Chapter 36

Two of Todd’s Fair Mantle colleagues are driving Farrell and Elizabeth back from Newark.

It’s a weird situation. The Port Authority police suspect Farrell was indeed brought to the airport against her will, but they aren’t sure about Elizabeth’s role. Brut was unfindable, and so vehemently did Elizabeth refuse to talk without an attorney that she decided not to press charges against Farrell for the tackling. The two women sit on the cruiser’s hard, rear seat, separated by a garrulous detective who can’t speak of anything but Mount Can’t.




The grandfather clock in the foyer strikes midnight.

Tom takes Effen by the front of the blazer and pulls him up from the sleigh bed. He’s going to turn in. Effen should do the same. “Only this time, go to the john, for Christ’s sake. You hear me?”

Effen falls into Tom’s front, not asleep, but so relaxed that he drones a little snore. Were the police really here? Or was that a dream, too? It must have been a dream. If it were for real, he’d have done something to get away while the officer was here. Safety in numbers, as Tom always says.

Tom shakes him into becoming aware of the surroundings and tells him to go to the bathroom.

Effen rouses sufficiently to take himself to the prescribed destination and pay homage to nature. After washing his hands, he lets the water run.

Tom knocks on the door. “You all right?”

“Brushing my teeth.”

Effen picks up the glass, takes a deep breath and makes a quick Sign of the Cross.




Elizabeth storms into the police station. “I want to call my lawyer.”

“Mrs. Bruton, it’s midnight! Aren’t you concerned about the whereabouts of your husband?”

“I want my lawyer. I’m not saying another word until my lawyer is standing here beside me.”

The sergeant holds up his hands. “Whoa, Mrs. Bruton! Nobody’s under arrest.”

“I know, I want to make sure you nab the right person.”

She’s allowed to make her call from the sergeant’s desk.

Farrell’s position worsens. Her things are still at the Bruton house. Without Elizabeth’s cooperation, there’s no way she can retrieve them. And sleeping there is definitely out of the question. She needs help. She calls Effen again. Still no answer.

“He could be asleep,” the sergeant says. “But don’t worry. Markham saw him. Everything was fine.”

The sergeant promises to have somebody call Effen for her. She has to stay at the police station a little longer, anyway. A detective needs to take a statement about her detoured day.

Halfway through her statement, the detective is handed a note. Farrell won’t be reunited with Mr. Hume as quickly as everyone thought.

Farrell is losing her tolerance for strife. The tears rise. “You told me everything was all right. Markham saw him.”

“That’s the problem. Markham did see him.”


The sound of glass shattering on the tiles is closely followed by the sound of heavy weight falling against the door.

The door can’t open as quickly as Tom needs it to open. He knows what’s in the way. He manages to push both the door and Effen’s body into the room. It’s a full-size bath, big enough for the thick, white porcelain pedestal sink and a tub with claw feet. There’s plenty of room for two grown men.

Tom sees the glass but, so far, no blood. Effen’s landed on his side. There’s no blood around him or on his face. Tom feels the pulse in his neck. Christ, it’s fast. But that’s that shit for you. Makes your pulse race while it slows your heart. Should he call Brut?

Tom doesn’t see the shard of glass that slices his forehead and sends blood streaming into his eyes. He doesn’t see the knee that meets his groin as he leaps up, grabbing his face in a rage. He crumples to the floor.

Doing what Farrell so playfully demonstrated on the snowman, Effen stomps Tom into a still, silent lump, then lurches for the phone on the kitchen wall. Hoping that someone is out there, he hits 911 and leaves the phone off the hook. If the dispatchers are as good as the county says, the call will be traced. Police will arrive before Tom recovers.

He prays he’s out of The House by the time Tom recovers. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it. The attack took too much out of him. He stumbles down the stairs, hugging the bannister to keep from falling. The exit from the back door is a tumble that leaves crawling halfway down the drive before he can get his legs under him. Once up, he pitches headlong into the street.

He wants to go to the police. He can’t. The station is at the south end of town. He would have to go through the town green, past Bruton’s house.

Bruton mustn’t see him. Bruton mustn’t know what happened.

Staggering in a labored trot, Effen crosses North Main Street, then heads east. He’s got to stay in the street. He’s got to stay in the light. He’s got to stay where someone other than Tom or Bruton will see him …




The sergeant knows what the statute says about people in possession of controlled dangerous substances, but he doesn’t want to leave the department open to accusations of illegal search, with or without a warrant.

Markham argues he’s got probable cause to go into The House without a warrant. “The light was blazing, and, I tell you, the guy’s eyes were bigger than a cat’s in the middle of the night. And he was slurring his speech. And the way I found out was inadvertent, just as the statue requires. I was told to go and see if anything was wrong, right? I went, and I just happened to see the way he was. I’m sure it’s enough to let me go in.”

The sergeant hedges. Is there really enough to support Markham’s suspicions? Can’t tell. They’ve got to call the municipal prosecutor.

Markham tries a last defense. “Look at it this way: if he was parked on the street, just sitting in a car, and you went up to him to see if everything was okay, and he was looked the way I described him, would you let him go, knowing he could drive away and maybe get into an accident? Or would you make him get out of the car and put him through the third degree?”

“The street is a public place,” the sergeant argues. “Besides, you let him go already. If you thought narcotics were involved, why didn’t you do something when you saw him?”

Yeah. Good question. What’s a good answer? He didn’t think of it until he was in a restaurant? That would make him look incompetent. He’s been on the force for less than a year. Can he afford to look incompetent?

Markham backs down. On the way out to his car, he’s stopped by Wilton, who thinks he’s discovered the answer to Markham’s prayers.

He nods toward Farrell, who is on the detective’s phone. She still can’t reach Effen. She can’t imagine why, and she can’t accept the detective’s explanation. Francis Hume doesn’t waste himself on that kind of recreation.

To the officers, there’s only one way to find out.

To Farrell, there’s only one way to make them see the truth.

All three cluster around the bell at The House’s back door. No answer. Wilton isn’t surprised. “He probably too far gone to hear it.”

Suspecting the worst, Markham tells Farrell to wait in his cruiser.

Farrell is not to be dissuaded. “Go in alone, and you’re in without a warrant. Come in with me, and you come in as guests.”

Markham tries the door. No sense in making a scene; the thing’s unlocked. Farrell heads straight for the flat.

The door is wide open. The lights are on. There’s no response to the knock on the door or the calling of Effen’s name. The kitchen is empty. So are the parlor, bedroom, dining room.

There’s glass and blood on the bathroom floor.

Markham answers his radio. The county intercepted a 911 call from that address. What’s going on?

Markham describes the scene. And, oh yes, the kitchen phone is hanging down the wall.
Wilton hurries after Farrell, who’s hallway down the stairs.

Markham takes one last look around. “And I thought a volcano in my yard was the damnedest thing I ever had to deal with …”



The streets are wet with runoff from the thawing snow. The air is warm, humid, full of spring. But for all the snow still on the ground, it really could be spring.

Effen doesn’t know how far he’s gone or how long he’s been trying to run. It could be a hundred yards; it could be a hundred feet. He isn’t moving as quickly as he’d like. And he’s all over the place: street, sidewalk, yards, driveways. Anyone who sees him must think he’s drunk, if not under the influence of something illicit. He hasn’t seen one policeman or National Guardsman. He looks to the darkened homes for signs of life. Should he find refuge in a garden? Should he burrow in the darkness of a backyard?

The way the air is coming out of him, he could be throwing up. He tries to catch his breath. A car veers around the corner.

Tom.

A second car approaches from behind.

Brut.

Yes, they would come after him.

He’s got to hide. In a yard.

He totters to the nearest lawn, then falls to his knees, unable to go farther. There’s nowhere to go, anyway. The cars are on either side of him.

He can’t run. He can’t go back.

He takes the piece of glass from his pocket. He knows anatomy as well as Brut. He opens his wrist so the blood runs like water from a tap. As he makes the cut, he ears a woman call his Christian name.

Augusta?

He’s hit from the side. Somebody says they can’t wait for medics. He’s loaded more than placed in a vehicle. Whatever he’s in, it takes off with a kick.

Someone is holding him. Not a woman. Not a girl.

Anne?

Dying’s not so bad, after all.