“The house was clean?” he asked at last.
“Completely.”
Silence once more. She could hear wind from his side of the call and tried to picture his surroundings. She’d imagined them many times but never seen them. They’d been apart so long, Amsterdam seemed like another life.
“We will need to move faster,” he said. “That’s the only choice. I’ve already taken steps to expedite operations here. You will have to hurry to join us, and you must not be stopped.”
“We won’t be.”
“It will be different energy for you now. Not as strong as it was there. You’ll have to find it in yourself.”
“Not a problem,” she said, and truer words had never been spoken.
“So it begins,” he said, and she wasn’t fearful, but joyful.
It had been a long wait.
She powered the phone off, smashed it against the concrete wall until fragments of it scattered, and threw the remains into the trash. Doug was waiting nervously beside the truck, and she extended her hand for the keys.
“I’ll drive now,” she said. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.
It was not the way things were supposed to have begun, but they were in motion now, and that was all that mattered.
15
The jail reminded Mark of many he’d known in his youth.
It was a rural jail, and the deputy who’d arrested him shared a last name with his booking officer, suggesting that good-ol’-boy policing flourished in Volusia County. At least here, though, the good ol’ boys were polite enough, if confused. In the jails of Montana and Wyoming, Mark had met plenty who weren’t so polite. In those days, the officers also hadn’t had cameras recording them, and they’d been drinking buddies with the prosecutors and the judges.
Tonight, the deputies didn’t know what in the hell to do with him, so they’d put him in the drunk tank. He’d gotten one phone call and had used it to reach Jeff London, offering no details beyond his location. Then they’d locked him up and gone off to consider the situation and determine whether he was a murderer or an arsonist or both.
Mark passed the time sitting on a bunk beside the stainless-steel sink and water fountain that were mounted on the back of the toilet, a one-piece unit. If you desired a drink of water, you’d better hope there wasn’t another drunk vomiting or shitting. Fortunately, Mark was alone and sober, and-all that really mattered, as he recalled the blond woman down on her knees before him in that dark room, her hands so close to the waiting knives-he was alive.
The police who eventually came for him weren’t local. It wasn’t the arresting deputy but a captain from DeLand, along with an agent from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. They took his statement, recording all the while.
“He told you his name was Myron Pate, and she didn’t give you a name?”
“Correct. She pretended she was Dixie Witte, but she didn’t give a name. He said he was Myron Pate, but I think he lied.”
“We think so too.”
“Okay. Then I can’t help you. The only person who would know is Dixie Witte, and I never spoke to her. I assumed it was her body that I found in that basement.”
“You assumed right.”
“It’s a small town,” Mark said. “Someone has to know who they were.”
If the police had heard any names mentioned, they didn’t care to share them. They returned to asking questions, and Mark answered them. Most of them. The captain from DeLand was most interested in why he hadn’t fled the house when he’d had the chance.
“I was curious.”
“Not curious enough to call the police, even though you thought you might have just escaped a murder attempt?”
Mark shrugged.
“A woman was killed in that house, Mr. Novak. You don’t seem committed to helping us understand how that happened.”
“A woman was killed in Cassadaga more than two years ago,” Mark said. “It’s why I was there. You now know everything I know about the woman who was killed tonight. We can talk through it again, but you’ve already heard it.”
They wanted to talk through it again.
It was somewhere around four in the morning when Jeff London managed to rouse a judge from sleep and convince her that Mark’s questioning had reached excessive lengths if he wasn’t going to be booked.
Jeff met him outside the jail.
“Let’s talk in the car,” Mark said. “I’ve spent enough time here.”
Jeff drove, and they talked.
“Unless they were better at bluffing than I think,” Mark said, “the police don’t know any more about who was renting that house from Dixie Witte than I do. Am I wrong?”
“No. From what I’ve been told-and this comes from the prosecutor here, a guy I’ve known for years-all they’re sure of is that Dixie rented the place for cash, didn’t keep records, and was a big believer in respecting privacy. The neighbors all agree on this. Most of them didn’t like her tenants, and a couple of them saw the guy you know as Myron go into the house with the blond woman, both of them carrying gas cans, right before it went up. That’s good news for you.”
“Anyone mention a young boy? He was there.”
“A boy? Not that I’ve heard of.”
“He was the one who told me people in the house turned over often. And once you’re inside, it is pretty clear that the various tenants think it’s a special home,” Mark said, remembering the wild words scrawled in paint.
“Tell me what happened,” Jeff said, and Mark did. It was the same speech he’d given the police, with one addition.
“I have a license plate I need you to run. But first I need to find the kid who has my phone, assuming he kept it. I think he did, because he believes I’ve got the support of a dead man. It’s like being a made guy in the Mafia, apparently. In Cassadaga, a dead man named Walter vouched for me.”
Jeff stared at him. Mark shrugged. “It’s a different kind of place.”
“I’m familiar with that. What I want to know is why in the hell you chose not to give the evidence on your phone to the police.”
Mark didn’t speak. Jeff grimaced and said, “Don’t go down this road. Please, do not go down this road.”
“I need to find Garland Webb before the police do.”
“There are other victims now. Not just Lauren. And other suspects. It’s bigger than you, bigger than her.”
“They know where he is,” Mark said as if Jeff hadn’t spoken. “And the police have had their shots.”
“There’s no coming back from the choice you’re making.”
“Would you drive me to the town, at least? If I can find the kid and get my phone, I’ll figure out another way to get the license plate run. My PI license is still valid, even if I don’t work for you.”
Jeff’s voice was sad and distant. “We’ll get you the plate.”
Mark hadn’t expected him to agree to that. He said, “You’re losing your faith in the system a little bit yourself, aren’t you?”
“No, Markus. Not even a little bit.”
“Then why help me?”
A mile passed in silence before Jeff said, “Because she died on my watch. Working for my company, on my case. The things you feel? I don’t pretend to know them. It’s not the same. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything.”
“It wasn’t on your watch.”
“Like hell. I could have stopped her if I’d wanted to. She pushed it, but I could have said no.”
“She pushed it?”
Jeff nodded. He usually looked far younger than his years, but not now. “It was her idea. She didn’t just ask to go. She demanded, almost. She wanted to see the town, she said. It was odd, and I shouldn’t have allowed it. So, yeah, it was on my watch. Her interest in the town was strange, and I didn’t listen to my instincts. She never belonged there, and yet I facilitated it.”