After Alan Rychman had dropped Jessica at her hotel, he checked in at headquarters long enough to see that the order he had reluctantly given to arrest Shaw had been carried out. The interrogations had already begun and it looked like Conrad Shaw was going to be so cooperative that he'd confess to anything put to him. He stayed long enough to be certain that proper procedures were being followed. Since his detectives had the situation well in hand, he made the long drive to New Jersey, where his brother Sam lived.
He'd called ahead to his brother, a computer consultant for Pioneer, who owned a roomy home. The phone number was a secret to all but Lou Pierce. Surrounded by gates, bars, and a fail-safe, state-of-the-art security system, “Samhaven”-as Alan jokingly called the place-afforded him the ultimate hideout whenever pressures became unbearable in the big city. Sam didn't mind, because it was the only time he ever saw big brother Alan anymore.
Now Alan was propped up in bed in his perennial guest room. It was near midnight, and Sam and his family of four were fast asleep while he second-guessed the bogus direction the Claw case was taking with the indictment of Conrad Shaw, ideal as he was as a press scapegoat. Rychman's only comfort in the nasty affair was that Jessica Coran had felt as he had about Shaw's then impending arrest. Sharp lady, he told himself, with great instincts of her own, instincts that put her squarely on the plane of the killer. Not to mention her good instincts about men.
He'd hoped she might change her mind when they'd arrived at her hotel, invite him up to her room for a drink and talk. They'd been getting along well before he had clumsily pushed himself on her. He cursed himself as the vivid memory returned.
He pictured her again at the shooting range with him. She had been extremely good with her weapon. She held it as if it were an extension of herself, part of her flesh, and God save the man who tried to take it from her. Tough, dangerous, yes, she was… but there was also something else, something he sensed when his lips had touched hers for that fleeting moment, a certain vulnerability born of pain perhaps? He could not be sure. Something deep within her beautiful eyes told of a well of sadness; yet, she was so alive.
He thought for a moment of the cane, her limp, the doing of that bastard Matisak.
He tried to imagine what she had gone through, the pain and suffering, the loss of her superior and friend, the well-respected Boutine. He could imagine the loss of a partner in the line of duty. He'd had this happen to himself more times than he cared to recall, but he couldn't imagine being at the mercy of a vicious killer like the blood-taker, Matisak.
The case had become required reading at the FBI Academy, not only for the do's but for the don'ts. Dr. Coran had messed up royally, by what he'd heard. She'd gone after this guy Matisak on her own. She was lucky to be alive. Some army personnel guy that'd gone along with her hadn't been so fortunate.
Rychman wondered which was worse, Matisak, the blood-drinking vampire killer, or the Claw, who took delight in rending the flesh and feeding off parts of the body. He knew which man's victims suffered longer.
It was late and he was tired when he turned out the light and rolled over, his mind swimming with the next day's agenda, all the hundreds of administrative jobs that needed to be done to pull his task force properly together. One thing was lacking for certain, he told himself, and that was a sense of teamwork and camaraderie, something he must instill in all of the divergent cops from across the city who were working on the case. But how? They seemed at such odds with each other, little wonder it was taking them so long to pull together.
Ovid's house was beginning to smell like a hospital ward, what with all the disinfectant and formaldehyde. Ovid had put up whole organs in jars all around the house. He sometimes wondered what his mother would have made of his and the Claw's collection.
She most certainly would not approve; she'd be disgusted by the sight-and odor-of his things, and the idea he would consume them. She would order him to stop what he was doing, and she would fight the Claw and likely be killed by the Claw, if it came to that.
Sometimes Ovid awoke in the night to find the Claw standing over him, staring, as if considering the possibility of opening Ovid up, turning him into just another of his victims. Ovid was terrified of the Claw at times. He did what the Claw told him to do out of fear as much as any sense of loyalty or purpose, although he had tried desperately to understand the purpose of the Claw.
The Claw came and went from Ovid's place in the night. He often wanted one of the treasures they'd taken from their victims. Ovid had eyes put up like pickles, a pair of kidneys, a human heart, and the Claw wanted to add to their collection.
The Claw was like a spirit, the way he moved in and out of the shadows, disappearing into the night mist. It was almost as if he came with his own thick fog, the kind you heard about in England, as thick as soup, floating about him. His features were always cloaked and indistinct. Sometimes he just came for one of the jars, taking it off with him. Other times, like tonight, he ordered Ovid up and dressed. While Ovid was dressing, he disappeared, only to reappear again, telling Ovid he had a prize for him. Ovid went downstairs to the living room and found a rolled carpet in the center of the floor with a bloodied body inside.
“ What the hell's this? You can't bring one of your kills into my house. This is crazy!”
“ You're going to help me get rid of it, Ovid, now. But first, I want you to take a good look at the face.”
With that the Claw tore open the carpet, revealing the bloody, eyeless corpse. The body was that of an elderly, white-haired woman, and the Claw turned up the face so Ovid could see it clearly in the dim light.
“ Hold on, ohhh, no, ohhh no! You've gone too far this time, dammit, too far,” cried Ovid. “It's Mrs. Phillips. You killed Mrs. Phillips!”
“ A present for you, Ovid.”
“ What? A present?”
“ It's clear enough, Ovid. Or do I have to spell it out? You can't be so thick. I can kill anyone, including you, with this!” He held up his powerful claw and it glinted in the moonlight filtering in from outside.
Ovid got the message loud and clear: the Claw had killed all on his own, without Ovid's help. It was a demonstration of the fact the Claw did not need him, and that the Claw could easily implicate him to the authorities by destroying his neighbors! Mrs. Phillips was one of his goddamned neighbors!
He had angered the Claw the night before when he had shown him the poem he had written in the Claw's honor. Ovid had pleaded that he be allowed to send it to the Times. The Claw had said nothing, but in the depth of his silence, Ovid felt his hopes decrease while his fears increased. Then in a rage, the Claw had cried out that he wanted every scrap of the poem destroyed, calling Ovid a moron and an idiot, and his poem stupid. “Destroy it all!” he had shouted as he ripped apart the papers in his hands. “I want every draft, every copy burned, do you understand? And do not go out of this house until I return.”
Now he had returned but he was not alone. He had Mrs. Phillips with him. It was a clear indication that he could just as easily destroy Ovid as anyone, and that the Claw could carry on his work alone if need be.
The familiar leathery old face of Mrs. Phillips, who had been his mother's companion, and lately his own, made Ovid's stomach turn. She was eviscerated like the others, except there was more. Her skull was cracked open like a melon and her brain had been removed. Undoubtedly it had been consumed by the Claw's insatiable cannibalistic urges. Mrs. Phillips' grimacing face indicated her tortured death had been prolonged. The Claw had not been kind to her. She had lived a block over. They used to sit together on the same park bench feeding the pigeons and talking about his mother. Mrs. Phillips remembered her fondly.
The memory made Ovid shudder, a quaking panic rippling through him until suddenly the Claw grabbed him and shook him, tearing the flesh of his arm as he did so.
“ Put what's left of her in the car.”
He did as he was told, taking Mrs. Phillips' remains out to the little sedan that Leon Helfer used to get to work. Leon, not feeling as strong as Ovid, lifted both rug and old woman into his arms and stumbled out the back way, presumably the way that the Claw had entered with the body in tow. In the darkened garage, he popped the trunk, part of his mind questioning why it was that the Claw always insisted on using Leon's car, Leon's house and now one of Leon's neighbors as a victim! It was like waving a flag to tell everyone that he, Leon Helfer, was Ovid, the accomplice to the awful and deadly Claw. He wondered privately if he dared cut a deal with the authorities to save himself before it was too late, but he instantly feared the thought, because he believed that the Claw, if not distracted, could read his mind.
He stuffed the rug and body deep into the trunk, knowing it would be the devil to get it all out again. Suddenly the Claw said in his ear, “Now, go get some of those Hefty bags, Ovid, and let's go.”
Ovid saw that the Claw had already carried out two of the jars with organs of earlier victims swimming in the soup of the preservatives. “Where're we going?”
“ I have a little surprise for you.”
“ Another one?”
“ Even better. Hurry, do as I say… hurry.”
Leon Helfer was no longer there; it was just Ovid and the Claw. Ovid returned to Leon's house, found the bags and returned, sliding into the car alongside the dark shadow of the Claw.
“ Where're we going?”
“ Hunting.”
“ But we've… I mean, you've already got the old woman tonight.”
“ And now I want a young one! Just drive! Will you?”
“ Which way?”
“ We're going to Scarsdale.”
“ Scarsdale?”
“ A lovely name when you think of it… scars… dale, Scarsdale. Where better to scar someone?” The Claw's laughter filled the dark car, and Mrs. Phillips' body thumped behind them with each bump in the alleyway as they ventured forth for Scarsdale.
“ What're we going to do with the old woman's body?”
“ We'll find a suitable use for it, dear Ovid.”
And they did, later.
Ovid, home again, thought of the awful chance he had taken, the terrible fear welling up inside him, threatening to crush him. If the Claw should find out-and he would, he must. He found out everything. So why did Ovid do such a foolish thing?
They had driven to Scarsdale as the Claw had ordered. The Claw seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go. They pulled into a secreted backyard, where the Claw ordered Ovid to take Mrs. Phillips' body from the trunk, rug and all, and to follow him around to the front and up the steps to the door. The Claw rang the bell as if on a normal visit. A young, dark-haired woman answered, and while she was no great beauty, she excited Ovid's interest. She was the picture of surprise on seeing the Claw. The Claw, whom she seemed to know, grabbed the rug Mrs. Phillips was wrapped in and said, “Here is that Oriental rug I promised you, Catherine.”
“ But I wasn't expecting you-”
“ You do want the rug!” he shouted, grunting as he pushed the rug through the door and into her, its contents falling out, sending blood rivulets over the woman. She quickly tried to make her way out the back of the house, but the Claw was far too fast for her. His deadly three-pronged weapon ripped down across her skull and sent her toppling over, moaning, still very much alive. Ovid had never seen the Claw act so quickly and surely on his own. He certainly didn't need Ovid any longer. Now Ovid feared for himself.
They had fed over the bodies but Ovid took no delight, while the Claw seemed to take greater delight than ever before. He also took his time over the head. Now Ovid understood why he had wanted the head from their last victim, because before Ovid's eyes, the Claw consumed the young woman's brain. Ovid was sure he had done the same with Mrs. Phillips.
In a state of confusion, Ovid had taken the final and only copy left of his poem, which he had folded tightly into a ball to keep it hidden from the Claw, and moments before they'd left Mrs. Phillips with the young woman in Scarsdale, he had plunged the note into a hiding place. At the time this had seemed his only course of action. He sensed that his days with the Claw were coming to a close and that he must protect himself in some manner. Perhaps this was the way. Then again, it might be a little like suicide, he told himself now.
When the phone rang, Alan Rychman didn't feel as if he'd gotten an hour's sleep, much less several. It was Lou Pierce, calling from Queens with bad news. Lou apologized but said that everyone was trying to get in touch with Rychman. Rychman's brother, awakened by the call, stood in the doorway, and Rychman grumbled something about its being an emergency. His brother waved as if to say he was going back to sleep, and Rychman rolled over and took the information from Lou.
“ The Claw has put in another appearance, and Captain, this one's extremely bad because-”
“ What's the location, Lou?”
“ Twelve forty-nine Nantucket, Captain, in-”
“ Where the hell's that?”
“ Scarsdale, Captain.”
“ Jesus, since when's he going to Scarsdale?”
“ It's not that far from his last one, Captain. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
“ He's on wheels, that's for sure… hell on wheels,” Rychman sleepily mumbled, but his mind was on the question of jurisdictional lines. Scarsdale meant complications; it meant arguing with Scarsdale authorities as to exactly whose case it was and who got first dibs. He'd have to telephone Mayor Halle and have him call his counterpart in Scarsdale to make sure that the NYPD special task force would be in charge.
Hopefully, the cops in Scarsdale would see the wisdom of cooperating. It amazed Rychman, however, just how stubbornly territorial the various jurisdictions were. If and when he became C. P, the question of cooperation between boroughs, cities, counties and states would be uppermost on his agenda.
“ This one's doubly bad, Captain,” Lou said.
“ Bastard did a real hatchet job on the vie, huh?”
“ Christ, Captain, he took the brains this time, and-”
“ Jesus,” moaned Rychman, on the edge of the bed now, pulling on his pants. Coran had called it like some psychic. She was as good as her record indicated. “Locate Dr. Coran, Lou, and see to it she gets to the scene. I'll see you both there.”
“ I'll see to it personally, Captain, but there's one other thing you ought to know-”
But Lou heard the click of the receiver before he could get out the fact there were two bodies this time. Lou decided that the captain would find out soon enough. For now he had to roust out Dr. Coran. It was his understanding that someone had already notified the coroner's office and that Dr. Archer was already on his way to Scarsdale.
Rychman was yawning and driving rapidly toward his destination, his siren and flashing light parting the relatively sparse traffic at 3 A.M. He was only half hearing his radio, alive and crackling with news of the Claw's recent kill. So the place would be deluged with reporters and thrill-seekers, he thought. There'd be a thick crowd to part just to get to the body, so he called ahead to the scene, shouting for whoever had taken charge of the body. By protocol this was the first on-scene officer until a coroner or superior arrived to relieve him.
This is Officer Calvin Boyle, Scarsdale Police Department, Captain Rychman.”
“ Boyle, are you in charge there?”
“ For now, yes, sir.”
“ Have you secured the body?”
“ Bodies, sir, and yes, they are secured.”
“ Bodies?”
“ Weren't you told, sir? There's two vies.”
“ That's what Lou was trying to tell me, damn.”
“ Sir?”
“ Never mind, Boyle, just do me some good, will you?”
“ Anything, Captain.”
“ I want you and any other first-on-scene to be there when I get there. Want to talk to you.”
“ Not a problem.”
“ I want you to maintain control, Officer, you got that?”
“ Control of the bodies, sir?”
“ That's right.”
“ But our coroner's already arrived and… well, it's his show now.”
“ You just tell him Dr. Darius is on his way, and so is an M.E. with the FBI. Tell him it's an NYPD task force matter.” Rychman knew that the famous Dr. Darius wasn't likely to put in an appearance, but the lie would be effective.
“ It might mean more coming from you, sir.”
“ Think you can get him on the horn?”
“ I'll do my best.”
Rychman didn't want the crime scene disturbed until Jessica Coran could have at it; given her accurate prediction, and what he had read about her, he believed that she might be instrumental in stopping this madness. Anything he could do to delay the Scarsdale coroner, he decided, was good at this point.
Rychman got a Dr. Stanley Permeter on the line and he began the tedious job of keeping Permeter wondering about whether he should or should not go ahead with his investigation there in Scarsdale; whether he should wait for the renowned Dr. Darius and the FBI's Dr. Coran. Rychman kept the doctor entangled with words until his car pulled up to the crime scene area, where, as he expected, everyone with a police-band radio was waiting and watching.
Dr. Permeter was arguing with the Scarsdale chief of police when Rychman stepped up to them and introduced himself with a large handshake. Once more he launched into the many reasons for waiting on Darius and Coran.
The Scarsdale chief was Bill Flemming, a friendly enough sort, but he was concerned about how his department was going to look if they simply stepped aside and allowed Rychman in without contest. The killings were, after all, within his jurisdiction. A radio call from Flemming's superior took him away. Rychman prayed it was the right call, and it seemed to be, for when Flemming came back he agreed to wait.
Rychman gathered members of his task force about him and gave each an assignment. One was to interrogate Boyle, to find out how the bodies were discovered and who made the call and what had alerted them. Another was to question Boyle's partner, a rookie who was badly shaken. She hadn't been prepared for what they had found inside the house on a residential block of Nantucket Street.
The Claw, if it was the work of the Claw, had deviated from his normal pattern: he had apparently killed two victims at a single location, and he had chosen to kill indoors, gaining access to the house without apparent difficulty. There were no broken windows, no broken locks. But Rychman knew it was the same bastard, or bastards. He knew it because Jessica had warned him that soon the Claw would be graduating to cannibalizing his victim's brain. He had done so with a vengeance, and he was playing a game with the authorities, seeing just how daring he could be, for the bright streetlamps of Nantucket Street must have shone on him clearly as he stepped up to the front door of the little home.