he had a gun, but he didn’t. He won’t touch ’em. I saw the string hanging out of his pocket, you know, real stout with little knots tied along the length? Yep, just a string because there’s no blood when you strangle someone. But it’s still gross. Weldon just doesn’t realize how gross it is to strangle someone-all the gagging, the eyes, my God, the eyes, they bulge, you know? And you can see all the terror, the fright-it all oozes out-then the final acceptance that they’re going to die. It isn’t a pretty sight. No, shooting’s cleaner. Only thing is, though, that the eyes fade really fast with a bullet.”

Nick closed her eyes, said, “I shot Weldon in the foot. You’re right, it was easier.”

“For a homeless girl, she knows stuff,” Captain DeLoach said, and began humming “Eleanor Rigby” again.

“Are you trying to make us think you’re senile, Captain DeLoach?” Sherlock said, her palm resting lightly on the old man’s shoulder. She gently kneaded the flesh and bone and the flannel shirt, all that was left of him.

“Nah, I just like to sing. I was the only middle-aged guy who liked the Beatles.”

Dane said, “But why did Weldon want to kill you, sir?”

The old man looked at Dane. “I think you’re probably an excellent cop, young man. You’re passionate, you stick tight, you don’t screw around, all are important to be successful in any job.”

Dane said again, “Why does your son want you dead?”

“The little pussy thinks he’s safe if I’m dead. And he would be.” The old man, now as sharp as any of them, stared at Dane, his faded eyes bright with intelligence. He said, his voice so proud, “Weldon’s got to know that I’ll talk now, and why not? I was the sheriff, and look at what I did, no one ever had a clue. Of course, like the saying goes, a dog never shits in his own backyard.” He laughed, a wheezing, scaly sound that made Sherlock’s skin crawl.

“Captain DeLoach,” she said, “do you pretend to be senile? Is it all just an elaborate charade?”

The old man said, “Me, senile? Hey, I haven’t seen you before, have I? Aren’t you the cutest little thing. My wife had the look of you. All sprite and fire and that lovely hair, so red, like blood, one could say.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “I suppose you could say that, but I doubt many people would. Now, Captain, you just made a little joke, didn’t you? You know exactly who I am. You were just pretending, just continuing with your charade.”

He said nothing.

Sherlock said, “What was your wife’s name, sir?”

“Marie. Her name was Marie, French for God’s mother’s name, something that always made me smile, particularly when I’d come home and my hands would still have seams of blood in the cracks. Yep, my palms would look like road maps.”

“I know you were a sheriff,” Dane said, “but did you have blood on your hands that often?”

“No, not just on my hands, Agent. There was usually so much blood it would work its way into the lines and hunker down and live there. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get it all out. Then I really looked at my hands one day and knew I liked it. It was always a reminder to me of how much fun I had.”

Nick stepped up to the wheelchair, leaned down, and clasped her hands on the wheels, got to within an inch of his face. “You killed people, didn’t you, sir?”

“Well, of course, young lady. I was the sheriff.”

“No, not as a sheriff. You killed people. You liked it. You liked seeing the remnants of their blood in your hands. You got away with it. And that’s what Weldon doesn’t want you to tell the world, isn’t it?”

“Ain’t you a cracker. Of course I got away with it. I might be old now but I’m still not stupid. It was easy. Once they even got a picture of me, but it didn’t lead them even close to me. I was that good.” He raised his hand and snapped two of his bony fingers together. “I’m eighty-seven years old. You think I care now if everyone knows? Hell, I deserve the attention, the recognition of what I did. What will they do? Put me on trial? Sentence me to the death penalty? Judging by the way I’m feeling these days, the blood I keep spitting up, I’m ready for the needle already. Not that they’d ever get the chance, a man of my age with cancer. Hey, you think I’m senile. Listen to this.” And the old man started humming “Eleanor Rigby” again, saw the shock on their faces, and laughed.

Nick said, “And Weldon didn’t want you to tell anyone, did he?”

“No, he claimed it’d ruin everything. He didn’t want it known that his pop was a serial killer. Weldon was always afraid of me, terrified of me when he discovered what I was doing, but he kept quiet, particularly after I told him I’d nail him upside down to a tree and skin him alive if he ever told anyone. He didn’t.”