John Saul - Black Lightning

Instead, it enraged him. He wanted to grab hold of the creep who’d written it, slam him up against the nearest wall and beat the holy shit out of him.

So much for objectivity, he’d thought wryly as he struggled to keep his rage from showing while he studied the note far longer than he really needed to. For the rest of the morning its ramifications had preyed on him, and now he was worried in a way that went far beyond mere professional concern for a possible victim. Still, when he spoke again, he did his best to keep at least a semblance of a professional patina on his voice. “Look, Anne, have you got someplace you can take your kids until this is all over?”

Anne deliberately shifted her eyes away from him, as if the view beyond the window had finally caught her attention. She’d been thinking about exactly the same thing herself. In fact, she’d already made up her mind that tonight she and Glen would discuss the possibility of temporarily moving out of the house. Mark Blakemoor, though, hadn’t made any mention of Glen at all. And she was pretty sure she knew why. Deciding she had to face the issue squarely, she fixed her eyes on his. “Me and the kids,” she repeated, her voice flat. “What about Glen?”

Now it was the detective’s gaze that wavered, but only for a moment. “What about him?” he asked.

“I believe I asked you first,” Anne said, her voice hardening perceptibly. “I didn’t miss your implication the other day that he might have killed Heather’s cat. Are you now suggesting that he killed Rory Kraven? And Edna?” At least he has the good grace to blush, Anne thought as her words brought a bright flush to the detective’s face.

“I don’t know what I think,” Mark replied. “There’s no way I can rule your husband out of what happened to the cat, and you’re a good enough reporter that you can’t deny that. Not honestly, anyway.” Now it was Anne’s turn to redden, and Mark had to steel himself against the instinct to apologize for his words. But the fact was, no matter how he felt about her, he still had to tell her exactly what he thought. “As for the other stuff, no, I can’t say he did it. And I won’t say he did it.”

As he saw mollification settle over Anne, he was tempted to leave well enough alone, but once more his job wouldn’t let him. “On the other hand, neither one of us can prove he didn’t do any of it, or all of it.” Anne’s eyes darkened and her jaw set angrily, but Blakemoor pushed doggedly on. “Let’s assume he’s not your husband, okay? Just for the sake of argument. So, we’ve got a man whose whole personality has changed in the last few weeks.” He held up a hand to preclude Anne’s interrupting him. “Don’t argue that one — you’re the one who told me. And you also told me he had Kevin bring your whole Kraven file down to him in the hospital. And if you really want to get down and dirty, try this one on for size — let’s just build a scenario, all right? Let’s just say that since he’s been home, he and Cottrell got a little extra cozy, okay? And don’t go all uptight on me — you know this kind of thing goes on all the time. So maybe he and Cottrell have a thing going, and maybe he’s awake the night she gets whacked. Maybe he’s even thinking of dropping over there.”

“That’s disgusting,” Anne said, fury rising in her.

“Sure it is,” Mark agreed, knowing he should just drop the whole thing, but also knowing he couldn’t. “So’s murder. But it all happens, and we both know it. So he’s thinking about going over there. Maybe he’s even out on the back porch. And suddenly her back door opens and he sees Rory coming out, carrying his girlfriend’s body. What’s he do? Call the cops? Hell, no — that means explaining what he was doing snooping around Cottrell’s house in the middle of the night. So maybe he just waits. He recognized Rory-boy — hell, his picture’s got to be in your files somewhere — and he hatches a plan. He’ll kill Rory himself. He’s already killed the cat — what’s the difference?”

“And Edna?” Anne asked, her voice ice cold. “How does she fit into your little scenario, Detective?” She gave the last word just enough emphasis to make it poisonous.

“How about if she was going in when he was coming out?” Mark asked, determined to ignore her tone, and hating what he was doing almost as much as she did. But it had to be dealt with, whether she liked it or not. “How about if she saw him? She wouldn’t know Glen from Adam, but she’s in your files, too, right? So he knows she’s going to visit Rory, and he knows she’s seen him. And sooner or later she might be able to identify him.”

“So he whacks her, too, as you so charmingly put it?” Anne asked, her voice quivering with fury. “And I suppose Glen imitated Richard Kraven’s handwriting, too?”

“He’s an architect, right?” Blakemoor shot back, unconsciously hunching his body into a defensive position. “That means he can draw, doesn’t it?”

Anne stared at him, scarcely able to credit her ears. Had he gone completely crazy? It had been bad enough when he’d only implied that Glen might have killed their cat. Now, apparently, he was determined to wrap this whole case around Glen just the way she’d wrapped a whole case around Richard Kraven! Except there was a difference — Richard Kraven had been guilty, and Glen wasn’t! And what Blakemoor had just suggested wasn’t merely ludicrous and despicable — it was irresponsible as well. Pushing her chair back from the table, she rose to her feet. “I think this has gone far enough,” she said coldly. “I can’t imagine how you came up with this scenario, but I suggest you drop it. Because if I ever hear of you mentioning it to anyone else — anyone at all — I’ll have a long talk with Jack McCarty.”

“Anne—” Mark began, lurching to his feet, his hand reaching out toward her. But it was too late. She’d already turned and was rushing out of the dining room.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, throwing some bills on the table to cover the check, then hurrying after her.

He got to the parking lot just in time to see her Volvo pulling out into the road, heading toward the freeway.

By the time she arrived home, Anne’s rage had begun to subside a bit, not because she’d been able to find any merit in Mark Blakemoor’s ridiculous theory, but because her anger itself had finally run its course, leaving her drained and as tired emotionally as she was physically. As she turned the corner off Highland onto Sixteenth, she was surprised to see that Glen’s Saab was back. But Glen had said they wouldn’t be back until late in the afternoon — maybe even tomorrow morning. Sliding her car into a space that was miraculously open right in front of the house, she hurried up the flight of steps to the porch and went inside. “Glen? Kevin? Hello?”

“In the basement!” Glen called, his voice barely audible.

Coming down the stairs a moment later, Anne found her husband standing at the workbench, his back toward her, the bright fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare over everything. “How come you’re back so soon?” she asked, moving closer. Glen didn’t answer. As Anne approached the workbench she saw what he was doing: in his right hand he held a filleting knife, its thin, razor-sharp blade glimmering in the white light from above. On the wooden workbench, held in place by Glen’s left hand, was a large trout. As she watched, Glen jabbed the sharp point of the knife through the skin at the base of the fish’s head, then ran it quickly down its spine, laying the flesh open along the dorsal ridge and exposing the innards. Then, the knife flashing so quickly Anne was afraid he might cut himself, Glen cut the meat away from the bones, finally laying the bright pink fillet skin side down on the bench. With a single deft stroke, he peeled the meat from the skin, speared the skin with the tip of the knife, and dropped it into the wastebasket next to his feet. Only then did he turn to her.