The Color of Wounds Read online

  There was an uncomfortable silence that both men seemed unwilling to break, until finally Kent said, “When things quiet down a little bit, you and I are going to have to talk. Your attitude toward animals. Your willingness to let them suffer. That’s all got to change.”

  Tice gave a laugh. “The police grilled me all night about Dr. Muelick. Now you are going to put the screws to me for sticking up for your best interest.”

  “My best interest?”

  “Yes. Yours, the CVC’s, and science as a whole.”

  “What you said at the seminar, and what you seem to believe, is no way in my best interest. Or anyone else’s for that matter.”

  “You bigwigs are all alike,” Tice said. “Just let the foot soldiers carry the banner. They’re expendable. Let them get mowed down.”

  “Dr. Tice, you are way out of line.”

  “You need me. You need me to run the Behavioral Center now more than ever since Muelick is gone.”

  “If you can’t come around to a better way of thinking, we do not need you. I can find someone else to run the psycho ward. We’ll get along just fine without you.”

  “Am I fired?”

  “Not yet. But you are close.”

  Tice couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He let out a guttural moan, stared at his boss.

  “You want my resignation?”

  “Draft it. Don’t send it. Yet.”

  Kent did not move. He felt strangely calm, purged, confident he’d just made the best decision he’d made in a long while.

  There was another long pause. Finally, Tice slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “What’s done is done,” he said, and walked away.

  Kent was staring at the Presbyterian Church when Aubrey appeared and took the seat Tice had just vacated.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” she said.

  “I’ve left messages for you everywhere.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “We’ve been out of sync lately.”

  “We have?”

  “I just took a step that ought to get us back on firm footing.”

  “I’m all for that,” he said.

  Loren saw Kent and Aubrey on the bench. “Damn it,” she said. She held no doubt that Aubrey meant every word of her order to stay away from Kent. She tossed her cigarette into the bushes. Now how was she going to tell him about the mystery girl?

  She turned before they saw her and retraced her steps. “Now what?” she muttered. She looked into her purse, digging for another cigarette as she walked, and immediately collided into Marvin Tice.

  “You better watch where you’re going!” he said.

  “Hi. Sorry,” Loren said and took a step to continue on, but Tice sidestepped to block her.

  “Aren’t we in a big hurry,” he said.

  Loren allowed her shoulders to drop. “Actually, I’m not in a hurry. I am just frustrated,” she said.

  “Really? By what?”

  She indicated over her shoulder with her thumb. “I just had a tiff with Aubrey Fairbanks.”

  Tice gave her an understanding look. “Funny. I just had one with her boyfriend.”

  “Kent?”

  “Who else? He can be a tough guy to deal with.”

  “Don’t I know,” Loren said.

  Tice held his lighter for her. “So what’s got you frustrated?”

  She filled her lungs with smoke, then released it skyward. “You know that mysterious blond woman that everyone is talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know who she is.”

  Tice shrugged. “The cops know her name, too. I’m pretty sure.”

  “No. I mean I know about her past. She might have a motive for the bombings.”

  “Really? Now that is something.”

  Loren gave Tice a nutshell version of the Burman A&M case—the Torture Lab, the grad students, and how she and Kent were involved.

  When she was done, Tice said, “It sounds like a long shot, but I guess it’s a possibility.”

  Loren looked offended. “I’d say it’s more than a long shot. But now, since I had this fight with Aubrey, I can’t get to Kent to tell him about it.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “Never mind that.”

  Tice rubbed his chin. “If you want, I can tell him. Then, if he thinks it’s worth following up, he can get hold of you. The ball will be in his court.”

  Loren pondered the suggestion. “That’ll work. Yeah. I’d appreciate it if you would do that for me?”

  “Consider it done then. I’ll be seeing him later and I’ll make sure he knows.”

  Tice admired the sway of Loren’s hips as she walked away. He checked his watch and started off in the opposite direction, walking like a man on a mission.

  At eleven-fifty, sick with fear and mentally fogged from her all-night vigil, Yvonne Geasling stood just outside the cordoned area in front of the church. Ensconced in the reverend’s arms, she trembled, cried, and prayed. No matter how her husband turned her, she twisted like a compass needle so that her eyes stayed on the old white edifice that was the embodiment of her faith.

  “Are you sure the police said there’s no bomb?” she asked the reverend one more time. “It’s our church, Mark. We can’t let anything happen to it!”

  He stroked her shoulders, trying to calm her. “It’s in God’s hands, Dear.”

  “It was Daddy’s church and now it’s ours.”

  “We’ve done all we can. We’ve just got to be patient a few more minutes.”

  Yvonne’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Minutes?”

  “Yes. Just a few more minutes. That’s not so long, is it?” The reverend spoke as if to a child.

  “Minutes,” she repeated in an airy, detached way, and seemed to relax a little.

  “That’s better now,” Mark said and smiled a minister’s smile. He eased his grip on her. “Would you rather I took you someplace else, so you don’t have to watch? We’ll wait together.”

  “No. I want to be with her.”

  Yvonne was an arm’s length from Mark when her resolve morphed back into panic. “Mark, I haven’t told her good-bye.”

  Before Mark could react, Yvonne bolted under the barrier and raced toward the church. Mark screamed for her to stop.

  At eleven fifty-nine and fifty-nine seconds, Yvonne knelt on the limestone steps in front of the church’s massive double doors, kissed the threshold, and wailed.

  A second later a detonation like a clap of thunder jolted every observer. Smoke and flying debris made them squint and duck as the church’s steeple shot skyward. It rose nearly twenty feet above the roof, tilted, then toppled. As if in slow motion, it crashed down on the church steps. Pieces of it flew fifty feet out into the yard. Yvonne Geasling was killed instantly.

  The crowd stood paralyzed, mouths gaping, pupils fixed in catatonic stares. No one moved to help. There was nothing they could do. The depth and hollowness of the silence was in sublime contrast to the explosion that echoed off nearby hills.

  CHAPTER 31

  The rest of the day after the church bombing was a write-off for Kent—the rest of the town, too. The terrifying realization that an evil force could invade their tight-knit community—raise such havoc—paralyzed every citizen. School superintendent, Earl Bingley, ordered early dismissal, K through twelve.

  Merchants locked up their shops. What few people were on the street trudged along like disoriented refugees evacuating a war zone.

  Kent left the site about two o’clock, went straight to Pine Holt, threw back a double shot of Jameson, and took a restless nap. He had dinner with Emily, the first real meal he’d had in he didn’t know how long. He did some chores around the farm, and by nine o’clock he was back in bed, only this time, he slept the kind of open-mouth, lead-l
imbed, dreamless slumber he needed.

  He awoke with more vitality and a greater sense of purpose than he had felt in days. Seeing his town suffering filled him with unexplainable energy, a mix of rage and responsibility. First it was just a statue, but now two citizens were dead.

  He checked in at the CVC earlier than usual, completed his rounds, and burned through a pile of paperwork. He told Beverly to put him on the farm call schedule. He needed to be outdoors doing real veterinary work.

  At one o’clock the chief called him on the radio in his mobile unit.

  “Where are you?”

  “At Yorton’s.”

  “Charlie got a sick pig?”

  “No. We are castrating some piglets. Why are you asking?”

  “MacKinnon wants to meet for another of his famous updates. Can you make it?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Thirty minutes later Kent walked through the front door of the police station. When he saw through the glass that Merrill was not in his office, he turned to the woman duty officer.

  “Is the Chief around? I am supposed to meet him.”

  “Hi, Doc,” she said. “Yes. He and detective MacKinnon are on the porch at the back entrance.”

  “What are they doing out there?”

  “Talking and drinking coffee, last I saw them.”

  “Why there?”

  The officer shrugged. “Got me.”

  Kent worked his way through the building. On the back porch that overlooked the police parking lot he found Merrill and MacKinnon. They were leaning against a railing, coffee in hand, chatting amiably. They turned when the saw him.

  “What you are doing out here?” Kent said.

  “Self-preservation,” Merrill said.

  “What’s the threat?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  MacKinnon said, “Merrill told me you were coming straight from a pig farm. Last time you smelled bad enough after the cow call. We wanted to be proactive.”

  “Outside.”

  “Right. Fresh air,” MacKinnon said. “And it’s a good thing we did. I can smell you from here.”

  “Makes my eyes water,” Merrill said and handed him a to-go cup of coffee.

  “I can’t smell a thing,” Kent said.

  MacKinnon looked down at Lucinda. “I feel for you, girl.”

  Their meeting went well, all things considered. There was a lot of rehashing and some new information.

  MacKinnon didn’t know how they had missed a bomb—twice—and was pitifully apologetic about that. The man’s confidence in his previously faultless bomb squad was faltering.

  “The church went up with the same high density C4 plastic explosive that took out Willard Covington and the Ledyard Estate. We should have found it! We’ve never missed it before. We were so goddamn thorough!”

  Neither Merrill nor Kent could offer much solace.

  “And here’s another weird thing. All three targets were blown up by charges placed up high on the structure. I’m not sure if there’s any significance to that. It’s an observation.”

  They batted that around for a while. Maybe it was a message of some type from the bomber. Maybe it was an ego thing.

  MacKinnon looked at Kent. “Remember at our first meeting I told you that in this age of money crunch police work you have to have a homicide to get much of an investigation? Well, with Phyllis Muelick and Yvonne Geasling’s deaths, the case has been ratcheted up. Now it is being considered terrorism, and the FBI is in on it with a lot more people assigned to the case.”

  “And you remember, we wanted help before anyone got killed?” Kent said.

  “I do.”

  The three of them went silent, staring out into the parking lot.

  MacKinnon cleared his throat. “Have you heard anything, Kent?”

  “You mean like phone calls or postcards? No. Nothing. Believe me, you would be the first to know.”

  “Merrill, anything around town? Sightings, rumors. Anything suspicious?”

  “Nothing you don’t know about.”

  “Maybe he’s taken the money and run,” MacKinnon said, but he didn’t sound hopeful.

  “You figure the five million was a bluff to get three hundred thousand?” Merrill said.

  “Three hundred grand in the hand is worth more than five mil in the bush, right?”

  “Three hundred grand to end all this death and destruction? That would be money well spent. But I think you are dreaming,” Kent said.

  MacKinnon’s expression darkened, he studied his shoes. Finally he said, “Kent, you’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it anyway.”

  “That’s the way you cops do it. Isn’t it? Dispense with the niceties.”

  “Given how much the bomber seems to know about Jefferson, its monuments, historical society, bridges, school, everything, they’ve been in town a long while.”

  Kent looked unimpressed. “We’ve said that all along.”

  “They also know a lot about you, your family and friends, your daily routine, who’s in your office, whatever. My point is, there’s a good bet, whoever it is, is an insider at the CVC.”

  Kent held rock still. When he was sure MacKinnon was finished, he said, “I’ve come to the same conclusion. I just did not want to believe it.” He pitched the coffee that remained in his cup over the railing and threw the cup in a can. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

  MacKinnon backpedaled. “Geez, Kent. Don’t get mad. I just think we need to consider all possibilities.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Looks to me like you’re about to storm out of here.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Then where are you going?” Merrill asked, as surprised as MacKinnon by his brother’s sudden preparation to leave.

  “I’m going to find the last person who would have seen Phyllis Muelick before she had a chance to give me some information about the bomber and before she was murdered.”

  “Marvin Tice?”

  “Correct.”

  “We talked to Tice. We just had him in.”

  “I am going to talk to him again.”

  Kent wheeled into FOAM Park going fast enough that Lucinda had to brace herself, but he slowed as he passed the statue of Simpatico. Up close it looked more perfect, more the reincarnated beast than he usually saw from his office window. He drew strength from it. “Just statues, my foot. They are way more than statues,” he said.

  Lucinda whined.

  He entered the lobby of the Behavioral Center and greeted Cheryl. “Everything okay?”

  Cheryl stroked Lucinda’s head as the big dog came close. She knew he was asking how the division was getting along without Dr. Muelick. She looked up at Kent, tears welling. “We’re okay.”

  “You let me know if you need anything. Okay?”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “Have you seen Dr. Tice?”

  She pointed toward the lab that gave her the willies. “He’s in there. Been there all day.”

  His knees weakened for an instant as he passed the spot where he had found Phyllis Muelick’s body. Tice’s door was locked. He knocked. No response. He knocked again harder. After the third knock, there was a snapping sound in the latch and the door opened slightly.

  “Kent,” Tice greeted him through the crack. “I thought I heard someone out there.” His voice sounded cordial, no residual anger from their last conversation.

  Kent shoved the door, forcing Tice to step back or be struck in the face. The cordiality vanished. “What the hell? There’s no need for that. I’ll let you in.”

  “Like you have any say in the matter, “Kent said as he stepped into the lab. “I’ll
go where I please in my building.”

  He should have out-and-out fired Tice when they were at the church. Some fool sense of honor had told him to allow the man a chance to redeem himself. Total bullshit!

  “Take it easy, Kent,” Tice said. “I agree one hundred percent. It’s your lab.” He swung his arm in a large arc. “Knock yourself out.”

  The air in the lab was a choking mix of sour smells—wet cage litter, feces excreted in moments of panic, high-voltage electronic, and chemicals. Machines hummed and whirred, and animals held at workstations set on heavy soapstone and metal lab benches moaned and cried. Exhausted rats ran in mazes. Monkeys danced bizarre dances on metal shock platforms. Others tumbled in cages like laundry in a dryer. Pigeons with broken beaks and wires twisting out of their skulls pecked at blood-streaked mirrors. A cat huddled in a corner cage alternately hissing and chewing on its front leg.

  Kent reeled from the anger that raced through his mind. Here it was, right here in his hospital, the Burman A&M Torture Lab all over again. How could this be happening? Could Phyllis Muelick have known? How could she not have known?

  He strained to stay calm. He had come for answers. He needed Tice to talk. He drew a breath to make what he hoped would be professional inquiry. It came out, “What the fuck are you doing here, Tice?”

  To Kent’s amazement, Tice seemed unperturbed, eager to describe his work.

  “Studying behavior, of course,” he said, releasing a quick laugh at his own wit. “No. Seriously. I’ve got a number of different experiments going on.” He glanced around the lab wondering where to start, then noticed a small device on a counter next to him. Laughing again, he snatched it up and handed it to Kent. “Do you know what this is?”

  Kent worked it around in his hands, orienting himself. It was a set of lightweight nylon straps with ends that were secured by Velcro fasteners. Slung in the middle was a tiny cloth pouch. “Looks like a miniature dog harness, to me.” Kent tossed it on the counter.

  “Very good!” Tice said. “You’re close. Actually, it’s a harness for starlings.”

  “Starlings?”

  “Yes. Starlings. The birds? Want to see how it works?”

  “I know what starlings are. And hell no, I don’t want to see how it works. We are going to shut this disaster down now.”