David Wiltse - Prayer for the Dead

“Take a look at him,” said Becker. He lifted Eric’s hand. “A pre-existing condition.” He pointed at the purplish, swollen knuckle. “Otherwise not a mark on him.”

“I want him back that way.”

“I said so,” said Becker.

Hatcher pulled the door closed behind him. Becker scooted his chair closer so that his legs slipped between Eric’s. He continued to hold Eric’s hand in his.

“What are you going to do?” said Eric.

“What are you going to do?”

Eric tried to retrieve his hand, but Becker held on, gently but firmly.

“You wanted to kill me before, didn’t you?”

“How did he get you into the car?”

“I could see the look in your eyes. You wanted to pull the trigger.”

“Did you recognize the look?”

“What do you mean?”

“He got you into the car some way. He tried to stick you with the syringe, but you saw it and hit him. You beat him badly. He might have died.”

“He didn’t. I checked.”

“You checked before you came over to rob his house. That was good, that was smart. It’s not your fault the guy’s got bodies under the floorboards.”

“Is that for real?”

“He didn’t seem the type, did he?”

Eric shook his head. The man had been a weakling; he’d taken his beating like he deserved it.

“They never do,” said Becker.

“Is that why you wanted to kill me? You thought I was him?”

“I knew you weren’t him. Did he offer you money? Did he say anything about your mother?”

“My mother?”

“What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Any reason not to tell me?”

“Margaret.”

“Her last name.”

“Evinrude.”

“Did you ever see him before?”

“See who?”

Becker spoke evenly, reasonably. “I’m tired of your horseshit, Eric. Did you know him? Had you ever seen him before? Tell me how he got you into the car.”

“Are you trying to get me on some kind of accessory-to-murder rap? Because honest to God, I don’t know a thing.”

“How did he get you into the car?”

“I never got into any car. I don’t know anything about a mugging.”

“The mugging’s a freebie, Eric. We don’t want you for it. He’s not going to testify about it. Just tell me.”

“Sure, just tell you. How about if I tell my attorney now?”

“You don’t need an attorney to talk to me. I’m a private citizen.”

“You’re not a fed? Why am I talking to you in the first place?”

“You’re not. I’m not here. You heard Tee. You’re alone in a locked room.”

Becker placed his thumb atop Eric’s knuckle and slowly squeezed. Eric was not prepared for the pain and gasped. Becker released the pressure but held on to the hand. His voice was still sweet and reasonable.

“Did you ever talk to anybody about insurance, Eric?”

“I suppose so. They call me up. Don’t they call everybody?”

“Did you ever meet anybody to talk about it?”

“Ever? Maybe, sometime. I don’t know.”

“Did you ever see him before you beat him up?” Becker touched the knuckle again and watched Eric’s eyes widen.

“Never. Are they going to let you do this to me?”

“Do what, Eric?”

“You’re torturing me, man. I’m going to scream brutality to the papers.”

“There’s not a mark on you-except the one you put there yourself.” Becker tapped the knuckle again.

Eric moaned. “You got no idea what that feels like.”

“Of course I do. Listen to me, Eric. Nobody wants you here, you’re not important in this one. We want him, the guy you mugged, the guy whose house you broke into. We want him very, very badly and we don’t have time to waste with you, so just answer the questions and get it over with.”

“And cop to all kinds of shit? How do I know what I’m involved in here? I want my lawyer.”

“That’s what we don’t have time for. We can’t wait a week to cut a deal before you answer a few simple questions. You are not going to incriminate yourself with me. Do you believe me?”

Becker pressed the knuckle and held it. Eric moaned.

“Do you believe me?”

“I believe you!”

Becker released the knuckle but continued to hold Eric’s hand in his.

“How did he get you into the car?”

“He was parked right next to my wagon. He had the passenger door open so I couldn’t get past him. He said he needed my help in starting the car without his key. Some bullshit. I don’t think he knew how to hot-wire.”

“The syringe?”

“He must have had it down on the seat. It fell on the floor when I dragged him across the seat. I didn’t know about it till then.”

“You were too busy hitting him.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the busted knuckle. Ironic, don’t you think? You use it on him, I use it on you, it gets you coming and going.”

Becker released Eric’s hand.

“You did want to kill me in that house, didn’t you?”

Becker smiled at him.

“I still do.”

The snails were doing their usual thorough job. After five hours of labor, there was not a square inch of Dyce’s house that Drooden’s forensic team hadn’t scrutinized, dusted, scraped, probed, or photographed. Becker could read their trails everywhere, like the rivulets of slime left behind by garden slugs. As Becker had known it would, the house had given up its ghosts, and they had been replaced by tape measures, grid lines marked with string, smudges of fingerprint powder. The house was no longer a place where a man had dreamed his nightmares and made them come true-it was now an archaeological dig. All that remained undisturbed were the bones.

“I thought it might be helpful for you to see this in situ before we take the bones for analysis,” Hatcher said.

Drooden leaned against the refrigerator, watching like a protective parent. He had resented the Bureau involvement from the beginning and was barely able to tolerate Becker’s unorthodox presence. A member of his forensic team stood in the doorway, tapping the ashes from his cigarette into an evidence bag.

“If he didn’t see it last night,” said Drooden.

Hatcher ignored the state cop. He had seldom met one who liked being outranked.

“I was struck by the stones,” said Hatcher. He pointed with the toe of his shoe as Becker squatted next to the makeshift graveyard. The state police had removed enough floorboards to reveal all of the skeletons, which lay atop each other like the tossed shafts of a game of pick-up-sticks. Only the skulls were kept separate. They were sitting side by side in a row eight long. Next to each skull, like a hyphen separating it from its neighbor, was a small stone.

The snails had covered the area with a grid of string bisected into three-foot squares and then photographed it from several angles so that exact measurements could be reproduced later. A twelve-inch ruler included in the photos to give perspective still lay between a pair of thigh bones.

“I assume he kept the skulls separate as some sort of burial notion. Given the cramped circumstances, it was probably the best he could do.” Hatcher stepped back and watched Becker.

“You call that a burial?” Drooden asked.

“Well, he didn’t just throw the skulls in there with the rest. What would you call it?”

“You cut somebody up in your bathtub, flush his hair down the drain, and boil his bones-I doubt that you care enough about him to give him a burial,” said Drooden.

Becker spoke for the first time. “He cared about these men very much. They were very important to him.” Becker looked at the forensic man, who was watching his smoke rise to the ceiling. “They were all men?”