Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“They fit better.” Molly was nuzzling against the tips of the detective’s fingers. “Who’s your friend in Pennsylvania?” Her question was directed at the horse.

“If you had an apple…”

“No apple, Molly. Sorry.”

“There’s a farm just west of Philly. Miller’s Farm,” said Alfreds. “Molly, I see you’ve made a friend. Any room for Molly in your Mounted Unit, detective?”

“Not without a sex change. The department only uses gelded males.”

“The Mayor know that?”

“You didn’t hear it from me, but the commissioner held back that nugget until Sully Reirdon assured him he’d stay on as top cop. What’s at the farm?”

“The farm?”

“Miller’s Farm. You said it was outside of Philly.”

“Right. Sanderson in Pennsylvania. Most of the carriage horses in New York work a nine-hour day. On the streets, there’s just asphalt. Hot to the touch in July, cold in December. The city says if the temperature is over ninety degrees or below eighteen, the horses are not to be worked. Otherwise, we’re out here, rain or shine. Sanderson brought his horse to Miller’s to have her roam on grass, trot, lie down if he wants to. Anything but pound asphalt. Believe me. It’s like being sent to a fine spa. Without that kind of break, the horse’s life span is cut in half. His horse’s name is Teener. A dappled gray Appaloosa. A beautiful animal.”

“These temperature regulations. When you’re not permitted to work, where do you bring the horses?”

“Same place where they spend their nights. In their stables. New York’s got five major ones. A couple of them house up to seventy horses. They’re up in the Hell’s Kitchen area, between Eleventh and Twelfth avenues, from West Thirty-seventh to West Fifty-second.”

Butler was stroking the side of Molly’s neck.

“Where does Molly bed down?”

“Shamrock. On West Forty-fifth.”

“And Sanderson’s horse?”

“No four-by-six for Teener. Sanderson had his own stable. A single. On the Eastside somewhere.”

“Not a fan of overcrowding?”

“Like I said, I’m probably the only friend he’s got in the city.”

“He piss someone off?”

“I don’t think so. He was a hard man. Kept to himself. Stayed out of everyone’s business. And didn’t invite many into his. That rubbed a lot of the guys the wrong way. Most of them are regulars. So we see each other every day. Like family,” said Alfreds.

“I take it Sanderson wasn’t much of a family man.”

“He had his own. Two kids. A boy and a girl. They used to work the carriage with him. Probably brought in most of the cash. Sanderson dressed them up as Indians. He told the strollers Central Park was originally built as an Indian reservation. The kids were the only ones still around. Might seem a little corny. But we see people from all over the world. Many of them think the old Westerns on Nick-at-Nite are reality shows. His Two-Little-Indians package was a draw. A gimmick to attract customers. One of his hundred ways to make a buck. It worked pretty well. Sanderson had many repeat customers.”

“You said the kids worked the carriage. What’s that involve?”

“Part of the attraction was to give his customers a chance to ride with a pair of real Indians.”

“Where’d they sit?” Butler could live without knowing and would have preferred it that way. But this was an investigation, not a casual conversation.

“Nobody sits up front with the driver. The city is big on that rule.”

“So they sat in back?”

“Alongside the customers.”

“Could get a little tight back there, no?”

“Don’t even go there. These were kids. With their dad right there with them.”

“Tell me you never saw them share a blanket.”

“That’d be a lie. It gets plenty cold. It’s an open-air carriage.”

“What’d these kids look like?”

“Indians.”

“No. Not how they were dressed. What did their faces look like?”

“Indians. That was part of the show. They were coated in war paint.”

“You never saw their faces?”

“Not without the paint.”

“How is it you knew Sanderson went to Pennsylvania?”

“His son told me?”

“Angus?”

“That’s not the name I knew him as. His father called him Titus.”

“When did he tell you?”

“Back a month and a half. Maybe more.”

“Here?”

“Nope. Haven’t seen the kids for over four years. They must be in their late teens by now. As they got older, Sanderson stopped using them. It was no longer cute.”

“You must have seen his face when he told you two months ago his father was heading out of town, no?”

“’Fraid not.”

“He was still wearing makeup?”

“Doubt it. He called me at the stable.”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” said Angus, studying the woman’s face. “You’d think they were twins.”

Terror filled his captive. And it was heightened by the rag’s metallic taste and the bite of the wire that bound her wrists and ankles to a hard wooden chair.

“You still haven’t told me how you found her,” said Cassie, taking her turn scoping their prize, indifferent to the plea her eyes conveyed.

“It wasn’t easy,” Angus said, shooting the hostage a glare. “I’m probably gonna hafta see a freakin’ eye doctor because of you. I spent over a week scouring the Internet to track you down!”

“Next time I wanna see how it’s done,” said Cassie.

“There’ll be no next time.”

“Then clue me in, damn it!”

With his eyes still fixed on the woman, Angus caved. “The Web, Lovee, is a veritable feast for need-to-know people like me. There’s birth records, public deed listings, frequent flyer accounts, and motor vehicle records.” Angus was beginning to sound like a broken record. The monotony was making him dizzy. He leaned his face into that of his captive. “Guess where I found you,” he said.

“She’s not gonna answer you, Angus. You’re better off just telling me.”

“Death records.”

“She don’t look dead to me,” said Cassie. “Not yet.”

The woman’s heart thumped, as tears welled, perspiration collected, and nausea set in.

“You ever read a memorial?” Angus asked Cassie.

“Nope.”

“They’re like the freakin’ medal of honor of obituaries. They’re filled with all sorts of stuff. You learn all about the dead person’s hard work, loyalty, and dedication. They also throw in the date the person died. Maybe a membership in a lodge. And in the end, it tells you about the relatives. Emma Stiff, survived by…” He turned his attention to the woman. “That’s where I found you.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t become a schoolteacher,” Cassie said. “You’re not very good at explaining things. I’m freakin’ lost.”

“The memorial was on a Web site for some art student’s league. It was for a Colette Driscoll, wife of Lieutenant John W. Driscoll, NYPD. Said she was survived by a sister-in-law and it featured her name. A unique name. Hyphenated. Discovering where she lived was a breeze after that.” Angus positioned himself behind his captive.

Cassie grinned. The woman fainted. Angus propped her head back up.

“Lovee, meet Mary Driscoll-Humphreys. Lieutenant Bloodhound’s sister.”

Cassie was the first to hear it. She rushed to the window, spotting the helicopter. And not just any helicopter, a police helicopter. Correction. There were two.

“Well, Angus, you were right to call him a bloodhound.”

Angus was astonished. “He’s outside?”

“I don’t know if he is, but a shitload of his friends are.” Cassie did the Wicked Witch melting bit, descending out of sight.