Son of the Endless Night, page 31
A ripsnorting tractor-trailer came down the lane between them, and the small Tempo rocked in its wake. When the big truck had passed and Crystal looked again, she couldn't see the Cadillac. Perhaps it had fallen behind them.
Four miles north of the toll booths at exit 11 and the interchanges with U.S. 9 and the Garden State Parkway, traffic began to thicken suddenly, a bright stew of braking lights coming to a boil across all lanes. A huge overhead sign warned of an accident ahead; the speed limit had been reduced to twenty miles an hour.
"It's always something," Crystal sighed, trying to discern what had happened. But they weren't close enough yet to the scene; she didn't see any state police cars or emergency vehicles. "We get off at exit 9, then it's only a few minutes more to the campus."
Caitlin yawned and sulkily bit a thumbnail.
Crystal remained in the second lane from the right. As they edged closer to the toll booth plaza and the Amboy Avenue overpass, flames could be seen, and thick roiling smoke.
"It's on the overpass," Caitlin said. She rolled down the window on her side; a moving van, crusted with dirt, was directly in front of them, obscuring her view. Caitlin leaned out.
"Holy shit!" Now they could hear sirens.
"What is it, Cait?"
"I can't tell— it might be— I think it's a big gasoline tanker burning on the overpass."
"Oh-oh," Crystal said, feeling uneasy. "Wonder if it'll explode?"
"No. I don't think so. They wouldn't let any cars through beneath the overpass, would they? But we're moving. The cops are routing all traffic into the two left lanes; see if you can get over now."
Crystal shuddered. "Sure is getting cold in here."
"Oh, sorry." Her cousin rolled the window up.
Crystal turned on her left-turn indicator, hoping she could move to the far left lanes immediately, although the cars and trucks were creeping along almost bumper to bumper. She didn't like fires of any kind, and this one on the overpass (she had a glimpse of it now as the moving van pulled ahead, opening a thirty-foot gap between them) was huge: flames shooting high into the air.
The poor driver, she thought, and shuddered again.
They continued to move, but slowly. Glancing into the side-mounted mirror, Crystal saw an opening and attempted to pull over, but a car from the far left lane suddenly appeared to fill the space. It was the trampy black Cadillac they had noticed earlier south of Newark Airport.
"Damn!" Crystal said, veering back into her own lane, where she was penned between the van and a flatbed truck hauling big wooden spools of cables. The old Cadillac was only a few feet away on her left and she looked out the window at it, noting the poor condition of the paint job.
A woman was driving. She turned her face toward Crystal and smiled briefly. Kind of a Latin-looking woman, pale, with dark eyes well-mounted on superb cheekbones, and what looked like a long curved scar that lay low on one cheek.
It was the smile that most annoyed Crystal. "May you get four flat tires and have to walk barefoot to Perth Amboy," Crystal muttered, as dreadful a curse as she had ever imagined. She didn't like the woman much, although she had no very compelling reason for the instant antipathy she felt; her car Crystal liked even less, it was too much of a hearse.
Caitlin had pulled out another cigarette, and she flicked her lighter. Three hundred yards ahead the blackened hulk of the overturned gasoline carrier could be seen lying almost on top of the overpass railing. It still burned furiously although high-pressure streams of water had been aimed at the wreck from chartreuse pumper trucks fore and aft. Water cascading off the bridge had turned to enormous icicles that hung down almost to the turnpike roadway. There were a lot of flares, policemen in slickers with bullhorns.
"What's trouble, hon?"
"Can't get my goddam lighter to work," Caitlin grumbled, holding her cigarette steady and at a tilt between compressed lips.
Something pricked Crystal to look out her side window again.
The driver of the black Cadillac now had a passenger, whose face was turned toward Crystal. They were no more than six feet apart, and Crystal could see her perfectly. Crystal's hair felt as if it were frying. She gasped.
It was a young woman's face, but wildly disordered, as if every underlying bone had been broken. Within the open mouth there were only slivers and stumps of white teeth. One eye was like a harvest moon with an off-center bloodspot for a pupil. The other eye socket was empty and oozing blood. Only her luxurious dark hair seemed untouched by carnage.
Crystal Kinsman knew who she was: had admired the thickness and flow of Karyn Vale's hair moments before the girl had walked out onto the hushed snowy terrace at the Davos Chalet Lodge and died so horribly.
From the burning hulk of the oil tanker a fireball shot up into the air. Two hundred feet above the packed lanes of traffic on the southbound Jersey Turnpike the fireball lost momentum, arced over slowly and then, picking up speed again, rocketed downward.
As Crystal screamed once more at the bad news of the apparition seated next to them, the black Cadillac became as insubstantial as a shadow: the windshield of her own car had turned golden, then fiery with light. At the approach of the big fireball Caitlin screamed too.
The fireball struck the center of the windshield, vaporizing much of the glass on contact, then blew apart inside the car, becoming a million incendiary droplets each as bright as a tiny sun.
The girls glowed luminously within this gaseous envelope and almost instantly shimmered down into little piles of ash and remnants of bone. The fire, if it could be called that, cooled down in less than a second and vanished as if sucked into a vacuum. The gas tank of the Tempo, untouched, failed to explode. Almost everything inside the car was made of synthetic materials: these were completely vaporized or fused into grotesque lumps of matter.
By the time would-be rescuers reached the car there was nothing to extinguish, and only wisps of pale smoke indicated where the girls had been sitting.
Within a few minutes Crystal had been identified with the assistance of the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Department as one of the unfortunate occupants. Caitlin's luggage, untouched, was in the Tempo's trunk; in one of her bags there was a letter addressed to her from Jeff Pepperdine, dated the thirteenth of February.
At exactly three A.M. in the infirmary on the campus of Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts, Jeff Pepperdine, hospitalized for treatment of a fever of unknown origin, went into massive convulsions and was dead on the floor beside his bed before a doctor could be summoned to help him.
53
On the last day of February Adam Kurland ran into the state's attorney for Haden County, Gary Cleves, at the courthouse. Cleves was a small slender man with a dark and well-shaped beard. He had oversized teeth and not enough lip to cover them completely; the resulting toothiness gave him, falsely, an endearing look. But Gary, despite his slight build, fancied himself a tough customer. He had a black belt in karate and carried a pistol everywhere he went, hinting darkly of ex-convicts, whom he'd dispatched to prison in the past, on the loose with axes to grind. He was one of those men who can't hold even a casual conversation unless he has linked himself physically with the one to whom he is talking: shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm, confidentiality his watchword. But never making eye contact: Gary was always too busy looking out for potential enemies or eavesdroppers. Without any form of greeting Gary took Adam by his elbow and guided him to an unfrequented corner of the lobby. All he said, while gazing raptly over Adam's left shoulder, was "Had your breakfast yet?"
"No."
"Coffee and Danish at the German's? My treat." When Adam hesitated, Gary gave him a little nudge in the ribs. "We need to have a talk."
"I don't think we need to discuss the case anymore before it goes to trial, Gary."
"We don't? I've been hearing rumors that you've considered withdrawing as defense counsel."
"Oh, that's bullshit."
But Gary Cleves had the hook in him; beaming, he trolled Adam on down the street to the popular cafe, where they sat in the prosecutor's favorite booth. It was a single on one side with high wooden armrests and backs, almost as solidly enclosed as a confessional. Adam determinedly made small talk, to which Gary replied in monosyllables, with little punctuating nods, until he had drunk half a mug of coffee and was ready to proceed.
"You haven't been spending much time with your client," he said to Adam, giving him a little reproving tap on the wrist. Gary's hand was furred thick as a glove to the half moons of his fingernails. "I'd almost say you're avoiding him. Nobody's been around to see him this week except that little priest from Pius the Twelfth Parish, and I hear your client scared the piss out of the good father. Want to tell me what's going on?"
"I don't follow you, Gary."
"Father Gregus has been saying that Richard Devon is possessed by the devil."
Adam rubbed his eyes, which were smarting from the brilliance of the sun on the misty window which the booth framed.
"Father Gregus is close to senile. They're retiring him this year. But he had no business going to see Rich without checking with me first."
"I suppose he just wanted to offer some spiritual guidance; your client's a Catholic, isn't he? But I have to tell you, Adam, I think it's a cheap ploy; and where can you go with it?"
"Go with what?"
Beneath the table their knees touched; Gary hunched forward on his elbows. He looked sideways, sharply, waiting until a waitress behind the counter turned her back on them.
"Demonic possession."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Adam said firmly.
With his head down Gary nodded, as if he were willing to wait for Adam to change his tune. Adam outlasted him. Gary said, "You'll plead him not guilty this week, of course."
"Of course."
"And you'll be filing Notice of Defense of Mental Disease or Defect."
"Gary, you'll know what I intend to file when I file."
The prosecutor shrugged and sat back. "Sure. Take your time. It doesn't make any difference to me. I'm just trying to be helpful, Adam. After all, we sleep in the same bed around here."
Adam tried not to laugh. "You've never had a gift for metaphor, Gary."
"You know what I mean. Take some good advice and have your client go easy with this devil-made-me-do-it stuff."
"I'm not responsible for everything Devon says." It was a dumb thing to admit. At this stage of events he knew he should be. Gary resisted the opportunity to chide him further. He was served a hot raspberry Danish with a heap of butter melting on it. Adam got indigestion just looking at it. His stomach wasn't good lately. He was sleeping poorly. He wished he had his father to talk to.
Gary dug into the pastry with a spoon. "Your client is sane, and you know it. I'm sincere when I say I don't want to see you hurt too badly by this trial, Adam. But you will be if you're not careful— and honest with yourself about your prospects. By the way, that was a real tragedy, what happened to those two girls down there on the Jersey Turnpike."
"Yeah."
"And that other witness dying the way he did. Tragic— a tragic coincidence. Three eyewitnesses gone, the same night."
"But there are two other eyewitnesses. Donald Ray Stemmons. Warren Hasper. And there are the state cops who were the first on the scene, Granger and Raff. It isn't only witnesses who are going to win this case for me, Gary."
"As a matter of fact, the witnesses will lose it for you. I know what you're going to try. It worked with Brodkey, but this ain't the same ballgame. There is no way you are going to sell Devon as the emotionally overwrought victim of a blighted love affair who went berserk when he found out she was cheating on him. Adam, it wasn't just one shot from a Saturday night special. He clubbed Karyn Vale to death, and he took his sweet time doing it. And to this day he hasn't shown a drop of remorse for the poor girl. The jailers say he's cold as ice. A born killer. He bothers them, and they've had some tough guys in their lockup. Bikers. Canuck loggers."
"He's pretty damn scared himself."
"Ha," Gary said, without mirth, looking closely at someone who had just walked in the door of the cafe. Satisfied that he wasn't about to be assaulted, he glanced at Adam. "You've got a weak case, counselor. Your weakest link is Devon himself. The jury's going to hate him before the trial is two days old. Attila the Hun wouldn't have liked him. I think you hate him yourself— something happens around your eyes when I mention him. Don't think I'm not aware of that. I don't miss much."
"I know you don't, Gary," Adam said patiently.
"Fact is, if you don't want to withdraw, which would be my sincere recommendation, I can offer you an alternative that's bound to be a plus for your career."
"What do you have in mind?"
"A two-stage trial."
"That's what I thought you had in mind. Have you been seeing a lot of Tommie Harkrider lately?"
Gary missed the barb. "He was up here a while back. I've talked to him on the phone several times since. He represents Karyn Vale's family."
"I know. And lately he's advocated two-stage trials in insanity pleas."
"I like the idea myself," Gary said, as if he was the franchise holder for the state of Vermont. "The insanity plea has become a cancer in the belly of the legal system. We— I mean, you and I and the state— have a chance to do something meaningful about that. Vermont v. Devon could be more than just another murder trial, Adam. It could be a landmark case. Don't you feel that's more important than getting Devon the works on a first-degree conviction. Or a free ride for a couple of years in the state hospital?"
"A two-stage trial would be an experiment, and I'd be doing my client a disservice even to consider it. As for the insanity plea, both of us have been down this road a few times, Gary, and neither of us knows what the jury is likely to do. At this point I'm sure of two things: Rich was not in control of himself when he killed Karyn Vale, and he remains in desperate need of— professional help. I have an obligation to see that he gets the help he needs, as quickly as possible." Adam glanced down at the table, as if to recalculate the odds from the cards the prosecutor had dealt him, then looked up quickly, catching Gary's eye. Gary winced, slightly pained by a threat of genuine intimacy. "Look, Gary, we've had some brawls in court but you have to admit I've always played it straight with you."
"Almost always," the prosecutor said, with a hint of petulance.
"Maybe we can cut a deal here and now."
"I won't plea-bargain."
"I'm willing to go along with the idea of a two-stage trial subject to an appropriate ruling from the bench."
"Now you're being sensible, Adam."
"In return I want my client sprung. Reasonable bail and appropriate custody."
"Whose custody?"
"Private sanitarium of our choice."
"Ha. Not a chance. He's too fucking dangerous."
"What if I can guarantee security?"
"Under the circumstances I wouldn't even let him go to max lock at the hospital. Out of the question. Ask me anything else."
"Richard Devon needs attention now, Gary. Isn't that obvious from what's been going on?"
"It's obvious he's a cold-blooded killer. If you want more psychiatrists to look at him, fine. Your option. But he has to be examined at the jail."
Adam stood and put a quarter on the table to pay for the coffee he hadn't touched. "See you in court, Gary."
"Wait a minute, Adam; we didn't even begin to discuss this."
"No discussion. You know what I want. Call me by five o'clock today, Gary."
Adam walked back to the courthouse through crunching snow, head lowered to keep the raw wind off his face. He hadn't looked at the prosecutor again as he was leaving, but he felt no confidence that his ultimatum would be met. It was worth Gary's job to let Rich out now, and he knew it. Another petition for bail consideration would be worthless, even if the Catholic Church would back the application.
Gary Cleves, he thought, had been right about one thing. The jury, any jury, would hate Richard Devon. Adam didn't hate his client— he was merely scared shitless of him, and dreaded being in the same room with him. But today he had to see him.
The prisoner was brought into the interview room by the pint-size Duke and two other guards. Adam asked them all to stay. He sat as far from his client as possible.
The prisoner was in a straitjacket again. He sat slackly in a chair, chin down, eyes coldly insolent. Adam looked into those eyes and saw nothing of Rich. The prisoner smiled at him. His voice, at least, was almost familiar.
"You can't get me out of here, can you?"
"No."
"Why don't you just drop the case, Adam?"
"Is that what you want me to do?"
"I need a lawyer. You're as good as any."
"Why do you need a lawyer? I'm no help to you unless you want to be helped. What is it you really want? For Richard Devon to spend the rest of his life behind bars? How will that satisfy you?"
The prisoner didn't reply. His smile pricked Adam's nerves. Adam's hands were clammy. Perspiration trickled down the back of his neck.
"What makes you so goddamned pleased with yourself today?" Adam said in exasperation.
"There's going to be a death in the family," the prisoner told him. He went on smiling.
54
Donald Ray Stemmons, the twenty-six-year-old bartender whose mountaineer's blond beard was stained around the mouth by chewing tobacco, worked the six P.M.-to-closing shift in the tavern of the Davos Chalet Lodge, which left his days free for women and other sport.
The first week in March, following several big snowstorms, brought the most beneficent weather they'd had for skiing all season. It also brought out the crowds. Accommodations were jammed, skiers were tripping over each other, and service was bad almost everywhere. The youthful employees at the various lodges and restaurants were all overworked, exhausted, and snappish from long weeks of burning their candles at both ends. Stemmons had given serious thought to walking out on his own job unless the management of the Davos Chalet hired another bartender to help him. He was temporarily without a female companion; the nineteen-year-old Finnish chambermaid he'd been screwing on other people's unmade beds had linked up with a group of ski bums who had migrated north to Smuggler's Notch. But early in this week of aggravating nights in the smoke-fouled tavern and days of fierce joyous release on the most difficult trails Hermitage Mountain had to offer, he'd had his first glimpse of the woman whom he found so tantalizing, and so difficult to make contact with.
