Hard as Nails

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

It was cold and windy again when Kurtz headed south out of Buffalo just after dark. Driving through residential neighborhoods near the park from Gail's home, he saw kids in costumes carrying plastic pumpkins going from door to door.

It's Halloween. As if he had to be reminded. It was raining off and on and the air smelled like the rain wanted to turn to snow. It was almost cold enough.

Kurtz was wearing another dark outfit, black jeans, the Mephistos, and dark sweater, all under his peacoat He'd tugged a navy watch cap down gingerly over his aching scalp. He'd borrowed Arlene's Buick, leaving her and Aysha the Pinto. But they wouldn't be using it tonight. Gail DeMarco's second-floor apartment on Colvin north of the park was small—one small bedroom for Gail and a tinier one for Rachel, but they didn't seem to mind sharing tonight. Arlene said that she was going to bunk with Gail, Aysha was going to get the fold-out couch, and they were all going to make some popcorn tonight and watch videos of "The Thing from Another World" and "The Day the Earth Stood Still" in honor of Halloween. Rachel would love the company, Gail had said.

Kurtz's mind wanted to linger on Rachel, but he skittered away from that topic, recalling his conversation with Dr. Charles from the psychiatric hospital instead.

"Yes, of course I remember the fire," the old gentleman had said. "A terrible thing. We never did find out how it started. Several people died."

"Including Sean Michael O'Toole?" said Kurtz.

"Yes." A pause. "Did you say you worked for the Buffalo Evening News, Mr. Kurtz?"

"No, I'm a freelancer. Doing a magazine article. School shootings are hot these days and Sean Michael O'Toole was an early school-shooter."

"Yes," Dr. Charles said sadly. "Columbine still seems fresh, even after all these years."

"Did you ever hear your patient—Sean—referred to as the Dodger?" asked Kurtz. "Or the Artful Dodger?"

"The Artful Dodger?" said the old man with a chuckle. "As in Dickens? No. I'm sure I would have remembered that."

"You say he had visitors the day of the fire," prompted Kurtz. "In fact, the fire broke out in the visitor's wing while they were there."

"Yes."

"Do you remember who the visitors were?"

"Well, one I certainly remember," said Dr. Charles. "It was Sean Michael's younger brother."

"His younger brother," repeated Kurtz, pausing as if he was writing this down. Arlene's kitchen looked out onto a tiny backyard. Sean Michael O'Toole had no siblings. "A year or two younger than Sean?" said Kurtz. "Redheaded?"

"Oh, no," said Dr. Charles. "I met him and his friend when they signed in to see Sean. Michael Junior was much younger than our patient—he was only about twenty. Sean had just turned thirty that week. And Sean's younger brother didn't look at all like Sean—much darker, much more handsome."

"I see," said Kurtz, although he didn't see at all. "And who was the other man visiting?"

"I don't remember. He didn't speak at all during the time I was chatting with Sean's younger brother. He seemed—distracted. Almost drugged."

"Was he, by any chance, about Sean's height and age and weight?" said Kurtz.

The doctor was silent for a moment while he tried to recall. "Yes, I believe he was. It's been fifteen years, you know, and—as I said—the other visitor didn't speak when I was talking to Sean's brother."

"But both the brother and other man got out of the burning building all right?"

"Oh, yes." Dr. Charles sounded distressed by memories of the fire even after all these years. "There was much confusion, of course—fire engines arriving, patients and attendants screaming and running to and fro, but we made sure that all our visitors were safe."

"Did you see Sean's brother—Michael Junior—and this other man after the fire?"

"Very briefly. Sean's brother was fine and the other man was receiving oxygen."

"Did he go to the hospital?" asked Kurtz.

"I don't believe so, no. What are you driving at, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Absolutely nothing, Dr. Charles. Just curious about the details. You say that no visitors were seriously hurt in the fire. Nor attendants. Just the three inmates?"

"We preferred to call them patients," Dr. Charles had said coolly.

"Of course. Just the three patients died. Including Sean Michael O'Toole."

"That is correct."

"And did you carry out the identification, Dr. Charles?"

"Of two of them I did, Mr. Kurtz. With Sean Michael, we had to resort to remnants of clothing, a class ring he was wearing, and dental records."

"Provided by his father?" said Kurtz. "By Major O'Toole of Neola?"

"I believe so, yes." The ex-director's friendly voice was no longer friendly. "What are you getting at, Mr. Kurtz? This is no idle curiosity."

"One never knows what one's readers will find interesting, Dr. Charles," Kurtz had said in his most pedantic voice. "Thank you for your help, sir." And he had hung up

Kurtz drove the Buick east and then south on the four-lane 400, following it into the dark hills when it became Highway 16. The little towns passed one after the other. There was almost no traffic. In the tiny town of Chaffee, Kurtz could see late-night trick-or-treaters going from one large, white house to the other down a tree-lined street. Dead leaves skittered across the highway. Clouds ran ahead of the wind across a cold, quarter moon. It looked, felt, and smelled like Halloween.

Kurtz had watched the evening and late-night local news at Gail's place—he sensed that Gail didn't like him and was nervous when he was around, but he didn't know why—and there had been no mention of the Neola massacre. There had been a fifteen-second piece about a Buffalo police detective being shot—the officer had been in surgery that day and there were no details or leads at this time. She was expected to recover.

Gail had kept Arlene posted during the day on Rigby's condition—which had been upgraded from critical to serious by the end of the day. The ICU nurses had told Gail only that Detective King had a twenty-four-hour police guard outside the unit and that a black police detective had been there much of the day waiting for the patient to regain consciousness.

Kurtz listened to his favorite Buffalo jazz station until the signal faded as he got into the deeper valleys near Neola. He realized that he was half-dozing at the wheel when he passed under the Interstate and found himself on the four-lane road for the last seven miles into Neola.

The city was asleep, the over-wide Main Street empty and mostly dark. It had rained hard here from the looks of it and the orange-and-black crepe paper decorations on some of the shop fronts were wilted and wind-torn.

Kurtz drove through town slowly, confident that the Neola Sheriff's Department wouldn't be on the lookout for a late-model blue Buick. Although one person here has seen this car—up at the Rainbow Centre Mall.

He crossed the bridge over the Allegheny, turned left on the county road, and killed the headlights as soon as he turned off the paved road. Kurtz tugged down the military-spec night vision goggles and powered them up, easily following the gravel road and then dirt ruts up the hill the way he had come before.

Parking at the barricade, he got the gear he needed out of the backseat, tugging some on, then pulling on the peacoat again and filling the pockets with extra clips for the Browning and two flash-bangs, then tossing the empty ditty bag onto the backseat.

He went up the hill, crawled through the same cut in the fence he'd made the day before, but then made a wide loop around the forested hill, planning to come over the top and then down into Cloud Nine. The night vision goggles made the weak moonlight and occasional starlight as bright as daylight.

He was following the rails of the kiddie railroad near the top of the hill, Browning still in its holster, when he heard the noises and saw the moving lights.

Music. Organ-grinder, calliope-type music. Coming from where the midway had once been. And lights moving there. A partially illuminated Ferris wheel turning.

But another light and a louder noise loomed closer, higher up the hill, here where Kurtz lay waiting.

The train was coming.