Dolarhyde drove slowly up Lindbergh Boulevard, gesturing with his free hand as he ticked off the points.
They were looking for fingerprints. He’d given them no chance for fingerprints—except maybe on the plastic pass at Brooklyn Museum. He’d picked it up in a hurry, mostly by the edges.
They must have a print. Why fingerprint if they didn’t have something to match it to?
They were checking that van for prints. No time to see if they were checking cars too.
Van. Carrying the wheelchair with Lounds in it—that tipped them. Or maybe somebody in Chicago saw the van. There were a lot of vans at Gateway, private vans, delivery vans.
No, Graham just knew he had a van. Graham knew because he knew. Graham knew. Graham knew. The son of a bitch was a monster.
They’d fingerprint everyone at Gateway and Baeder too. If they didn’t spot him tonight, they’d do it tomorrow. He had to run forever with his face on every bulletin board in every post office and police station. It was all coming to pieces. He was puny and small before them.
“Reba,” he said aloud. Reba couldn’t save him now. They were closing in on him, and he was nothing but a puny hareli—
“ARE YOU SORRY NOW THAT YOU BETRAYED ME?”
The Dragon’s voice rumbled from deep within him, deep as the shredded painting in his bowels.
“I didn’t. I just wanted to choose. You called me—”
“GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND I’LL SAVE YOU.”
“No. I’ll run.”
“GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND YOU’LL HEAR GRAHAM’S SPINE SNAP.”
“No.”
“I ADMIRE WHAT YOU DID TODAY. WE’RE CLOSE NOW. WE CAN BE ONE AGAIN. DO YOU FEEL ME INSIDE YOU? YOU DO, DON’T YOU?”
“Yes.”
“AND YOU KNOW I CAN SAVE YOU. YOU KNOW THEY’LL SEND YOU TO A PLACE WORSE THAN BROTHER BUDDY’S. GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND YOU’LL BE FREE.”
“No.”
“THEY’LL KILL YOU. YOU’LL JERK ON THE GROUND.”
“No.”
“WHEN YOU’RE GONE SHE’LL FUCK OTHER PEOPLE, SHE’LL—”
“No! Shut up.”
“SHE’LL FUCK OTHER PEOPLE, PRETTY PEOPLE, SHE’LL PUT THEIR—”
“Stop it. Shut up.”
“SLOW DOWN AND I WON’T SAY IT.”
Dolarhyde’s foot lifted on the accelerator.
“THAT’S GOOD. GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND IT CAN’T HAPPEN. GIVE IT TO ME AND THEN I’LL ALWAYS LET YOU CHOOSE, YOU CAN ALWAYS CHOOSE, AND YOU’LL SPEAK WELL, I WANT YOU TO SPEAK WELL, SLOW DOWN, THAT’S RIGHT, SEE THE SERVICE STATION? PULL OVER THERE AND LET ME TALK TO YOU. . . .”
45
Graham came out of the office suite and rested his eyes for a moment in the dim hallway. He was restive, uneasy. This was taking too long.
Crawford was sifting the 380 Gateway and Baeder employees as fast and well as it could be done—the man was a marvel at this kind of job—but time was passing and secrecy could be maintained only so long.
Crawford had kept the working group at Gateway to a minimum. (“We want to find him, not spook him,” Crawford had told them. “If we can spot him tonight, we can take him outside the plant, maybe at his house or on the lot.”)
The St. Louis police department was cooperating. Lieutenant Fogel of St. Louis homicide and one sergeant came quietly in an unmarked car, bringing a Datafax.
Wired to a Gateway telephone, in minutes the Datafax was transmitting the employment roll simultaneously to the FBI identification section in Washington and the Missouri Department of Motor Vehicles.
In Washington, the names would be checked against both the civil and criminal fingerprint records. Names of Baeder employees with security clearances were flagged for faster handling.
The Department of Motor Vehicles would check for ownership of vans.
Only four employees were brought in—the personnel manager, Fisk; Fisk’s secretary; Dandridge from Baeder Chemical; and Gateway’s chief accountant.
No telephones were used to summon the employees to this late-night meeting at the plant. Agents called at their houses and stated their business privately. (“Look’em over before you tell ’em why you want ’em,” Crawford said. “And don’t let them use the telephone after. This kind of news travels fast.”)
They had hoped for a quick identification from the teeth. None of the four employees recognized them.
Graham looked down the long corridors lit with red exit signs. Damn, it felt right.
What else could they do tonight?
Crawford had requested that the woman from the Brooklyn Museum—Miss Harper—be flown out as soon as she could travel. Probably that would be in the morning. The St. Louis police department had a good surveillance van. She could sit in it and watch the employees go in.
If they didn’t hit it tonight, all traces of the operation would be removed from Gateway before work started in the morning. Graham didn’t kid himself—they’d be lucky to have a whole day to work before the word got out at Gateway. The Dragon would be watching for anything suspicious. He would fly.
46
A late supper with Ralph Mandy had seemed all right. Reba McClane knew she had to tell him sometime, and she didn’t believe in leaving things hanging.
Actually, she thought Mandy knew what was coming when she insisted on going dutch.
She told him in the car as he took her home; that it was no big deal, she’d had a lot of fun with him and wanted to be his friend, but she was involved with somebody now.
Maybe he was hurt a little, but she knew he was relieved a little too. He was pretty good about it, she thought.
At her door he didn’t ask to come in. He did ask to kiss her good-bye, and she responded gladly. He opened her door and gave her the keys. He waited until she was inside and had closed the door and locked it.
When he turned around Dolarhyde shot him in the throat and twice in the chest. Three putts from the silenced pistol. A scooter is louder.
Dolarhyde lifted Mandy’s body easily, laid him between the shrubs and the house and left him there.
Seeing Reba kiss Mandy had stabbed Dolarhyde deep. Then the pain left him for good.
He still looked and sounded like Francis Dolarhyde—the Dragon was a very good actor; he played Dolarhyde well.
Reba was washing her face when she heard the door-bell. It rang four times before she got there. She touched the chain, but didn’t take it off.
“Who is it?”
“Francis Dolarhyde.”
She eased the door open, still on the chain. “Tell me again.”
“Dolarhyde. It’s me.”
She knew it was. She took off the chain.
Reba did not like surprises. “I thought you said you’d call me, D.”
“I would have. But this is an emergency, really,” he said, clapping the chloroformed cloth over her face as he stepped inside.
The street was empty. Most of the houses were dark. He carried her to the van. Ralph Mandy’s feet stuck out of the shrubbery into the yard. Dolarhyde didn’t bother with him anymore.
She woke on the ride. She was on her side, her cheek in the dusty carpet of the van, transmission whine loud in her ear.
She tried to bring her hands to her face. The movement mashed her bosom. Her forearms were stuck together.
She felt them with her face. They were bound together from her elbows to her wrists with what felt like soft strips of cloth. Her legs were tied the same way from knees to ankles. Something was across her mouth.
What . . . what . . . ? D. was at the door, and then . . . She remembered twisting her face away and the terrible strength of him. Oh Lord . . . what was it . . . ? D. was at the door and then she was choking something cold and she tried to twist her face away but there was a terrible grip on her head.
She was in D.’s van now. She recognized the resonances. The van was going. Fear ballooned in her. Her instinct said be quiet, but the fumes were in her throat, chloroform and gasoline. She retched aga
inst the gag.
D.’s voice. “It won’t be long now.”
She felt a turn and they were on gravel now, rocks pinging under the fenders and floorboard.
He’s crazy. All right. That’s it: Crazy.
“Crazy” is a fearsome word.
What was it? Ralph Mandy. He must have seen them at her house. It set him off.
Christ Jesus, get it all ready. A man had tried to slap her once at Reiker Institute. She was quiet and he couldn’t find her—he couldn’t see either. This one could fucking well see. Get it all ready. Get ready to talk. God, he could kill me with this gag in my mouth. God, he could be killing me and not understand what I was saying.
Be ready. Have it all ready and don’t say “Huh?” Tell him he can back out, no damage. I won’t tell. Be passive as long as you can. If you can’t be passive, wait until you can find his eyes.
The van stopped. The van rocked as he got out. Side door sliding open. Grass and hot tires on the air. Crickets. He came in the van.
In spite of herself she squealed into the gag and twisted her face away from him when he touched her.
Soft pats on the shoulder didn’t stop her writhing. A stinging slap across the face did.
She tried to talk into the gag. She was lifted, carried. His footsteps hollow on the ramp. She was sure where she was now. His house. Where in his house? Clock ticking to the right. Rug, then floor. The bedroom where they did it. She was sinking in his arms, felt the bed under her.
She tried to talk into the gag. He was leaving. Noise outside. Van door slammed. Here he comes. Setting something on the floor—metal cans.
She smelled gasoline.
“Reba.” D.’s voice all right, but so calm. So terribly calm and strange. “Reba, I don’t know what to . . . say to you. You felt so good, and you don’t know what I did for you. And I was wrong, Reba. You made me weak and then you hurt me.”
She tried to talk into the gag.
“If I untie you and let you sit up, will you be good? Don’t try to run. I can catch you. Will you be good?”
She twisted her head toward the voice to nod.
A touch of cold steel against her skin, whisper of a knife through cloth and her arms were free. Now her legs. Her cheeks were wet where the gag came off.
Carefully and slowly she sat up in the bed. Take your best shot.
“D.,” she said, “I didn’t know you cared this much about me. I’m glad you feel that way but, see, you scared me with this.”
No answer. She knew he was there.
“D., was it old dumb Ralph Mandy that made you mad? Did you see him at my house? That’s it, isn’t it? I was telling him I don’t want to see him anymore. Because I want to see you. I’m never going to see Ralph again.”
“Ralph died,” Dolarhyde said. “I don’t think he liked it very much.”
Fantasy. He’s making it up Jesus do I hope. “I’ve never hurt you, D. I never wanted to. Let’s just be friends and fuck and have a good time and forget about this.”
“Shut up,” he said calmly. “I’ll tell you something. The most important thing you’ll ever hear. Sermon-on-the-Mount important. Ten-Commandments important. Got it?”
“Yes, D. I—”
“Shut up. Reba, some remarkable events have happened in Birmingham and Atlanta. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
She shook her head.
“It’s been on the news a lot. Two groups of people were changed. Leeds. And Jacobi. The police think they were murdered. Do you know now?”
She started to shake her head. Then she did know and slowly she nodded.
“Do you know what they call the Being that visited those people? You can say.”
“The Tooth—”
A hand gripped her face, shutting off the sound.
“Think carefully and answer correctly.”
“It’s Dragon something. Dragon . . . Red Dragon.”
He was close to her. She could feel his breath on her face.
“I AM THE DRAGON.”
Leaping back, driven by the volume and terrible timbre of the voice, she slammed against the headboard.
“The Dragon wants you, Reba. He always has. I didn’t want to give you to Him. I did a thing for you today so He couldn’t have you. And I was wrong.”
This was D., she could talk to D. “Please. Please don’t let him have me. You won’t, please don’t, you wouldn’t—I’m for you. Keep me with you. You like me, I know you do.”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet. Maybe I can’t help giving you to Him. I don’t know. I’m going to see if you do as I tell you. Will you? Can I depend on you?”
“I’ll try. I will try. Don’t scare me too much or I can’t.”
“Get up, Reba. Stand by the bed. Do you know where you are in the room?”
She nodded.
“You know where you are in the house, don’t you? You wandered around in the house while I was asleep, didn’t you?”
“Asleep?”
“Don’t be stupid. When we spent the night here. You went through the house, didn’t you? Did you find something odd? Did you take it and show it to somebody? Did you do that, Reba?”
“I just went outside. You were asleep and I went outside. I promise.”
“Then you know where the front door is, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“Reba, feel on my chest. Bring your hands up slowly.”
Try for his eyes?
His thumb and fingers touched lightly on each side of her windpipe. “Don’t do what you’re thinking, or I’ll squeeze. Just feel on my chest. Just at my throat. Feel the key on the chain? Take it off over my head. Careful . . . that’s right. Now I’m going to see if I can trust you. Go close the front door and lock it and bring me back the key. Go ahead. I’ll wait right here. Don’t try to run. I can catch you.”
She held the key in her hand, the chain tapping against her thigh. It was harder navigating in her shoes, but she kept them on. The ticking clock helped.
Rug, then floor, rug again. Loom of the sofa. Go to the right.
What’s my best shot? Which? Fool along with him or go for it? Did the others fool along with him? She felt dizzy from deep breathing. Don’t be dizzy. Don’t be dead.
It depends on whether the door is open. Find out where he is.
“Am I going right?” She knew she was.
“It’s about five more steps.” The voice was from the bedroom all right.
She felt air on her face. The door was half-open. She kept her body between the door and the voice behind her. She slipped the key in the keyhole below the knob. On the outside.
Now. Through the door fast making herself pull it to and turn the key. Down the ramp, no cane, trying to remember where the van was, running. Running. Into what—a bush—screaming now. Screaming “Help me. Help me. Help me, help me.” On gravel running. A truck horn far away. Highway that way, a fast walk and trot and run, fast as she could, veering when she felt grass instead of gravel, zigging down the lane.
Behind her footsteps coming fast and hard, running in the gravel. She stooped and picked up a handful of rocks, waited until he was close and flung them, heard them thump on him.
A shove on the shoulder spun her, a big arm under her chin, around her neck, squeezing, squeezing, blood roared in her ears. She kicked backward, hit a shin as it became increasingly quiet.
47
In two hours, the list of white male employees twenty to fifty years old who owned vans was completed. There were twenty-six names on it.
Missouri DMV provided hair color from driver’s-license information, but it was not used as an exclusionary factor; the Dragon might wear a wig.
Fisk’s secretary, Miss Trillman, made copies of the list and passed them around.
Lieutenant Fogel was going down the list of names when his beeper went off.
Fogel spoke to his headquarters briefly on the telephone, then put his hand over the receiver. “Mr. Crawford . . . Jack, one Ral
ph Mandy, white male, thirty-eight, was found shot to death a few minutes ago in University City—that’s in the middle of town, close to Washington University—he was in the front yard of a house occupied by a woman named Reba McClane. The neighbors said she works for Baeder. Her door’s unlocked, she’s not home.”
“Dandridge!” Crawford called. “Reba McClane, what about her?”
“She works in the darkroom. She’s blind. She’s from someplace in Colorado—”
“You know a Ralph Mandy?”
“Mandy?” Dandridge said. “Randy Mandy?”
“Ralph Mandy, he work here?”
A check of the roll showed he didn’t.
“Coincidence maybe,” Fogel said.
“Maybe,” Crawford said.
“I hope nothing’s happened to Reba,” Miss Trillman said.
“You know her?” Graham said.
“I’ve talked with her several times.”
“What about Mandy?”
“I don’t know him. The only man I’ve seen her with, I saw her getting into Mr. Dolarhyde’s van.”
“Mr. Dolarhyde’s van, Miss Trillman? What color is Mr. Dolarhyde’s van?”
“Let’s see. Dark brown, or maybe black.”
“Where does Mr. Dolarhyde work?” Crawford asked.
“He’s production supervisor,” Fisk said.
“Where’s his office?”
“Right down the hall.”
Crawford turned to speak to Graham, but he was already moving.
Mr. Dolarhyde’s office was locked. A passkey from Maintenance worked.
Graham reached in and flipped on the light. He stood still in the doorway while his eyes went over the room. It was extremely neat. No personal items were anywhere in sight. The bookshelf held only technical manuals.
The desk lamp was on the left side of the chair, so he was right-handed. Need a left thumbprint fast off a right-handed man.
“Let’s toss it for a clipboard,” he said to Crawford, behind him in the hall. “He’ll use his left thumb on the clip.”
They had started on the drawers when the desk appointment calendar caught Graham’s eye. He flipped back through the scribbled pages to Saturday, June 28, the date of the Jacobi killings.