Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

Charlie Mahoney handed the printout back to Ribbon then held up the clear plastic bag with a COG tag attached. He read the handwritten letter that was inside.

Ribbon waved the printout as if he were drying ink. "It says it's a fifty-fifty chance. I don't think we can ignore it."

"I don't think so either. Who is he? What're his credentials?"

"A graphoanalyst. Works for the state. It's admissible, Charlie. When Brann gets his hand on it, it'll be back to square one and that's gonna be a son of a bitch for all of us."

"For all of us," Mahoney repeated slowly. He glanced at Ribbon with a smile that meant if anything:

Why you fat shitfaced rube.

Ribbon continued, "The case goes public again, they'll start talking about Jennie and her girlfriend. And the school. I mean, this'll fuck us both." He glanced at the paper.

Mahoney said, "I'll bet his father wrote it to get the kid off."

"Nup, not the father. You don't know him. He wouldn't help his boy that way. But the kid himself might've written it and hid it knowing we'd find it."

"Any chance at all it's real we gotta give it to Brann. That's the law." Mahoney stuck a solid finger at Ribbon. "And say what you like, you had the investigation for two weeks before the county and everybody knows it. Your dick's in the ringer just's far as all of ours …" He drew out the last words melodically.

Ribbon avoided the man's relentless eyes. "This don't disprove the case against the boy for the Gebben girl's murder."

"Damnit, Ribbon, you been harping on this cult serial killing shit since the case started. If the boy didn't kill the second girl then where's that theory of yours go?"

Ribbon said, "You've seen the kid. All those magazines, the pictures, the porn, all that cult crapola. The knife. He guilty or not?"

Mahoney shrugged. "Probably."

"What if we was to get a confession outa him?" Ribbon said, and to Mahoney's relief touched away a web of spit that had formed in the corner of his mouth.

"Confession. Uhm."

"Could you do that?" Ribbon asked. "You've gotten confessions before?"

Mahoney snorted.

"It sounds like something you'd be good at, getting confessions."

"Yeah," Mahoney said, both pleased by the stroking and feeling utter contempt at Ribbon for resorting to it.

"He's in the lockup right now."

Mahoney looked at his watch.

Ribbon said, "I think sooner rather than later'd be best, don't you?"

"What about the other deputies?"

"I can arrange for you to be alone with him."

"Now?"

"Completely alone."

He didn't have a fifty-thousand-joule xaser gun.

He didn't even have his father's Ruger.22.

But Philip Halpern had one weapon.

He turned back to his cell and stripped the sheet off his bunk. Philip lifted it to his wet mouth and with his teeth tore four notches in the cheap cloth. He ripped the sheet into strips and tied them together. He pushed the table into the exact centre of the room and after a struggle climbed up on top of it. He took hold of the metal overhead lamp shade. A wispy avalanche of dust fell. He breathed it in, coughing and blinking. He smelled the pungent odor of his sweat mixed with pine-scented Lysol. Philip wrapped the sheet-rope around his neck and then looped it around the electric cord.

He stared up. Penny-Saver Soft Light Registered Trademark Sixty Watts Made in USA. The nearness of the cheap bulb began to erode his vision. The words faded, the flecks of dust and the corpses of fried bugs on the metal shade grew indistinct. The room became bright as heaven. Philip Halpern lowered his arms.

They heard the boy's loud moan.

Lance Miller cocked his head and said, "Sounds like he's not feeling good. Maybe we ought to get him something."

"Shore," the county deputy said. "How 'bout a ice-cold girl."

Lance Miller looked up from USA Today. "Already had hisself two of them." He returned to an article about Jay Leno.

"Can you get a dose from a corpse?" the county deputy mused.

"That's dis-gusting," Miller told him.

Another moan, loud and eerie.

"Should we check on him?"

"You see the pictures of his sister's boobs?" Miller asked.

"Missed 'em."

"He tried to burn them."

"Her boobs?"

"No, the pictures," Miller said.

"What were they like?"

"Close-ups, you know. Polaroids."

"No, her boobs," the deputy said.

"Not real big. The picture was dark. He didn't use a flash."

They heard the moan again and looked at each other. "He's beating off in there," the deputy said.

"What if he's really sick?"

"I dunno. How 'bout you look now. I'll look later."

"If he's puking I'm not cleaning it up."

"We'll draw straws."

Lance Miller walked into the lockup area, closed the door and continued down the corridor to Philip's cell.

He saw: the boy, the sheet-rope, the table.

"Oh shit. Oh shit." He fumbled with his key and swung open the door to the cell and leapt up on the table, reaching for the boy's shoulders.

Which is when Philip started to fall.

Behind him trailed the strip of sheet, which he hadn't tied to the lamp, or to anything at all. It streamed behind him like a tail of Dimensional cloak. Firing his secret weapon at Miller – not fifty-thousand joules, not a xaser, not a Honon whip but his two hundred plus pounds of weight. The deputy, struggling to get his balance, slipped onto the concrete floor and landed on his back. Philip continued downward and landed directly on him. There was a huge snap. Lance Miller groaned once then passed out.

Philip grabbed Miller's keys and his Smith & Wesson and walked out of the cell. He unlatched the back door of the lockup, then slipped into Town Hall and out the back door. Once outside he sprinted away from the town building then out of downtown, his lungs sucking air. As the pain in his chest grew, a momentary thought occurred to him – he felt grateful, ebullient even, that he had been in jail and had missed the anguish of the long-distance run in PE class. Now he put his head down and ran faster than he ever had in school. Faster than he'd ever run in his life. Philip ran, he ran, he ran.

Wait. What is this?

Bill Corde stood in the doorway to the lockup and watched one deputy on his knees, leaning over the other one – wait, it was Lance Miller – kissing him.

Wait. No.

What is this?

It was CPR. Lance Miller, white-faced and blotched in sweat, thrashed on the floor. Arms sweeping like he was waving down a rescue copter, legs kicking, whispering in between the county deputy's smacks, "Gedoff, gedoff, gedoff!" The deputy would pinch his nose then breathe air into his lungs.

Corde said, "I don't think he needs that."

"S'all right. I've done this before," the rescuing deputy said as he put both hands on Miller's chest and pressed down hard. The crack of the breaking rib was audible to Corde. Miller muttered, "Gedoff me," and fainted.

"Didn't look like he was having a heart attack," Corde said.

"Look what I done," said the rescuer, standing up and looking heart-sick.

Corde knelt and checked Miller's pulse. "I don't think he's hurt too bad. Why don't you call the ambulance?"

"Yeah, I could do that. The kid escaped." He stood up and ran past Corde to the phone.

" What? "

"What should I call? Nine one one?"

"What do you mean, he escaped?"

Clutching the phone the deputy blurted, "Ran outa here five minutes ago. Hello, we need a ambulance at the sheriffs office. There's a injured deputy. I was giving him CPR and he didn't take to it."

Corde ran through the lockup, out the back door, then to the Town Hall exit door, which swung wide into the sunlit parking lot. Outhouse fulla shit! There was no sign of the fleeing boy. He trotted back into the office just as the fire siren began its throaty wail.