By the looks of Thursday morning's storm, David believed it had the potential of being the season's worst. There was nothing graceful about the snowfall-no fluff, no stillness, no feathery float of flakes so big one could distinguish their shapes. It was just straight-out sleet banging against the windows of his car, sticking there and in front, slowing the wipers and constricting their arcs. He heard the thump of an evening's accumulation bouncing off the wheels as he forged around a bend to begin the long descent to Hollings General, glancing twice at the tower clock to make out the time. He had the choice of passing a snowplow which had shot out from a side street or lagging behind, the truck providing his personal pathway. The price of the path was the gritty sound of sand pebbles ricocheting off the Mercedes. David chose to pass. He couldn't recall ever having to floor the accelerator down the hill for the rest of the way.
It was nine-forty-five. He had gotten a late start because he had slept late, his sleep an amalgam of tossing and dream shreds. The questions were piling up, the answers scarce, and David's decision scar was swollen. But he believed he had spent more than enough time in mental knots, and that perhaps there was little time to spare before more tragedy struck again. His enemy was not only a killer among a thousand suspects but also time itself. And, having discovered proof of what he and his psychiatrist colleague had believed all along-that Victor Spritz, the prime among the thousand, has some loose connections-he thought it essential to speed up the pace of his investigation. Foster's records also provided the clincher in a toss-up of whether he should force enter Spritz's house or not. He would contact Musco after lunch.
Belle had not yet arrived at the Hole and David thought it had more to do with the weather than with disturbed sleep, particularly since his was one of only four cars in the parking lot and the morning was half over. The phone rang. It was Kathy. He hadn't spoken to her for thirty-six hours, and her voice broke a thin shell of alienation which he feared since the frigid conversation with Sparky.
"You slept late," she stated, not asked. "I've been trying for an hour."
"It could have been the snow," he said.
"No way. You're good in snow."
"We never did it in snow."
"David!"
"What? We never did."
In the following silence, questions that had layered like black coral broke off and shot through his mind. Level with her about everything? About everything surmised about Nick? And Sparky? Or, just stay the course? Stay the course. He wanted nothing-not medicine, not sleuthing, not the cops-to interfere with their relationship.
"Sorry, darling," he said, "I couldn't resist. 'What's up?"
David felt vibrations of resignation in the phone set. "Well, I wanted you to know we picked up Bernie Bugles yesterday. Actually, he came in voluntarily. He was booked and arraigned on a charge of assault with an attempt to commit murder."
"Good. Where is he now?"
"Out on bail. On Monday, the judge is supposed to meet with the prosecutor and his attorney to plea-bargain, unless Robert withdraws charges before then. I understand he considered it for awhile."
"He still hospitalized?"
"No, he was discharged yesterday. They said there were no internal injuries."
"Any word on Spritz?"
"None."
Switching the subject without a lead-in, David said, "Kath, I miss you. How about coming over after work? We'll send out for something." Kathy agreed, adding she would pack a bag again.
"You know," David said, "we've got to stop meeting like this."
"Why?"
"All that packing. Either keep a separate wardrobe at my place or … or … "
"Or what?"
"Never mind."
"David, don't do that! Or what?"
"Move in. It's been five years."
"Plus a month. Here we go again. Why not just set the date-go ahead with it-and avoid the middle step, see?"
"That's a good point," David said with authority. "You're cooling on me."
"How's that?"
"You usually say, `That's a good point, darling.' "
After lunch, David called Musco and arranged to meet him outside the Red Checker Cab Company at three o'clock. This followed unanswered calls to Spritz's office and frequent ones to Spritz's home to be sure he was not around-at least for now. David also checked with Jack Ryan, Spritz's stand-in, and learned no one had heard from him since last week.
Belle, who had arrived at the Hole shortly before noon, commented that the radio indicated sleet had turned to snow and thirteen inches had fallen.
"Big deal," David said. "In the old days, we had twice as much and everybody loved it. Seemed to pull people together. Now, they all bitch." He put on his scarf and gloves.
"We're twice as old now," Belle said.
"Who? Maybe, you, but not me," David replied, bending to pick up Friday. As he straightened, he grabbed at a stabbing sensation in his knee and soured his face.
"Just me?" Belle said. Through the corner of his eye, he saw her pretend not to notice.
Outside, the snow had tapered to a near standstill and, in the parking lot, David shook his head as he peered down at the rear end of his car. From above the wheels and trunk, it was wrapped in tight slush and topped with snow.
"Goddamn it!" he said, glaring at the panel truck and plow rig which was covering other cars at the opposite end of the lot. "What's wrong with those guys?"
He wiped away the snow from the trunk and, opening it, removed the shovel, conscious of the metal strip which had ripped his finger before. Straight legged, he dug away the snow while cursing the maintenance workers, and finally got to the roof, hood and windows, clearing them with the brush end of an ice scraper. He had worked fast.
Huffing, David steadied himself against a fender. He looked up at the cardboard sky and imagined there were tiny invisible holes in it through which the snowflakes escaped. He tasted the moist air in his throat and, tilting his head back, closed his eyes and felt flakes melt on his face. He stiffened and popped his eyes open. Sometimes you'd swear you're out to lunch.
After replacing the tools in the trunk, he slid into the car and realized his feet burned from packed snow. He couldn't remember the last time he wore the boots he would have to locate at home before the drive to Victor Spritz's.
David had seldom traveled the Marblehead section of Hollings. Named after the city's most famous benefactor, there was no marble there except in the foyers and driveways of the fashionable end of its caste system of homes. To reach that end, labeled Marblehead Proper, one drove up a gentle incline, through soporific rows of World War II capes and on through the middle part, a grab bag of raised ranches, split levels, even a Georgian or two. The baby version of Levittown was named Mainline Road and the middle part, Veterans Heaven. Spritz lived with the veterans.
David had given Musco the address and followed him through the section, its roads clear and sanded. The day was also clear, the sun shining as if making up for lost time. In the distance, the hum of snow blowers spiked the air.
Musco stopped his cab across from two houses short of a house David pointed to. David pulled in behind, got out, and walked awkwardly to the cab. Besides his scarf and gloves, he wore tall black boots, tall enough to lap the knees of Mr. Average.
"That's the place," Musco said, lowering his window.
"You see anyone around?" David asked.
"I ain't seen no one."
"Let's walk over from here … but, wait, I'll be right back."
David took high steps to his car and opened the passenger side. He picked up his cellular phone which he had placed on the seat and, referring to a card he took from his pocket, called Spritz's number one last time. There was no answer.
They tramped alongside Spritz's house, heading for a back entrance. Musco led the way, a third of his tattered raincoat skimming over the surface of the snow. He pushed his legs forward; David lifted.
There had been no shoveling or plowing that David could see, and no footprints or tire tracks spoiled the meringue grounds. An elongated garage-its door shut-was attached to the two-story house, small and square, and made of red brick. He thought the length of the garage curious. For two cars in a series? The house had front dormers and vertical slots for windows, and he pictured its interior a crisscross of sunbeams.
At the back stoop, David opened the storm door and said, "Here we are. You want I should go build a snowman?"
"Negative. You might catch cold."
For David, a first in ten years! He watched as Musco knocked first, then produced a flexible skewer from somewhere near his heart. It was lined with miniature grooves and glistened in the sun. He inserted it into the keyhole and below it, forced in another tool which he took from his pocket. "This here's my tension wrench. Keeps tension on the pins in there while I do my rotating." He pressed on the skewer's retractable end and twisted it clockwise. Nothing happened. He pressed twice, twisted and still the door didn't budge. "This should do it," he said, as he pressed three times and twisted counterclockwise. David heard a click and the door inched open.
"Like I always say, three's a charm," Musco exclaimed. He held the four-inch device before his mouth and blew on its end like he would a smoking gun. "Homemade," he said, proudly.
"Just one question," David said, smiling. "What would you say if someone answered the door when you knocked?"
"Anyone here call for a cab? Come to think of it, I had to use it one time."
"And who would I be?"
Musco scaled David's height. "My bodyguard," he said.
David handed him five twenties which the cabby wound on a roll of bills he had taken from his pocket.
"See," Musco said, "I told you no questions-I didn't even count them." His eyes crinkled above bared gold-edged teeth.
"You're bad," David said. "Thanks, pal, I'll be in touch." Musco left.
David guided the door open and walked into a narrow laundry and utility room which stretched half-way to the front of the house. The air reeked of detergent. He placed Friday-heavier since its additions-on a washing machine, yanked off his boots, and put his scarf and gloves in his pockets. David looked into the dimly lit garage through the door window on his left and froze when he saw what he had never expected to see. He knew immediately that the car parked there belonged to Victor Spritz. Then where the hell is he?
Minx.22 drawn, he tested the door and, finding it unlocked, probed the garage from where he stood, then quietly closed it. He cracked open a door on the right and said softly, "Victor? Hello, Victor?"
On tiptoes, David would bump his head on any doorframe made. He ducked and skated through the doorway, then bounced on his toes into the kitchen and advanced toward the living room, raising his voice a notch. "Victor, it's me, David Brooks. Are you here?" He didn't know how he would explain his presence. If Spritz is on the lam though, who needs to explain? The silence had a sound to it because it was so intense, but then he heard the buzz of a leftover housefly which eventually dive-bombed onto a lampshade. At home, David would have attacked it with a folded newspaper.
He was surprised at the illumination in the rooms he could see, anticipating a grid but finding confluence, and finally determining the house had more slots than other houses had conventional windows. He played with the theorem that the slots concentrated the sun penetrating his face; or was it merely the flush of readiness?
He took his normal giant steps and quickly covered the first floor, looking in but not examining a small alcove off the living room. It contained a desk, chair, computer and copying machine, and he reminded himself to return to it after he had searched upstairs.
David yelled out Spritz's name again as he ascended an open staircase, pulling on a railing, bridging two steps at a time. He found the bed in the master bedroom made up, but the bed in an adjacent room was a hammock of books and magazines. Piles of rumpled clothes encumbered the floor. He peeked behind a shower curtain and prolonged a sigh after he had opened a final closet door and returned the Minx to his shoulder rig.
David backtracked, taking the shortest route to the alcove below, and after bracing his weight on the surface of the desk, sat and wiped away the palm print he made in the dust. The ceiling was low, a single slot window had no curtain and the sound of adjusting in the chair echoed off bare walls. He pawed through the desk drawers, saving the lower right-the one he thought most popular for valuables-for last. There, a composition book in a black-and-white marbleized pattern caught his attention. He sifted through it, finding page after page filled with dates, initials, units of weight and, repeatedly, the notations, "CARCAN" and "CANCAN." He studied the lettering and, in his mind, reverted to those messages he'd received before, most vividly the one taped to a stone.
He jotted down the notations in his pad, but he also retrieved Friday from the laundry room and took Polaroids of several sample pages.
In the oil stench of the garage, David held his breath while flinging open a window, then another. He switched on the lights and scrutinized all four sides of a late model Toyota, squatting at each tire to examine its treads. He placed his palm on a cold hood, bent an ear to the trunk and while inspecting the car's interior, noted the odometer reading. He slipped on a two-foot-square piece of cardboard beneath his feet and had to regain his balance against a fender. David kicked the cardboard against a wall and checked his shoe for oil stains while questioning why a Toyota with 6,200 miles would have a leaky crankcase.
His eyes lingered back on the car as he sauntered to the rear of the garage, toward a room he believed to be a storage area, one which he might give only a cursory glance. He opened the door, flipped down a wall switch, and flinched at a fireworks of light: a central cascade drenching the spacious enclosure, ensuing bursts at the periphery, a closing gallop up the walls from below. Then, the onset of a soft "Semper Fidelis."
The room was congested with glass-covered display cases of guns, guns and more guns, seven or eight tiers high and, as David sidestepped along tight aisles, he had to rise up to view them all. On three walls, American flags adorned the spaces between world maps whose shaded areas were color-coded with specific display cases, all of which were also labeled.
David felt as though he had stumbled onto a magician's secrets as he moved slowly among the rows, reading each label, studying most of the guns and rifles and rigs and spare parts and ammo. Quickly, he understood that, whereas his own collection was based on manufacturer, this one, perhaps ten times larger, was based on wars and military skirmishes. Only one case-marked "MISCELLANEOUS, 90' S"-had an assortment of more current weapons, all handguns.
The section marked "Spanish-American War" was stacked with Mauser rifles. "World War I" was divided into Germany with its Lugers, Modell revolvers and even Spandau machine guns; the Austro-Hungarian Empire with its Steyer-Hahn M.12; and Italy with its Mannlicher Carcano rifle which David recognized as having achieved notoriety in the John F. Kennedy assassination. "World War II" featured Gewehr rifles for Germany, Breda machine guns for Italy and Japan's Sniper Rifle Type 97. When David came across this representative weapon for Japan, he hardened, thunderstruck. Sniper Rifle 97? Coughlin? He remembered Sparky's description. That's the one! That's it. Or one like it.
Unattentive, he raced along the cases devoted to the Korean and Viet Nam wars and to the Warsaw Pact and hurried back to the "World War II" aisle. He had overlooked a newspaper clipping set back on its own pedestal under glass but now read the simple sentence, "Nazi Germany is overrun with racist supermen and especially raving homosexuals." It was dated September 22, 1943.
At the Japan case, David ran his hand along the lower edge of glass and discovered the seal intact. He opened Friday, removed the utility knife and pried off the case's external hinges. He unwrapped the terry cloth from his Blackhawk Magnum and, looking around at no one, gently lifted Sniper Rifle Type 97 with the cloth.
He tucked it under his arm and as he gravitated toward the door, noticed a recessed, glass encasement in the wall. It was brightly illuminated from within and contained a single sheet of paper with the letterhead:
DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY
Washington, DC
In the upper left corner was an official seal: Department of Defense, United States of America. The brief message read:
April 12, 1972
Dear Mr. Spritz:
I regret to inform you that you have been denied admission into the United States Army.
By direction,
James H.B. Simmons
Under Secretary of the Army
Scrawled in red ink across a margin was: FUCK YOU. V.S.
Open-mouthed, David stood at the door and gawked back at the hoard of guns for one last full minute. He considered himself slapped in a crisscross of emotions, uncertain what to feel and what to think. Alarm? Relief that he had discovered likely evidence? Confusion over American flags guarding the weaponry of only enemy nations? Or over the image of Spritz's limp wrists combined with a faded newspaper's reference to homosexuals and a rejection notice for military service during the Viet Nam War?
David resisted ripping away the switch as he flipped it to darken and silence the room.
Japanese rifle in tow, he drove to police headquarters after deciding-with little deliberation-to abandon any boycott of Sparky and his crime lab. He had no means of identifying firearms and, besides, he now possessed evidence of a more concrete nature, evidence that shouldn't be withheld from the authorities. Pissed off or not.
He was granted entrance to Sparky's office when he waved the rifle in the air before the receptionist and indicated its implication in a murder. It was four-fifteen.
"David, hello," Sparky said with no hint of annoyance. "I'll be right with you." It appeared as if Sparky hadn't noticed the rifle as he turned back toward a bench, extinguished a Bunsen burner and emptied a beaker of foul-smelling liquid into the sink. He wiped his hands on an apron, wheeled around and automatically latched onto the cloth-protected stock of the rifle as David thrust it toward his solar plexis.
"What's this?" the criminalist asked.
"I found it in Victor Spritz's garage. Sorry to barge in, Spark, but any chance of working on it before the day's out? It could be the Japanese model that did Coughlin in." David took off his scarf and gloves and held them in his hand.
Sparky rotated the weapon as he examined it, then placed it on the bench over two blocks of wood he had slid into place.
"I can do it right now. Hell, what's another fifteen minutes of backlog? Prints can wait-they're tough to lift from guns, anyway, but I can see if it fired the slug we have."
"Yeah, prints can wait," David said. "I suppose if it's the gun, the prints might be irrelevant."
Sparky gave him a look of benign condescension and said, "Not necessarily."
"Oh?"
"Someone else might have used it."
In his haste to have the rifle identified, David felt little embarrassment. "I can wait?" he asked.
"Uh-huh. Watch, if you want. Let me go get the slug first."
He left for a few minutes and returned with a shoebox from which he extracted a bullet with a four-by-four gauze pad cupped in his hand. "See," he said, "you guys aren't the only ones using these things."
David took two steps back and remained quiet as Sparky donned latex gloves, then worked deftly on and in the rifle, offering such mutterings as "groove and land count" and "rifling" and "direction of twist." He studied the bullet under a microscope, glanced back at the weapon and consulted a manual. He counted bullet grooves, examined cartridge casings he pulled from the box, and took photos of the rifle.
Finally, the criminalist confronted David and said, "No doubt. I don't need spectrography." He looked surprised.
"No doubt what?" David said.
"The rifle and fired bullet match."
"You're certain?" David's eyes pierced the criminalist's.
"Ninety-nine per cent, at least. I'd testify to it."
"Son-of-a-bitch! All along, I thought he was …" David looked about blankly and added, "God, I'll be … "
"Damned? Me, too. I've met him a few times and he always gave me the willies. You having him brought in?"
David knew that when his mind was sorting and collating and he was presented with a question, the crease above his nose deepened, and he felt it. "What-what's that?" he said.
"You bringing Spritz in?"
"If we can find him. Yeah, we've got to find him."
David put on one glove and paused. "One last thing-I always seem to be saying that-but, one last thing: you said your handwriting expert will be out of town for some time. Well, I really want to nail this guy and the more evidence, the better. And my guess is, the sooner the better."
"I'm not sure I can reach her, David."
"No, I don't mean that. I have a friend who does that sort of thing and I was wondering if I could borrow back a sample of the printing-you know, maybe the tape that was on the rock."
Sparky stared at David while running his tongue around the inside of his cheek. He remained silent as he searched through the box and pulled out a piece of tape that was glued to a tongue blade. He extended it to David with both hands but did not release it while he spoke. "You've asked me for several favors lately. Now, I have one to ask of you."
"By all means, shoot."
"Don't tell Nick I gave you this."
"Of course I won't." David wasn't surprised.
He snapped up the tape. Now all he had to do was come up with a friend who did that sort of thing.
David put on his other glove and was about to leave.
"Wait a minute," Sparky said. He left and in a minute returned with the sign from the EMS office. He handed it to David and said, "You'll need this for comparison. We're assuming Victor Spritz wrote it. "