The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(63)
“Where is he?” he asked her. The hospital around them had all but disappeared, and Madison dreaded his next words.
“Who?” Madison replied. One down, three to go.
“The fourth man. The one you’re not looking for. The one you haven’t mentioned. Where is he?”
It was her turn to be quiet.
“You said you need Gilman to go after the men who gave the order, but there was a fourth man in the forest that day.”
“Yes, there was.”
“If you’re not looking for him, it means you already know where he is. Is he dead?”
I don’t know what he is, Madison thought. Was she really going to tell Quinn that there was a flesh-and-blood human being walking this Earth who had dug the hole in the ground his brother had been buried in? The world was not this hospital room—one day Quinn would be out of here. One day he might stand in the same white day lounge as Vincent Foley, who had garden dirt under his nails.
“Do you believe I could reach him from here? That Jack could reach him from where he is?”
“I don’t want to lie to you,” Madison said simply.
“An admirable sentiment.”
“He’s alive, but he’s not going anywhere.”
“You have him?”
In that moment Madison was grateful that Quinn was a sworn officer of the court and that John Cameron was behind a number of locked steel doors.
“We know where he is, and, where he is, he’s already in his own jail.”
“Where is he?”
“Where he can’t be reached.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“He’s not in any condition to help with the case.”
Quinn took that on board. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. As far as I can tell, he was a witness. I can’t tell you anymore about him for now—I hope you understand. We’re still trying to put it together ourselves.”
Quinn nodded. “He’s not going anywhere?”
“He’s . . . in custody.”
“Will you bring charges?”
“It will be very difficult, practically impossible.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in a clinic for psychiatric disorders,” she finally revealed. “He’s been there since September 1985,” Madison said. “One wretched day after the other.”
She stood to leave. Quinn stood with her.
In their acquaintance there was no room for the words she said next; nevertheless, they had to be said. “How are you?” Madison asked him.
“Alive, Detective.” He unconsciously touched the place where his spleen would have been. “More or less.”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re alive, and so is my godson, Tommy.” Sometimes thank you is pitifully inadequate.
“Carl says the boy’s doing well,” he said.
“He is,” she replied. “You asked me if I believed you could reach the fourth man from here. Truth is, I believe you could do anything you put your mind to; I know that for sure, because Tommy will be seven in a few weeks.”
Madison’s hand was already on the door when he spoke.
“Your ballistic vest saved my life.”
Madison nodded and left.
Chapter 29
August 28, 1985. It was a hot day coming at the end of a hot month; standing in the concrete parking lot on the corner of South Lander Street and Utah Avenue South, Ronald Gray was aware of the perspiration between his shoulder blades and how the fabric of his shirt stuck to it in patches. He had promised Vincent an ice cream at the end of their working day, but he could do with one himself right now, with an iced beer chaser—actually, make that two. He squinted in the full morning glare and looked around: shoppers, passersby, and Vincent, hunched and unhappy.
The work would be straightforward: he had done something similar three times before, though never with kids. It would be easier than with adults, he thought. Kids can be handled without danger, they scare easy, and parents think twice before talking to the cops. The money today would be pretty damn good, too—and that’s where Vincent came in. He was a cheap pair of hands and didn’t talk back.
He had taken Vincent on a couple of jobs before, as a lookout. The thing about Vincent was, he always did as he was told. If he told him to stand on that corner and wait for him until hell froze over . . . there he would stay, waiting, icicles dripping off his hair.
The blue van turned the corner, and Ronald said to Vincent, “You know what to do, right?”
Vincent nodded.
“Good man. Stand up straight,” Ronald said as the van pulled up to them and stopped.
Timothy Gilman was driving. He should have been pretty relaxed, considering the job ahead, and yet he looked as if something nasty was already curled up in his guts. Ronald knew Gilman well enough to know that he was a violent bully and that nothing would please him more than a chance to lean on somebody and get paid for it. The fact that it was a bunch of kids was neither here nor there: Ronald didn’t know anything about it except that their daddies had to get the scare of a lifetime. If they were so stupid that they’d left themselves open to people like Gilman, it wasn’t Ronald’s fault. He was there to do his job, and Gilman wanted Vincent because he was cheap. All in all, it should be a light day.