Lincoln Child - Cemetery Dance

"Look! Behind the curtain!" Her head was pounding, and she could hardly think.

Another nurse came running in, hypodermic at the ready.

"I know, I know. But you're safe now…" The nurse gently dabbed at her forehead with a cool cloth. Nora felt a brief needle sting in her upper arm. A third nurse arrived, righting the IV stand.

"…Behind the curtain… in the bed…" Despite her best efforts, Nora could feel her whole body relaxing.

"In here?" the nurse asked, rising. She drew back the curtain with one hand, revealing a neatly made bed, as tight as a drum. "You see? Just a dream."

Nora lay back, her limbs growing heavy. It hadn't been real, after all.

The nurse leaned over her and smoothed down the covers, tucking her in more firmly. Vaguely, Nora could see the second nurse hanging a new bottle of saline and reattaching the line. Everything seemed to be going very far away. Nora felt tired, so tired. Of course it was a dream. She found herself not caring anymore and thinking how wonderful it was not to care…

Vincent D'Agosta paused at the open door of the hospital room, giving a timid knock. The morning sun streamed down the hall, gilding the shiny hospital equipment arrayed against the tiled walls.

He didn't expect the strength of voice that answered. "Come in."

He entered, feeling awkward, put his hat down on the only seat, then had to pick it up again to sit down. He was never good at this. He glanced at her a little hesitantly and was surprised by what he saw. Instead of the injured, distraught, grieving widow he expected, he found a woman who looked remarkably composed. Her eyes were red but bright and determined. A bandage covering part of her head and a faint shadow of blackening under the right eye were the only marks of the attack two nights before.

"Nora, I'm so sorry, so damn sorry…" His voice faltered.

"Bill considered you a good friend," she replied. She chose her words slowly, carefully, as if somehow knowing what needed to be said without really understanding any of it.

A pause. "How are you doing?" he asked, knowing even as he said it how lame it must sound.

Nora's response was simply to shake her head and return the question. "How are you doing?"

D'Agosta answered honestly. "Shitty."

"He would be glad you were handling… this."

D'Agosta nodded.

"The doctor will see me at noon, and if all is well I'll be out of here soon thereafter."

"Nora, there's something I want you to know right up front. We're going to find the bastard. We're going to find him and lock him up and throw away the key."

Nora gave no response.

D'Agosta rubbed his hand over his bald spot. "To do that, I'm going to have to ask you some more questions."

"Go ahead. Talking… talking actually helps."

"Okay." He hesitated. "Are you sure it was Colin Fearing?"

She gazed at him levelly. "As sure as I'm here, right now, in this bed. It was Fearing, all right."

"How well did you know him?"

"He used to leer at me in the lobby. Once asked me for a date — even though he knew I was married." She shuddered. "A real pig."

"Did he give any sign of mental instability?"

"No."

"Tell me about the time he, ah, asked you on a date."

"We happened to get on the elevator together. He turned to me, hands in his pockets, and he asked — with that smarmy British accent of his — if I wanted to come to his digs and see his etchings. "

"He really said that? Etchings?" "I guess he thought he was being ironic."

D'Agosta shook his head. "Had you seen him around in, say, the last two weeks?"

Nora did not reply right away. She seemed to be making an effort to remember, and D'Agosta's heart went out to her. "No. Why do you ask?"

D'Agosta wasn't ready to go there yet. "Did he have a girlfriend?"

"Not that I know of."

"Ever meet his sister?"

"Didn't even know he had a sister."

"Did Fearing have any close friends? Other relatives?"

"I don't know him well enough to say. He seemed a bit of a loner. He kept strange hours — an actor type, you know, worked in theater."

D'Agosta referred to his notepad, where he'd scribbled some routine questions. "Just a few more formalities, for the record. How long have you and Bill been married?" He couldn't bring himself to put the question in the past tense.

"That was our first anniversary."

D'Agosta tried to keep his voice calm, neutral. There seemed to be an obstruction in his throat, and he swallowed. "How long has he been employed at the Times? "

"Four years. Before that he was with the Post. And before that he was a freelancer, writing books about the museum and the Boston Aquarium. I'll send you a copy of his résumé—" Here her voice went very low. "If you want."

"Thank you, that would be helpful." D'Agosta made a notation. Then he glanced up at her again. "Nora, I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Do you have any idea why Fearing did this?"

Nora shook her head.

"No run — ins? Bad blood?"

"Not that I know of. Fearing was just someone who lived in the building."

"I know these questions are difficult, and I appreciate—"

"What's difficult, Lieutenant, is knowing that Fearing is still free. You ask what you need to know."

"Okay. Do you think his intention was to molest you?"

"It's possible. Although his timing was bad. He came into the apartment right after I left." She hesitated. "Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?"

"Of course."

"At that time of night, he would have expected us both to be home, right? But all he had was a knife."

"That's right, just a knife."

"You don't break into someone's apartment with a knife if you expect to confront two people. Anyone can get a gun these days."

"Quite right."

"So what do you think?"

D'Agosta had been thinking about that quite a lot. "It's a good question. And you're sure it was him?"

"That's the second time you've asked me that question."

D'Agosta shook his head. "Just making sure, that's all."

"You are looking for him, aren't you?"

"Damn right we are."

Yeah, like in his grave.

They had already started the paperwork for an exhumation. "Just a few more questions. Did Bill have any enemies?"

For the first and only time, Nora laughed. But there was no humor in it; just a low, mirthless snort. "A New York Times reporter? Of course he did."

"Anyone in particular?"

She thought a moment. "Lucas Kline."

"Who?"

"He runs a software development company here in the city. Likes to shag his secretaries, then intimidate them into keeping their mouths shut. Bill wrote an exposé on him."

"So what makes him stand out?"

"He sent Bill a letter. A threatening letter."

"I'd like to see it, please."

"No problem. Kline isn't the only one, though. There were these animal rights pieces he was working on, for example. I've been making a list in my head. And there were those strange packages…"

"What strange packages?"

"He'd gotten two in the last month. Little boxes with strange things in them. Tiny dolls sewed out of flannel. Animal bones, moss, sequins. When I go home…" Her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and resumed doggedly. "When I get home, I'll go through his clips and collect all the recent stories that might have angered someone. You should talk to his assignment editor at the Times to find out what he was working on."

"That's already on my list."

She went quiet for a minute, looking at him with those red, determined eyes. "Lieutenant, doesn't it strike you that this was a particularly inept crime? Fearing walked in and out without any regard for witnesses, with no attempt to disguise himself or avoid the security camera."