Scattered Graves, page 32
part #6 of Diane Fallon Forensic Investigation Series
Curtis and Gage ignored the sheriff.
‘‘Who’s this guy?’’ Curtis pointed his gun at Frank.
‘‘Boyfriend,’’ said Frank.
‘‘You mean you’ve actually got a boyfriend?’’ Curtis said to Diane. ‘‘Well, no accounting for taste. What do you do?’’ he asked Frank.
‘‘Accounting,’’ Frank said.
‘‘Accounting?’’ He laughed as if that were a joke. ‘‘Hey, Gage, we have an accountant.’’ He emphasized each syllable. ‘‘Maybe he can help us count our money.’’
‘‘I told you, we don’t have any money,’’ said Arlen Wilson. ‘‘We’re just farmers. Just leave us alone. We ain’t rich folks.’’
‘‘I know, you dumb ass,’’ said Curtis. ‘‘Caleb is the one who knows how to get the money. I told you.’’ He slurred his words just enough that Diane was sure Curtis was high on something.
‘‘Caleb’s just a student,’’ said Mrs. Wilson. ‘‘He don’t have any money.’’
Curtis stood in the middle of the room, looked at the ceiling, and gestured, palms up. Diane was afraid the gun would go off accidently.
‘‘Is everybody in here stupid?’’ he said.
He went over to Mrs. Wilson and stared at her, nose to nose. She cringed back in her seat.
‘‘Look, you dumb old woman, I didn’t say he has money. I said he can get it. Get it? He can get it.’’
‘‘Stop calling my grandparents names,’’ said Henry. ‘‘They’re smarter than you are.’’
‘‘Yeah? Well if they’re so smart, how come I’m the one here holding the gun? Tell me that.’’
‘‘What money are you talking about?’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘What money could a college student get his hands on that’s got you boys so riled up and raring to go?’’
Curtis looked at him for a long moment. ‘‘It’s in a bank. The kid knows how to get the account numbers and passwords off a computer,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s a lot of money, and Gage and me’s going to get it, with the help of Caleb and the Fallon woman. Now, are we all on the same page here?’’
‘‘Caleb won’t help the likes of you,’’ said Mrs. Wilson. Apparently the presence of the sheriff and other people was making her more courageous.
Curtis walked over to Henry and patted him on the cheek. Henry shrunk back away from his hand.
‘‘We know Caleb will do anything to keep his little brother safe. Anything.’’
His voice was suddenly very calm, and it frightened Diane more than when he was yelling.
‘‘Where is Caleb?’’ asked the sheriff.
‘‘He’s out on a date,’’ said Mrs. Wilson. ‘‘A girl in one of his classes.’’
‘‘When will he be getting back?’’ said the sheriff.
‘‘He doesn’t have a curfew,’’ said Arlen Wilson. ‘‘He’s a grown man now. I don’t know when he’ll be in.’’
‘‘Why are you guys here?’’ said Gage, apparently just now thinking to ask.
‘‘The same reason you are,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We’ve been trying to get into the mayor’s computer. We know Caleb is good with computers so we thought we would ask him if he could break the code.’’
‘‘Oh, he can break it all right,’’ said Curtis. ‘‘He probably wrote it.’’
‘‘Caleb doesn’t do things like that,’’ said Mrs. Wilson.
‘‘Why don’t you allow Mrs. Wilson and me to make some coffee?’’ said Diane. ‘‘It looks like we might be here a while.’’
Curtis thought a moment. He looked at Gage, who shrugged.
‘‘All right. But I’m going to stand in the doorway and watch. Don’t try to get a knife or anything,’’ he said.
‘‘We’ll just put on some coffee,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Trying to make things a little easier, that’s all.’’
‘‘Tell you what, Curtis,’’ said Gage. ‘‘You watch young Henry, and I’ll watch them in the kitchen.’’
‘‘Whatever,’’ said Curtis. He went over and sat down in the chair vacated by Gage Shipman.
Diane helped Mrs. Wilson into the kitchen. Ship-man followed and stood close to Diane. He grinned at her, and Diane could see he was just dying to get even with her for the incident on the third-floor overlook. But they needed her. When Caleb came, it would be her, Henry, and Caleb that they needed—Henry to be a hostage to make Caleb do the work, and Diane to get the computer.
Frank and the others would be just excess baggage then. Diane had no doubt they would shoot Frank, the sheriff, and the Wilsons when Caleb got there. The thought terrified her.
She or Frank or the sheriff would have to do something before then. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a thing to do. The best she could come up with so far was to split them up and give Curtis fewer targets if Frank tried something. Perhaps Frank and the sheriff would come up with a plan. The problem was Henry. He was too close to Curtis.
Shipman put a hand on the back of Diane’s hair and flipped it. She brushed him away as she rinsed out the coffeepot. It was clean, but she was trying to waste time. Mrs. Wilson seemed to understand. She slowly laid out coffee filters, a measuring spoon, and several cups.
Shipman put his fingertips on Diane’s neck, then her cheek. She brushed his hands away. She filled the pot with water and turned off the faucet. He reached up to tickle her ear and she turned to him.
‘‘Did you never get out of third grade?’’ she said.
‘‘I’m just being nice,’’ he said, grinning. ‘‘Doesn’t your accountant boyfriend ever touch you like this?’’ He reached for her ear again, sticking out his tongue.
‘‘What kind of coffee?’’ Mrs. Wilson said. ‘‘We have some chocolate raspberry that’s good and some vanilla. We have the regular kind too.’’
‘‘Chocolate raspberry sounds just fine,’’ said Ship-man. ‘‘I bet you like chocolate raspberry,’’ he said to Diane. She slapped his hand away again and he laughed. ‘‘We might have a long night ahead of us. We’ll have to find something to entertain ourselves with.’’
Diane had the coffeepot filled with water in her right hand. It had weight to it. One good hit and she could knock the gun from his hand just as she had with the rock and Harve Delamore’s gun.
‘‘Don’t go thinking about trying anything with that pot,’’ said Shipman. ‘‘You’d just make me mad.’’ He laughed and for a moment Diane wondered how she telegraphed her intentions.
‘‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’’ she said. ‘‘If we all stay calm, we can all get what we want.’’
‘‘What we want. You know what I’m wanting right now?’’ Shipman caressed her cheek with the knuckle of his index finger.
Diane handed the pot to Mrs. Wilson, who slipped a knife in her hand at the same time. It startled Diane, and she almost jumped. It was small and it was for peeling potatoes—not one that would cut. She wasn’t sure what help it would be, but it was obviously the only one that Mrs. Wilson could get her hands on. Diane held the knife to her side, trying to come up with a plan.
‘‘Mrs. Wilson,’’ said Shipman, ‘‘would you like to watch as I bend Diane here over your kitchen table?’’
Mrs. Wilson sucked in her breath. ‘‘Don’t do that. Why would you do that?’’
‘‘To fucking get even!’’ he shouted and slapped Diane at the same time.
Diane hadn’t seen it coming. She fell to the floor, hitting her elbow. Electric pain coursed through her arm where the hard surface of the floor hit a nerve bundle. She bit her lip to keep from yelling out and causing Frank to take some action before he was ready. She heard Mrs. Wilson suck in her breath and let out a whimper. Diane held on to the knife as Ship-man reached down and jerked her up by her other arm.
‘‘Mrs. Wilson,’’ said Shipman, ‘‘while the coffee’s making you can go sit by your husband. Diane and I want to be alone.’’
‘‘Don’t do this, young man,’’ said Mrs. Wilson.
‘‘You want to be next? Fucking do what I tell you,’’ he said through his clenched teeth.
‘‘It’s all right, Mrs. Wilson,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Why don’t you go back in with the others?’’
‘‘See, she wants it too,’’ said Shipman grinning.
Diane watched Mrs. Wilson slowly walk out of the kitchen. She was softly crying.
‘‘Now, bitch …’’ Shipman laid the barrel of his gun beside her head. ‘‘Bend over.’’
51
‘‘No,’’ said Diane. She stood up straight and looked him in the eyes. ‘‘That isn’t going to happen.’’
‘‘It isn’t, huh?’’ He put the barrel of the gun to her temple. ‘‘You rather I blow your brains out instead?’’ He put his face close to her ear, still gripping her arm tight with his right hand. ‘‘That might just be more fun—watching your brains splatter all over the old lady’s refrigerator.’’
He laughed and Diane smelled the odor of alcohol.
‘‘Except it would be over too fast,’’ he said. ‘‘One squeeze …’’ He pushed the gun until the end of the barrel hurt against her skin. ‘‘Bang, it’s all over.’’
‘‘Instead of bang, bang, and it’s all over?’’ said Diane.
She wanted to make him mad, make him let go of her even if it was to hit her. She needed an opening. She needed him to be distracted—just for a second.
It took him a moment to understand he had been insulted. He just looked at her, processing her words in his alcohol-fogged brain.
Suddenly he got it. His face twisted in anger.
‘‘Is that what you think? You damn fucking bitch.’’
He glared at her and lay the gun down on the counter, and in one angry move pulled his arm back, his hand balled into a powerful fist.
It was now or never.
Diane rammed the knife with all her strength into the hollow of Shipman’s throat just above the sternum. He would have yelled, but she had pierced his trachea and cut off the air flow to his larynx.
In sudden panic he grabbed at his throat and pulled at the knife. The dull serrated edges made it stick fast. Diane grabbed the gun as he struggled to breathe and hit him across the temple. He went down like a fallen tree. She was almost to the living room when she saw headlights reflect against the wall. Caleb was home.
‘‘Gage, here he comes. Get in here,’’ yelled Crabtree.
Diane quickly and quietly retraced her steps and headed for the kitchen door. Her hand was on the knob when the loud report of two shots filled the house.
‘‘No, please,’’ she whispered.
She ran to the living room, gun in hand pointing straight ahead. Frank was bending over Crabtree. Henry was almost to the front door, the sheriff going after him, when a voice came from the porch.
‘‘Whoever’s in there, if you’ve hurt my family, I’ll kill you. You won’t get out of the house.’’
‘‘Caleb,’’ yelled Henry. ‘‘It’s okay. We’re all right.’’ He ran to the door and opened it and hugged his brother. Caleb walked in, wide-eyed, surveying the room. He saw his grandparents huddled together and went over to them. Henry followed.
Diane still had the gun aiming toward where Crabtree had been sitting. She slowly dropped her arm. Crabtree was on the floor, bleeding from his chest.
Diane knelt beside Frank and leaned against him. ‘‘I was afraid it was you,’’ she said.
‘‘I’m fine. Are you all right?’’ he said. ‘‘I was . . . afraid for you. Crabtree had his gun on Henry the whole time…’’
‘‘I’m fine,’’ she said. ‘‘Thanks to Mrs. Wilson. She managed to slip me a potato peeler. Fine weapons, potato peelers.’’ Diane was shaking and she hugged Frank closer, trying to stop shivering.
Fortunately, like Delamore, Shipman was a taunter. Taunters waste a lot of time—time enough for Diane to have formulated a plan. Things could have turned out so different. Diane fought back a wave of nausea. She looked down at Curtis Crabtree. He was shot twice in the chest, but he wasn’t dead. His breathing was fast and shallow. Frank took a throw from the chair and applied pressure to his chest.
Sheriff Canfield walked toward the kitchen to check on Shipman, his own gun in his hand. After a while she heard his voice speaking to someone. He came back several moments later.
‘‘I called for an ambulance,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘He’s not dead, but his breathing is real bad. I didn’t know if I should take the knife out or not.’’
Another chill ran through Diane. She leaned against Frank again as he tended to Curtis.
‘‘What happened in here?’’ she asked.
‘‘I’d been mentally rehearsing how I was going to get at my gun, when Caleb drove up. Henry made a dash for the door. He was so quick, it caught Curtis off guard. He started after him, but Henry was too far away to reach quickly. Crabtree realized his mistake in going after Henry, so he turned around, but by that time I had my gun and shot him. It was all very fast.’’
Crabtree turned his head and looked up at Caleb. There was a lot of hate in his eyes, but nothing compared to the black hatred in Caleb’s eyes.
‘‘Who are these people?’’ asked Mrs. Wilson. ‘‘Caleb, what have you to do with these people?’’
Mrs. Wilson’s question remained unanswered while the sheriff tended to the aftermath. The ambulance came and took both Shipman and Crabtree to the hospital. Several Rose County deputies arrived and stood on the porch, guarding it, Diane guessed. She wasn’t sure from whom. It could have been from another of Jefferies’ thugs, or it could have been from the Rosewood police in case they decided to show up.
The sheriff called his wife and briefly told her what had happened and that Henry would be staying the night with them. Henry didn’t want to go, but Caleb talked him into it. Caleb wanted to tell his story, but he didn’t want his little brother to hear it. A deputy left with Henry.
‘‘Okay, Caleb,’’ said the sheriff, ‘‘we’re listening. You know you can have a lawyer, don’t you?’’
‘‘Yes, I know. But right now I just want to get this off my chest.’’
They were sitting in the living room. Mrs. Wilson had put a rug over Crabtree’s bloodstains. Mr. Wilson had declined to go to the hospital for examination. He was holding ice in a ziplock bag to the side of his head where he had been struck. He and Mrs. Wilson were still in their pajamas and robes, but Mrs. Wilson had taken the rollers out of her hair. She sat on the couch with her husband and motioned for Caleb to sit between them. But he shook his head.
‘‘I’ll sit right here,’’ he said and took a seat across from the sheriff.
Diane and Frank pulled up dining room chairs. All eyes were on Caleb. He looked so thin and small. He glanced over at Diane. ‘‘You got my message?’’ he asked.
‘‘If you are the ghost in the machine,’’ said Diane. ‘‘That’s why we’re here. We figured out it was you.’’
He smiled. ‘‘I’m a little surprised. I thought, if you figure it out, that’s fine, but if you don’t, then maybe it was meant for me to be home free.’’
‘‘Free from what, Caleb?’’ asked Mr. Wilson.
‘‘The things I’ve done,’’ he said.
‘‘Did Spence Jefferies recruit you?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘Not the way he did other people. He recruited Malcolm Chen. Malcolm was my friend. He’s the one who came up with the Black Light thing. I thought it was kind of silly, but he thought it was cool. He knew I like the movies WarGames and 2001: A Space
Odyssey.’’
‘‘You wrote the AI program?’’ said Frank.
Caleb nodded. ‘‘I wanted to write a program that could be used maybe to help the disabled use computers more easily, or maybe in business. Like it could just flow around in the network keeping track of what people are doing. And if someone on the fifth floor could use the information that someone on the first floor had, the program could tell them. That kind of thing.’’
‘‘It seemed real,’’ said Diane. ‘‘For a long time we thought it was someone using some kind of instant-messaging program.’’
Caleb smiled. ‘‘I started by writing a chess-playing algorithm. Playing chess is one of the best things to start programming with. It has pure rules, but it also has strategies and thinking ahead, and personality. There’s lots of chess programs out there, but I wanted to write my own for the practice. It looks for people to play with; you may have found that out.’’
‘‘Yes, it found its way to Jonas Briggs’ computer and asked him to play. He was rather surprised,’’ said Diane. Caleb smiled. ‘‘It’s almost become a bug in the program,’’ he said. ‘‘I started by teaching it to look for people who play. I tried to change it, but it won’t stop.’’
‘‘But it’s more than a chess program now,’’ said Frank.
Caleb nodded. ‘‘I gave it a database of information. A fairly large one. I was trying to get it to learn, so when it gets new information, it compares it to what it knows. If there is no conflict, it keeps it and stores it according to a hierarchy of probable accuracy— another algorithm I worked out.’’
‘‘How did you make it sound human?’’ said Diane.
‘‘It parses sentences and conversations, so when you ask it a question, it not only analyzes what you asked, but analyzes everything that was said previously. There is a little problem in changing topics sometimes.’’
Caleb’s eyes grew bright when he talked about his program. Diane was seeing just how very gifted he was. She was starting to feel heartsick.
‘‘I made algorithms from interrogation techniques and from the way some psychiatrists do therapy—you know, kind of Rogerian—by making a statement and then asking what the person understands or what they think it means. That kind of thing. Or answering a question with a question. I also put in a small-talk algorithm. If certain concepts or phrases come up in the conversation, it searches for references in pop culture or movies.’’
‘‘We noticed that,’’ said Frank. ‘‘We were all impressed. My name is Frank, and the other guy working on it was Dave.’’
