This weekend was not one of the empty ones. This Saturday and Sunday he’d been working a field case, acting on a hunch. It was one of the few jobs he disliked on general principle, involving stakeouts and spy photography, but he didn’t mind it so much in this case because the subject was the sort of scofflaw it would feel good to take down.
The stakeout was in Belmont, near a fairly affluent tract home owned by a businessman in his forties named Garza. Garza had a large accident policy with Northwestern Insurance and had put in a claim citing an on-the-job injury that prevented him from doing any sort of manual labor. He had a doctor’s report to back him up. Northwestern smelled fraud and hired the agency to investigate, with Runyon being given the assignment.
Fraud was what it was. He’d found out that Garza and the doctor were old high school buddies who played golf together now and then, conducted a couple of drive-bys at Garza’s home and business, and finally readied his digital camcorder and began the stakeouts in the hope of proving the subject wasn’t anywhere near as incapacitated as he claimed.
The Saturday stakeout had been a bust; Garza had spent most of the day at the small plumbing supply company he owned, supervising his handful of employees and doing nothing contrary to his injury claim. The hunch that had drawn Runyon to the subject’s house today was the fact that Garza was having a new driveway put in. The man was too smart to do any heavy work at his place of business, but there was the chance that he’d decided to cut costs by doing some of the driveway renovation himself.
Most of the day it had looked like another bust. But then a little past three-thirty, Garza figured it was safe enough to put in a couple of hours of work on the driveway. The garage door went up and there he was, coming out with a shovel in hand. He looked around without spotting Runyon in the Ford, then started shoveling and spreading gravel. No strain, no pain, not even a wince while he worked.
Runyon had recorded three full minutes of damning video when his cell vibrated. He put the camcorder down before he checked the phone. And then he forgot all about Garza.
The caller was Kenneth Beckett, with his third and final cry for help.
“Help me, Mr. Runyon. Please. I don’t want to do it.”
The naked desperation in the kid’s voice put Runyon on instant alert. He could feel himself going tight inside and out. “I don’t understand. What don’t you want to do?”
“The gun… I couldn’t, I couldn’t…”
“Cory’s gun?”
“She said I had to do it because of what happened to Mr. Vorhees.” The kid’s shaky voice changed, rose in the falsetto imitation of his sister’s. “‘He’s out of control, Kenny, we can’t let him hurt us, too.’”
Chaleen. Vorhees’ killer after all, for some reason as yet unclear. And Cory found out about it. And now, in her warped mind, it was payback time.
“But it’s not right,” Beckett said. “Even a bastard like him, even if he did what she said… it’s not right. I tried to do it like she told me to but I can’t.”
“Then don’t. Don’t! You understand me?”
A kind of moan and then silence.
“Ken? Where are you calling from?”
“His place. She let me have my cell, so I could call her when it’s over, but I…”
“You haven’t called her?”
“No, I couldn’t. Just you.”
“Chaleen’s place, you said. His home?”
“He’s in there. Cory put something in his drink when they were together before. He…” The falsetto again. “‘It’ll be easy, all you have to do is put the gun to his head and close your eyes and squeeze the trigger…’”
“Ken, listen to me. Chaleen’s home, is that where you’re at?”
“… No. The factory.”
“And you’re where now, exactly? Inside? Outside?”
“In my van, out front.”
“All right. Stay there. Don’t leave the van, don’t call Cory, don’t do anything. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You understand?”
Runyon was talking to himself. The line hummed emptily.
It took him twenty-five minutes of fast driving to cover the distance from Belmont to Chaleen Manufacturing in the city. Nearing dusk by the time he reached Basin Street. The industrial area was quiet, Sunday deserted. When Runyon entered the last block, drove past the factory grounds, the ropy muscles in his shoulders and back drew even more taut.
The street was empty of vehicles of any kind, and the only one inside the chain-link fence, parked in the shadows next to the detached office building, was a newish black Cadillac. There was no sign of the blue Dodge van.
The kid hadn’t waited.
Drawn back to the flame again.
Runyon braked in front of the closed office gates. Before he got out he unlocked the glove compartment, removed the.357 Magnum from its chamois wrapping, holstered it, and clipped the holster to his belt.
A chill bay wind played with scraps of litter, swirling them along the uneven pavement, forming little heaps against the bottom of the fence; a fast-food bag slapped his leg as he stepped up to the gates. The two halves were drawn together, but not locked: a big Yale used to padlock them hung by its staple from one of the links. He pushed through, his steps echoing hollowly on the uneven pavement.
Somebody had torn the WE’RE ECO-FRIENDLY! poster off the office door; one corner of it was all that was left, the loose piece flapping in the wind. The doorknob turned freely under Runyon’s hand. He pushed the door inward, looked into the outer office without entering. Lighted, but empty.
He called Chaleen’s name. No answer.
Once more, shouting it this time. Still no answer.
He went in then, leaving the door standing open behind him, one hand on the Magnum. The two inner doors were closed. The one on the far left would lead to a bathroom or storage room. He cracked the one in the middle. The large room beyond was also lighted. He called out again, heard nothing but the faint after-echo of his own voice, then widened the crack so he had a clear look inside.
Chaleen’s private office, large enough to take up most of the back half of the building. Desk, chairs, wet bar, couch, a shaded lamp on the desk supplying the light.
And Frank Chaleen sitting in a sideways sprawl on the couch, head flung back, eyes shut, one arm dangling.
At first Runyon thought he was dead. But there was no blood or other signs of violence on Chaleen or the cushions under him, and as Runyon moved closer he could hear the faint rasp of the man’s breathing. Passed out drunk was the way it looked; you could detect the odor of liquor on his breath, and on a table next to the couch was a nearly empty glass of what smelled like expensive scotch.
But the way it looked wasn’t the way it was.
Runyon used a thumb to raise one closed eyelid. Drugged; the size of the pupil confirmed it. Beckett, on the phone: Cory put something in his drink when they were together before. Together here? No, she wouldn’t have run that risk. Probably arranged to meet Chaleen in a bar or restaurant not too far away, spiked his drink with something slow-acting like benzodiazepine, then sent him here on some pretext with a promise to meet him later. The drink he’d poured for himself from his wet bar would have helped deepen the drug’s effect when it finally took hold.