Part 37 (1/2)

”Only peripherally.”

”Amazing, that such things could happen in this day and age. But I suppose vengeance never goes out of style.”

”We can't even identify two of the four. They may not have known anyone in this town.” Except, James thought, for whoever killed them. He perched one hip on the edge of the desk; it had been a long day. ”Andra.s.sy was just a punk and the woman never bothered anybody. Who would feel vengeance toward people like that?”

”Any member of society, I suppose. Given what they were.” Corliss placed another book, squaring it until it lined up in formation with the others. ”Thieves. Parasites. An army of them, men who used to be men, who have been reduced to little more than animals by a travesty of economics.”

”I thought you...you seemed sympathetic to the...”

”The dispossessed? Of course I am. It's not their fault-you think I don't know that? But that doesn't change the fact that they have become a scourge upon those of us who are left, who still have productive lives.”

James drained the rest of his soda pop and set the bottle down. ”So someone killed them for the betterment of society?”

”Isn't that what you do? What men have always done?” Corliss took the last book from the carton and piled it atop the first empty one on the floor. ”Soldiers killed in the war, to keep the American system from foreign invaders. You officers lock the criminals away, sometimes execute them, not because of what they are but to keep them from doing more harm in the future. I would think if anyone understood the protection of society, you would.”

Years ago James thought that was what his job was about. Now, thinking of his department, his fellows in the blue line, Walter's offer...they had become parasites and thieves, as well. The Butcher ought to have been stalking them instead of the downtrodden, because the cops had had a choice in what they became.

”Are you all right, Detective? I hope I haven't upset you.”

”No...”

”Would you mind grabbing one more carton for me? Then I think I'll cease for the night.”

James did, because it gave him time to consider his next move. Maybe he could pet the dog, collect some hairs. Could the Bertillon unit tell one yellow dog from another? Or could Walter be right, and James chased shadows only to avoid being chased by Ness's gang? He picked up a box from the surface of the table, revealing an irregular pattern of staining on the unfinished wood. At the same time he noticed that what looked like an extra leg in one corner was actually a pipe, draining from the table through the floor. This should have meant something to him, he felt, but he couldn't quite grasp it. It had been much too long of a day, and the idea of not having a job come Monday morning taxed his brain.

Corliss accepted the carton, opened it, began stacking books. He seemed about as dangerous as his dog.

”What do you use that table for, the one in your closet?” James asked.

”You are fascinated by my storage room, aren't you? Just storage. It holds plans and blueprints, since they don't fit comfortably on a shelf and the edge keeps them from rolling off.”

”What's the pipe for?”

”Pardon?”

”Pipe. Like a drain. Going into the floor.” What was the matter with him? He sounded only barely intelligible.

”Was.h.i.+ng parts. I do still tinker with bits and pieces of the locomotives. I was quite a mechanic in my day. I've held every job one can have on a railroad. That's how I learned to run one.”

James gave one more valiant effort to mold his acc.u.mulated suspicions into something resembling proof. ”Including shoveling coal.”

”Indeed. Dirty job, but it kept my muscles up.”

Spots of light began to appear before James's eyes. ”And you were a bull.”

”Railroad detective, yes. I kept the army of parasites from bringing a working system down. Like you.”

”No,” James said, straightening. ”Not like me.”

Arthur Corliss was the Torso killer. James had to get help to make the arrest. He didn't feel strong enough to even lift a pair of handcuffs, much less get them on somebody. He headed for the door, or at least tried to, steadying himself with one hand on the desk. There would be a call box at the next corner, he could alert the station- ”Where are you going, Detective?”

”Haffa...haffa...” He'd never make it to the door.

Corliss grasped one shoulder and spun him around as easily as a rag doll.

Anger and fear powered James's arms, which shoved Corliss back a foot and surprised them both. That was it, though. He had nothing left with which to resist when Corliss grasped James's collar with his left hand and pulled James's service revolver from the holster with his right.

This could not be a good development, James thought. Then Corliss pulled the trigger and set the inside of his body on fire.

James felt as if he had exploded from the inside out, in addition to being vaguely surprised not to see the floorboards covered in gore as he slipped down to them.

With his last gasp of consciousness, James insisted, ”Not like me.”

”If you say so,” Arthur Corliss conceded. Then he took both of James's hands and dragged him into the small closet.

Helen, James thought. Johnny.

CHAPTER 46.

SAt.u.r.dAY, SEPTEMBER 11.

PRESENT DAY.

Theresa smelled the earth before she felt it. Cool and firm, pressing against her back and legs; she should have been fairly comfortable but somehow wasn't. Her head ached, her jaw felt stiff, and the chill of the outdoors had seeped in and through every bone in her body. She s.h.i.+vered, convulsing. Only then did she realize her legs were tied down.

Her eyes, blurred and in near dark, could not tell her much about her surroundings, but they didn't need to. She knew instantly where Corliss had taken her.

She was in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the building at 4950 Pullman, approximately underneath the room where James Miller had lain for seventy-four years.

Why hadn't Edward killed her?

Then she heard movement. He simply hadn't killed her yet.

A vague amount of dusky light filtered down the stairwell and silhouetted Edward Corliss as he straightened from the support column to which he had tied her legs.

Why would he bring her here? Some sort of symmetry with his father's crimes? To live out this fantasy of re-creating his father's crimes, as he had with Van Horn's body? But which of the Torso killer's famous victims would she be?

Then the noises from outside finally penetrated, and she knew that historical accuracy had little to do with it. She heard men's voices, distant and indistinct, and the rumblings of large diesel engines heavy enough to vibrate the ground beneath her. They were coming to destroy the building, to collapse the stone walls into the hole beneath them and pour concrete over the whole mess. Her body would never be found.

No, wait. Surely they would do a walk-through, one last check to make sure a kid or a homeless man or a cat was not still inside. Right?

But they must have already done that. Corliss would have waited until they took one last look around and returned to their equipment on the north lawn, between the building and the road. Then he carried her in via the south lawn, out of their sight, and got down the steps without being seen through the window cutouts. That's the only reason he would have cut this so close.