The Outsider_A Novel Read online

  He brought them together, and again the match was perfect. Marcy made a sighing sound.

  “Okay, now prepare to have your mind boggled. On the left, an unsub print from the van; on the right, a Heath Holmes print from his intake in Montgomery County, Ohio.”

  He brought them together. This time the fit was not perfect, but it was very close. Holly believed a jury would have accepted it as a match. She certainly did.

  “You’ll notice a few minor differences,” Yune said. “That’s because the Holmes print from the van is a bit degraded, maybe from the passage of time. But there are enough points of identity to satisfy me. Heath Holmes was in that van at some point. This is new information.”

  The room was silent.

  Yune put up two more prints. The one on the left was sharp and clear. Holly realized they had already seen it. Ralph did, too. “Terry’s,” he said. “From the van.”

  “Correct. And on the right, here’s one from the buckle left in the barn.”

  The whorls were the same, but oddly faded in places. When Yune brought them together, the van print filled in the blanks on the buckle print.

  “No doubt they’re the same,” Yune said. “Both Terry Maitland’s. Only the one on the buckle looks like it came from a much older finger.”

  “How is that possible?” Jeannie asked.

  “It’s not,” Samuels said. “I saw a set of Maitland’s prints on his intake card . . . which were made days after he last touched that buckle. They were firm and clear. Every line and whorl intact.”

  “We also took an unsub print from that buckle,” Yune said. “Here it is.”

  This one no jury would accept; there were a few lines and whorls, but they were faint, barely there at all. Most of the print was no more than a blur.

  Yune said, “It’s impossible to be sure, given the poor quality, but I don’t believe that’s Mr. Maitland’s fingerprint, and it can’t be Holmes’s, because he was dead long before that buckle first showed up in the train station video. And yet . . . Heath Holmes was in the van that was used to abduct the Peterson boy. I’m at a loss to explain the when, the how, or the why, but I’m not exaggerating when I say I’d give a thousand dollars to know who left that blurry fingerprint on the belt buckle, and at least five hundred to know how come the Maitland fingerprint on it looks so old.”

  He unplugged his laptop and sat down.

  “Plenty of pieces on the table,” Howie said, “but I’ll be damned if they make a picture. Does anyone have any more?”

  Ralph turned to his wife. “Tell them,” he said. “Tell them who you dreamed was in our house.”

  “It was no dream,” she said. “Dreams fade. Reality doesn’t.”

  Speaking slowly at first, but picking up speed, she told them about seeing the light on downstairs, and finding the man sitting beyond the archway, on one of the chairs from their kitchen table. She finished with the warning he had given her, emphasizing it with the fading blue letters inked on his fingers. You MUST tell him to stop. “I fainted. I’ve never done that before in my life.”

  “She woke up in bed,” Ralph said. “No sign of entry. Burglar alarm was set.”

  “A dream,” Samuels said flatly.

  Jeannie shook her head hard enough to make her hair fly. “He was there.”

  “Something happened,” Ralph said. “That much I’m sure of. The man with the burned face had tats on his fingers—”

  “The man who wasn’t there in the films,” Howie said.

  “I know how it sounds—crazy. But someone else in this case had finger-tats, and I finally remembered who it was. I had Yune send me a picture, and Jeannie ID’d it. The man Jeannie saw in her dream—or in our house—is Claude Bolton, the bouncer at Gentlemen, Please. The one who got a cut while shaking Maitland’s hand.”

  “The way Terry got cut when he bumped into the orderly,” Marcy said. “That orderly was Heath Holmes, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, sure,” Holly said, almost absently. She was looking at one of the pictures on the wall. “Who else would it be?”

  Alec Pelley spoke up. “Have either of you checked on Bolton’s whereabouts?”

  “I did,” Ralph said, and explained. “He’s in a west Texas town called Marysville, four hundred miles from here, and unless he had a private jet stashed somewhere, he was there at the time Jeannie saw him in our house.”

  “Unless his mom was lying,” Samuels said. “As previously noted, mothers are often willing to do that when their sons are under suspicion.”

  “Jeannie had the same thought, but it seems unlikely in this case. The cop was there on a pretext, and he says they both seemed relaxed and open. Zero perp-sweat.”

  Samuels folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not convinced.”

  “Marcy?” Howard said. “I think it’s your turn to add to the puzzle.”

  “I . . . I really don’t want to. Let the detective do it. Grace talked to him.”

  Howie took her hand. “It’s for Terry.”

  Marcy sighed. “All right. Grace saw a man, too. Twice. The second time in the house. I thought she was having bad dreams because she was upset by her father dying . . . as any child would be . . .” She stopped, chewing at her lower lip.

  “Please,” Holly said. “It’s very important, Mrs. Maitland.”

  “Yes,” Ralph agreed. “It is.”

  “I was so sure it wasn’t real! Positive!”

  “Did she describe him?” Jeannie asked.

  “Sort of. The first time was about a week ago. She and Sarah were sleeping together in Sarah’s room, and Grace said he was floating outside the window. She said he had a Play-Doh face and straws for eyes. Anybody would think that was just a nightmare, wouldn’t they?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “The second time was on Sunday. She said she woke up from a nap and he was sitting on her bed. She said he didn’t have straws for eyes anymore, that he had her father’s eyes, but he still scared her. He had tattoos on his arms. And on his hands.”

  Ralph spoke up. “She told me his Play-Doh face was gone. That he had short black hair, all sticky-uppy. And a little beard around his mouth.”

  “A goatee,” Jeannie said. She looked sick. “It was the same man. The first time she might have been having a dream, but the second time . . . that was Bolton. It must have been.”

  Marcy put her palms against her temples and pressed, as if she had a headache. “I know it sounds that way, but it had to have been a dream. She said his shirt changed colors while he was talking to her, and that’s the kind of thing that happens in dreams. Detective Anderson, do you want to tell the rest?”

  He shook his head. “You’re doing fine.”

  Marcy swiped at her eyes. “She said he made fun of her. He called her a baby, and when she started to cry, he said it was good that she was sad. Then he told her he had a message for Detective Anderson. That he had to stop, or something bad would happen.”

  “According to Grace,” Ralph said, “the first time the man showed up, he looked like he wasn’t done. Not finished. The second time he appeared, she described a man who sure sounds like Claude Bolton. Only he’s in Texas. Make of it what you will.”

  “If Bolton’s there, he couldn’t have been here,” Bill Samuels said, sounding exasperated. “That seems pretty obvious.”

  “It seemed obvious with Terry Maitland,” Howie said. “And now, we have discovered, with Heath Holmes.” He turned his attention to Holly. “We don’t have Miss Marple tonight, but we do have Ms. Gibney. Can you put these pieces together for us?”

  Holly didn’t seem to hear him. She was still staring at a painting on the wall. “Straws for eyes,” she said. “Yes. Sure. Straws . . .” She trailed off.

  “Ms. Gibney?” Howie said. “Do you have something for us, or not?”

  Holly came back from wherever she had been. “Yes. I can explain what’s going on. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. It will be quicker, I think, if I show you part of a mov
ie I brought. I have it in my bag, on a DVD.”

  With another brief prayer for strength (and to channel Bill Hodges when they voiced their disbelief and—perhaps—outrage), she stood up and placed her laptop at the end of the table where Yune’s had been. Then she took out her DVD external drive and hooked it up.

  7

  Jack Hoskins had considered asking for sick time for his sunburn, emphasizing that skin cancer ran in his family, and decided it was a bad idea. Terrible, in fact. Chief Geller would almost certainly tell him to get out of his office, and when word got around (Rodney Geller wasn’t the close-mouthed sort), Detective Hoskins would become a laughingstock in the department. In the unlikely event that the chief agreed, he would be expected to go to the doctor, and Jack wasn’t ready for that.

  He had been called back in three days early, however, which wasn’t fair when his damn vacation had been on the roster board since May. Feeling this made it his right (his perfect right) to turn those three days into what Ralph Anderson would have called a stay-cation, he spent that Wednesday afternoon bar-hopping. By his third stop, he had managed to mostly forget about the spooky interlude out in Canning Township, and by the fourth, he had stopped worrying quite so much about the sunburn, and the peculiar fact that he seemed to have come by it at night.

  His fifth stop was at Shorty’s Pub. There he asked the bartender—a very pretty lady whose name now slipped his mind, although not the entrancing length of her legs in tight Wrangler jeans—to look at the back of his neck and tell him what she saw. She obliged.

  “It’s a sunburn,” she said.

  “Just a sunburn, right?”

  “Yeah, just a sunburn.” Then, after a pause: “But a pretty bad one. Got a few little blisters there. You should put some—”

  “Aloe on it, yeah. I heard.”

  After five vodka-tonics (or maybe it had been six), he drove home at exactly the speed limit, bolt upright and peering over the wheel. Wouldn’t be good to get stopped. The legal limit in this state was .08.

  He arrived at the old hacienda about the same time Holly Gibney was beginning her presentation in Howard Gold’s conference room. He stripped to his undershorts, remembered to lock all the doors, and went in the bathroom to tap a kidney that badly needed tapping. With that chore accomplished, he once more used the hand-mirror to check out the back of his neck. Surely the sunburn was getting better by now, probably starting to flake. But no. The burn had turned black. Deep fissures crisscrossed the nape of his neck. Pearly rivulets of pus dribbled from two of them. He moaned, closed his eyes, then opened them again and breathed a sigh of relief. No black skin. No fissures. No pus. But the nape was bright red, and yes, there were some blisters. It didn’t hurt as much to touch it as it had earlier, but why would it, when he had a skinful of Russian anesthetic?

  I have to stop drinking so much, he thought. Seeing shit that’s not there is a pretty clear signal. You could even call it a warning.

  He had no aloe vera ointment, so he slathered the burn with some arnica gel. That stung, but the pain soon went away (or at least subsided to a dull throb). That was good, right? He took a hand towel to drape over his pillow so it wouldn’t get all stained, lay down, and turned out the light. But the dark was no good. It seemed he could feel the pain more in the dark, and it was all too easy to imagine something in the room with him. The something that had been behind him out there at that abandoned barn.

  The only thing out there was my imagination. The way that black skin was my imagination. And the cracks. And the pus.

  All true, but it was also true that when he turned on the bedside lamp, he felt better. His final thought was that a good night’s sleep would put everything right.

  8

  “Do you want me to dim the lights a bit more?” Howie asked.

  “No,” Holly said. “This is information, not entertainment, and although the movie is short—only eighty-seven minutes—we won’t need to watch all of it, or even most of it.” She wasn’t as nervous as she had feared she would be. At least not so far. “But before I show it to you, I need to make something very clear, something I think you all must know by now, although you may not be quite ready to admit the truth into your conscious minds.”

  They looked at her, silent. All those eyes. She could hardly believe she was doing this—surely not Holly Gibney, the mouse who had sat at the back of all her classrooms, who never raised her hand, who wore her gym clothes under her skirts and blouses on phys ed days. Holly Gibney who even in her twenties hadn’t dared speak back to her mother. Holly Gibney who had actually lost her mind on two occasions.

  But all that was before Bill. He trusted me to be better, and for him I was. And I will be now, for these people.

  “Terry Maitland didn’t murder Frank Peterson and Heath Holmes didn’t murder the Howard girls. Those murders were committed by an outsider. He uses our modern science—our modern forensics—against us, but his real weapon is our refusal to believe. We’re trained to follow the facts, and sometimes we scent him when the facts are conflicting, but we refuse to follow that scent. He knows it. He uses it.”

  “Ms. Gibney,” Jeannie Anderson said, “are you saying the murders were committed by a supernatural creature? Something like a vampire?”

  Holly considered the question, biting at her lips. At last she said, “I don’t want to answer that. Not yet. I want to show you some of the movie I brought first. It’s a Mexican film, dubbed in English and released as part of drive-in double features in this country fifty years ago. The English title is Mexican Wrestling Women Meet the Monster, but in Spanish—”

  “Oh, come on,” Ralph said. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Shut up,” Jeannie said. She kept her voice low, but they all heard the anger in it. “Give her a chance.”

  “But—”

  “You weren’t there last night. I was. You need to give this a chance.”

  Ralph crossed his arms over his chest, just as Samuels had. It was a gesture Holly knew well. A warding-off gesture. An I won’t listen gesture. She pushed on.

  “The Mexican title is Rosita Luchadora e Amigas Conocen El Cuco. In Spanish it means—”

  “That’s it!” Yune shouted, making them all jump. “That’s the name I couldn’t get when we were eating at that restaurant on Saturday! Do you remember the story, Ralph? The one my wife’s abuela told her when she was just pequeña?”

  “How could I forget?” Ralph said. “The guy with the black bag who kills little kids and rubs their fat . . .” He stopped, thinking—in spite of himself—of Frank Peterson and the Howard girls.

  “Does what?” Marcy Maitland asked.

  “Drinks their blood and rubs their fat on him,” Yune said. “It supposedly keeps him young. El Cuco.”

  “Yes,” Holly said. “He’s known in Spain as El Hombre con Saco. The Man with the Sack. In Portugal he’s Pumpkinhead. When American children carve pumpkins for Halloween, they’re carving the likeness of El Cuco, just as children did hundreds of years ago in Iberia.”

  “There was a rhyme about El Cuco,” Yune said. “Abuela used to sing it sometimes, at night. Duérmete, niño, duérmete ya . . . can’t remember the rest.”

  “Sleep, child, sleep,” Holly said. “El Cuco’s on the ceiling, he’s come to eat you.”

  “Good bedtime rhyme,” Alec commented. “Must have given the kids sweet dreams.”

  “Jesus,” Marcy whispered. “You think something like that was in our house? Sitting on my daughter’s bed?”

  “Yes and no,” Holly said. “Let me put on the movie. The first ten minutes or so should be enough.”

  9

  Jack dreamed he was driving a deserted two-lane highway with nothing but empty on both sides and a thousand miles of blue sky above. He was at the wheel of a big truck, maybe a tanker, because he could smell gasoline. Sitting beside him was a man with short black hair and a goatee. Tattoos covered his arms. Hoskins knew him, because Jack visited Gentlemen, Please frequently (although
rarely in his official capacity), and had had many pleasant conversations with Claude Bolton, who had a record but was not a bad fellow at all since he’d cleaned up his act. Except this version of Claude was a very bad fellow. It was this Claude who had pulled back the shower curtain enough for Hoskins to be able to read the word on his fingers: CANT.

  The truck passed a sign reading MARYSVILLE, POP. 1280.

  “That cancer’s spreading fast,” Claude said, and yes, it was the voice that had come from behind the shower curtain. “Look at your hands, Jack.”

  He looked down. His hands on the wheel had turned black. As he stared at them, they fell off. The tanker truck ran off the road, tilted, started to go over. Jack understood that it was going to explode, and he hauled himself out of the dream before that could happen, gasping for breath and staring up at the ceiling.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, checking to make sure his hands were still there. They were, and so was his watch. He had been asleep less than an hour. “Jesus Chri—”

  Someone moved on his left. For a moment he wondered if he had brought the pretty bartender with the long legs home with him, but no, he’d been alone. A fine young woman like that wouldn’t want to have anything to do with him, anyway. To her he would just be an overweight, fortysomething drunk who was losing his h—

  He looked around. The woman in bed with him was his mother. He only knew it was her because of the tortoiseshell clip dangling from the few remaining strings of her hair. She had been wearing that clip at her funeral. Her face had been made up by the mortician, kind of waxy and doll-like, but on the whole not too bad. This face was mostly gone, the flesh putrefying off the bone. Her nightgown clung to her because it was drenched with pus. There was the stench of rotting meat. He tried to scream, couldn’t.

  “This cancer is waiting for you, Jack,” she said. He could see her teeth clacking, because her lips were gone. “It’s eating into you. He can take it back now, but soon it will be too late even for him. Will you do what he wants?”