Читать книгу The Will Of The Wisp - Joseph Sr. Cairo - Страница 5

Out here in the North Dakota foothills, the long prairie grass sways gracefully in a gentle wind that never ceases. Little, if anything, ever changes; no heavenly or earthly force potent enough to challenge the supreme authority of time. The Arapaho indians who roamed these planes for centuries, hunting bison, believed the shifting grasses were messages from Yaponcha, their wind god. But if these hills could really talk, they would tell us the fate of Robbie Stallings, the young boy who was snatched in an instant of unimaginable horror, by a dastardly kidnapper, last Monday afternoon; an instant of horror that looms in stark contrast to the background of this barren landscape; an inscrutable enigma, cast against the impenetrable barrier of the infinite prairie. Neither rhyme nor reason, nor trail to follow. . . just an anthem of the whistling wind . . . and a vast expanse of nothingness.

The police have been combing the region, scouring every inch of every road in every direction in search of the black Cougar. But as every native of this area knows, if the kidnapper made it to the Black Hills, there’s little or no chance he will ever be found. Crazy horse hid there for decades. Roads give way to trails, trails to paths, and paths to forests. Fog covers the region like a shroud for all but three hours a day. For now, the fate of Robbie Stallings remains a mystery. But the motive seems clear: investigators are going under the assumption that the abductor was a sexual deviant who stalked his prey with cunning precision. Once the trap was set, the young boy’s fate was sealed. In well over ninety percent of such cases, the child is never found alive. But, for Dr. and Mrs. Stallings . . . for the Stallings family . . . there will always remain that faint glimmer of hope, that somehow, someway, Robbie managed to beat the odds and is still alive. All that matters to the family is to find the boy. Perhaps at some point in time they will look back at this nightmare and regard the incident as something that united them, made them stronger. For now, they can only fight back against their doubts and the mocking epithets of these ancient sand hills. From Pickens Bluff, this is Melissa Compton reporting for KNEB news.

Mallory paused the video, freezing Melissa’s picture on the screen. She had a raw beauty back then. Her almond shaped eyes glistened with the confidence of youth. A veiled innocence in her voice conveyed an inherent belief in the order of things. She wore her honey-blond hair in a loose pony-tail, bangs resting above her eyes with perfect symmetry. A lot had changed since then. It could all be seen in her expression. The rose colored glasses were off. New York was no doubt the culprit. The big city had transformed her into a sophisticate with a jaded countenance, with eyes that seemed to look through men rather than directly at them. Her face was fuller, her lips broader, her tone decidedly more cynical. Mallory’s trend of thought was interrupted by the phone.

“Rick?”

“Good to hear your voice,” he answered. It was Esther, his partner and fiancée.

“I’m staying for another two days.”

“We miss you around here?” His voice conveyed his longing.

“What do you mean?”

“Rudy’s away. We’re short handed.”

“I’ll clean up the mess when I get back.”

The intercom buzzed. “Melissa Compton is here,” Lilly informed him.

“In a moment, Lilly,” Mallory replied impatiently.

He returned to his conversation with Esther. “It’s not just that. I miss you when you’re away. I need you. Can’t you understand that?”

“We need to talk when I get back,” she told him.

“Why can’t we talk now?” he asked.

“I can’t now. I can’t get into it over the phone.”

“Sounds serious,” Mallory said.

“It is serious. But you don’t have to worry. You won’t come out on the short end. I’ve seen to that. Good-bye Rick.”

“I told you that I love you. What more do you want?” But Esther heard none of it. She had hung up quickly, to hide the conversation from the man she was with. Mallory sat sullenly for a full minute staring up into space; he was bedeviled by this woman. “Bitch!” he cursed out loud. Hadn’t he done everything for her? Without him she’d be rotting in jail right now. He swiveled his chair around and slammed the phone on the receiver. Melissa Compton was standing on the other side of his desk.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” she lied. “I just walked in.” She looked over at the television where her face was etched on the screen in freeze frame.

“Research, Mallory?”

“Burns, over at Court TV, gave me some old file tapes. I wanted to get a feel for the scene. Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot this morning. I’m sorry I misled you . . . but I just couldn’t resist . . . let me make it up to you,” he offered, smiling humbly.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” She was a hard sell, the Rock of Gibraltar. And she was pissed as hell, at having to make this egotist an offer for a spot on Tunnel Vision. She took an aggressive stance, both hands planted on his desk, reminiscent of the pose Mallory had struck in her office. Her thumb and forefingers formed two legs of a triangle, like a runner at the starting line. Mallory couldn’t help but notice the 3-carat ice cube planted on her ring finger. She must have landed a big fish. It was Abbott, the big honcho at the network, the producer of Tunnel Vision. He had read it in the Herald.

“A cup of coffee, maybe? I know a nice place . . . peaceful . . . where we can go and talk.”

He seemed vulnerable. She had just heard him sniveling to his girlfriend over the phone. Maybe if she acted nice to him, showed a little empathy, she could deliver him for Doug. It was worth it for a chance to anchor the election night coverage. She stood up straight and softened her gaze. It wasn’t exactly a yes, but Mallory took it to be a clear signal.

“You won’t regret it,” he assured her, grabbing his cashmere Chesterfield overcoat and Burberry scarf and extending his arm in the direction of the garage elevator.

She stared at him reluctantly for some time, rather like ice melting, but after a long deep breath acquiesced and followed him into the elevator.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art cafeteria. Egyptian History Day at the Met—the place was crawling with Middle Eastern types—camel jockeys in three-piece suits, and women in traditional garb. There was the usual cadre of foreign art students feasting on cheesecake and two busloads of sixth graders on a class trip. The regular piano player had been replaced by a classical guitarist who looked strangely familiar. He was wearing sunglasses and sat on a bar stool next to the piano strumming Fundanquillo. Mallory and Melissa sat in the waited tables section. They ordered two raspberry cappuccinos. Mallory took his without sugar. Melissa stirred in half an Equal. The mint green room was commanding, dominated by a collage of broadly curved sinusoids; the atmosphere formal, reserved, calm, almost austere.

Mallory stared downward at the table. Melissa had her gaze fixed directly at him. He raised his eyes briefly then quickly gazed back down submissively.

“You’re such a pretty boy, Mallory. This morning you crash my office dressed like the janitor, and six hours later we’re sitting in the cafeteria of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and you’re wearing a two thousand dollar pure silk Canale suit, with a two hundred dollar haircut.”

“The haircut only cost a hundred,” he said with a boyish smile, correcting her. He looked over his right shoulder, then his left, an old detective’s habit. It was patently inappropriate in this setting.

“Do you want to be a talking head for the rest of your life?” she asked him irreverently.

“If I’m catching you correctly, you’re implying that I’m inherently superficial. I believe that’s the second time today you hinted at the vacuum between my ears.”

“Not quite. I’m just saying that you’re playing the part. A talking head just doesn’t bother to think.”

“Pick any conversation topic,” he challenged her. The false humility act was out the window. No more looking around over his shoulder or staring down at the table. Mallory focused intently on every detail of her appearance: her yellow Versace suit, her white antique silver cross and pin, her perfect nose and daunting blue eyes that were cut into her skull like diamonds.

She shook her head disapprovingly, as if being mocked.

“Abortion,” he said, “how do you stand on abortion?”

She took a sip of her cappuccino placing her left hand around the cup for warmth but refused to respond.

“I’m pro-choice,” Mallory proclaimed. He furled his forehead and raised his eyebrows in a there, take that, gesture.

“You’re pro-choice?” Melissa repeated, contemptuously. “Tell me Mallory, do you believe in God?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, sensing that he had hit a nerve.

“Do you believe that man has an immortal soul?”

“Why yes . . .”

“Then what gives you the right to kill another human being?”

“What does one thing have to do with the other?”

“An egomaniac, such as yourself, goes through life believing that God is looking over your shoulder, surveying your actions. Every move you make is predicated on how it will be received by him. So why would you deny the right to be born to someone who has no ability to defend himself from the selfish interests of others.”

“The selfish interests of others?” Mallory’s turn to play the town crier. “Look, Miss Compton, you’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’re heart is in the right place. But you’re missing the point. It’s hard enough to exist in this world even with the love of a mother and a father. A woman who is not in a position to accept the burden of parenthood should not be forced to carry to term simply to satisfy the value system of others.”

“But you said yourself, Mallory, that you believe in God. And if you believe in god then ipso facto you believe in an absolute system of values. You cannot have it both ways, either you believe in God and an absolute system of values from which man derives his morality or everyone toddles to the beat of his own drummer. If that’s the case, then who’s to decide which value system is the right one?”

“Look maybe we’ve gone too far,” Mallory said waving the white flag. “I’ve had a bad day. I didn’t intend to upset you. It’s the last thing I wanted to do. And to be perfectly honest, I tend to steer clear of controversy, especially on the first date.”

Melissa took another sip of her cappuccino, then stood up and reached for her coat. “Please don’t go,” he begged her. He held his hand over her coat. It was his first real gesture of humility. In truth, his very presence seemed to annoy her, to insult her. He was snide, mocking and an anarchist. But she was intrigued by his desperation. Somehow, this cover boy, who apparently had it all, seemed at loose ends, incongruent with his surroundings, and grasping for something . . . anything . . . to hold on to. She had overheard the episode with Esther over the phone. Despite all the negative vibes, she was frozen in her place.

“Please,” he pleaded.

She sat back down in the Shaker high-back chair and gazed at her silver Chariol watch. The guitar player began a rendition of Bruce Springsteen’s Brilliant Disguise. It sounded eerily like the original recording. They both looked over to check out the guitarist.

“That’s . . .”

“Don’t say anything,” she cautioned him. “I don’t want him coming over here.”

“You know him?”

“You heard me,” she repeated.

Mallory shook his head. “You started out this conversation telling me I was a pretty boy. You’re very beautiful . . .”

“More beautiful than your girlfriend, Esther?”

Now she was asking for it. “You’ll forgive me Miss Compton, but I was going to say that you’re beautiful, but that I find you distant, cold and frankly unreachable.“

“Perhaps that’s what defines beauty, Mallory.”

Mallory smirked. “You’re a far cry the girl on the screen, back in my office. The New York scene has changed you.”

“And just who am I then?”

“Your passion is buried in your past. You’ve cut off your past and . . .”

“ . . . lost my passion. It’s so refreshing to meet someone that thinks he can re-ignite it.”

“Let’s change the subject, shall we? I want your impression of what happened eight years ago in North Dakota. And I don’t mean the song and dance account in the papers.”

“Sure Mallory, let’s get down to business. But first I want your investigation to be featured on Tunnel Vision. You’ll take a cameraman with you, and I want you to prepare a piece. My associate producer . . .”

“I won’t be needing his help, thank you.”

“This is your shot, Mallory. A chance to crack the Network. You’ve got the looks, the voice, the manner . . . “

“To be a talking head?”

“To try to make a difference in this godforsaken industry. If you bring something to the table, I’ll guarantee you creative freedom. Are you the kind of man who wants to make a difference, or not?”

Mallory nodded cynically as he gently gnawed at his bottom lip. Things were starting to get serious. “All due respect, Miss Compton, I’m not sure the world is worth it.”

“I’m here strictly as an emissary for my fiancée, Douglas Abbott. I don’t really care what you do, whether you accept the offer or not. But if your answer is yes, don’t ever take that patronizing tone with me again. You can save that for your girlfriend. And let’s make one thing perfectly clear. This is not a date. It’s a business meeting.”

The guitarist had gotten to the last refrain: “you’d better look hard and you’d better look twice, . . .”

“Talk to me about the Stallings kidnapping.” Mallory’s voice was stirringly conciliatory.

“My first network feed. What the hell ever happens in North Dakota anyway? I’m a farm girl from outside Fargo. My father was a Scotsman, my mother an Irish Catholic. That pine ridge region is as foreign to me as the surface of the moon.”

“Who lives up there.”

“Dutch, Germans. Cattle farmers mostly. Some dairy farms.”

“How did the Stallings blend into the community?”

“Pretty well, I guess.”

“What about Dr. Stallings?”

“I liked him.”

“He’d had affairs?”

“One that I know of . . . Reverend Robert’s wife. She was an ex-prostitute. The good reverend had seen fit to reform her. She hated him for it. Did everyone in town. No one took it seriously. It had nothing to do with the case.”

“What else? There must be something else you can tell me.”

“Nothing, Mallory, not a thing. Those people up there walk around with stars in their eyes. The wind drives them crazy.”

A young man wearing black jeans and a black nylon button-down with a massive forehead crowned by a thick widow’s peak filled in with thick curly black hair, approached Melissa holding up a page from his sketchpad. “It would give me great pleasure, mademoiselle, if you would accept this portrait,” he told her. It was as if a spotlight had been trained on the TV siren. Everyone turned to witness her reaction. The guitarist walked over strumming Tenth Avenue Freeze Out. Mallory was impressed with the kid. He had chutzpa and the sketch was a real work of art. The French kid had captured her frankness, her pensive quality, her brooding indifference.

“Thank you,” Melissa responded warmly.

Three short cracks. Like taps on a table. But coming from across the room. A blood-curdling scream. A woman dressed in a Monique Lhullier gown with an open back near the condiment table dropped her tray of sautéed vegetables. Three children from among the class of sixth-graders lay on the floor, stricken by gunfire. “Robert!” a grey- haired women screamed from the end of the long table at a spiked hair youth standing on his seat. More fire. The kid shot the teacher in the chest. She fell backward from the force of the bullet. Then two more shots. Two boys sitting at the next table fell like ducks in a shooting gallery.

“Get down,” Mallory yelled to Melissa. He swiveled out of his chair and started running down the horizontal conduit toward the youth. He was too far away. The kid calmly reached into his bag for another magazine. Click. The old cartridge fell to the floor. Click. The new one was in. By now the realization of what was unfolding had permeated the room. Pandemonium. Children running, screaming, crying. Adults frozen, helpless, gawking in disbelief. Mallory had fifty feet to go by the time the kid reloaded. The kid grasped the gun with both hands, took a shooters stance, and fired multiple shots at the charging detective. Mallory leapt behind a table, swiveled quickly on his back, and came up firing his Colt 9000 in a rapid barrage. The gun discharged like a cannon, compared to .22 caliber the kid was firing. The twelve-year-old took it right between the eyes and flew backward landing against the wall under a print of Manet’s, The Winter Festival, his brains splattering all over the painting.