THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 17

This time, Slim drove his rusty old Volvo and parked clear over on the other side of the lot from the path. He wandered around the lot for a while, checking for watchers, then shagged up the snowshoe track to the yurt.

He knocked and called out his name. Gris barked. Mary let him in, this time with a smile. But the worried look on his face wiped it off. He wasted no time.

"Did you hear about the Terpening thing?"

"The what?"

"Guess not. Anyhow, a woman got carved up the other night— pretty awful."

"Carved up?"

"She was tied up in a sort of harness thing and they— he— worked on her for quite a while. I was the first to arrive." He shuddered. "Can't stop seeing it— sorry."

"Why would they do that?"

"To get her combination— there's a vault in her house. One of those big piles on the Fall Creek Road. I think the art was just a cover."

"The art?"

"Just read these—" He'd clipped the two stories from the Scout. "It'll save time."

She sat at the table while he fidgeted, scratching the dog's ears, checking the stove, adding a few splits of pine.

She looked up, eyes wide.

"Not 'sposed to happen here— that kind of stuff."

"I think Bud— the Sheriff— is pissed to see it in the papers at all. Usually that sort of thing is handled in a low-key way. Nasty domestic stuff, mostly. People get drunk and go after each other. Even rich people. Blood on the walls. But when it gets in the news it wrecks the. . .whole. . ."

"Illusion. The Magic Kingdom thing."

"Right. I bet real-estate values have dropped since last week."

"Seriously?"

"People don't buy great big houses here to get cut up and robbed. The Sheriff's phone has been ringing off the hook."

"People demanding he get to the bottom of things?"

"Maybe some. But I think there're quite a few telling him to leave it alone."

"You're kidding."

"Look at the stories again— what's in the first one that missing from the second. I'm betting there won't be a third."

She frowned, looking from one to the other.

"Okay— her key in the alarm. The vault. The cameras. The hundreds of millions went down to millions. What's the crack about the gossip column?"

"Let's take 'em one at a time. The key. It was on a gold chain, like she wore it around her neck. The chain wasn't broken. Most times, when we recover stuff like that from thugs, the chains are broken— saves time."

"So she took it off herself?"

"Right. I think she knew the guy. Invited him in. It looked like they had a sex thing planned: black leather and Nazi gear."

"Yow! What about the cameras?"

"That house is wired like you wouldn't believe. Got the usual security gear at the entrances and gate, but there are cameras in almost every room. Especially the bedrooms— not just one, but two or three. The ceiling, walls, even the headboards."

"Creepy—"

"There's a control room in the basement, like in a TV studio, with tons of switches and screens. Fancy videotape machines."

"That didn't get in the paper."

"Only a couple of us saw it. Then Bud slammed the lid down hard."

"What about the millions?"

"I think the artwork is fake: copies. There were some insurance guys and lawyers who flew in— spent an hour alone with Bud. When they came out, they didn't look that worried— an insurance man facing zillions in losses would be."

"So the thieves didn't know they were fakes?"

"I think they— he— did. It's a cover. What he really wanted was whatever she had in that vault. Notice how that part got erased."

"In the second story, it's the work of international art thieves."

"Right. Meaning not from here. And they were only after the artwork."

"You keep saying he."

"That's the scary part: I think it's Bullivant. He used to hang with Terpening. Throw parties. Lots of rumors about what went on."

"We saw him— Ginger and me. At her house, the night her Mom tried to kill herself. They were hollering upstairs and he ducked out. But she recognized him. And I looked through the newspaper files: definitely the same guy."

Slim stared at her, brain racing.

"So he didn't crash in the reservoir," he said. "That's the official line. That his plane's on the bottom somewhere. They're going to get a boat with sonar once the ice goes out."

"Still missing— sounds like he's pretty far from dead. So the Sheriff's going along with the scam?"

"Right. And the editor of the Scout. That's the gossip column thing. The editor's a real slug: Erik Walsh. Collects free meals all over town, hits the bars every night. Can't keep his pants up. Wife just dumped him. Busy, but not at writing. The gossip column's written by that New York woman— Tämar Hampton. She's everywhere. Stays up late working on stories— pure energy."

"Tee. I met her a few times. She wrote about the band."

"She writes most of the damn paper. But she's rattled some big ol' cages this time. I bet Walsh caught a few bolts from the blue, then took her story and just crossed out the spooky stuff. Now he's probably thinking he's got to go back to work. Can't trust an out-of-towner to know what's what."

"Sad."

"That's how it makes me feel." He slumped on the edge of the bed. "Seeing that poor woman. Jesus Christ! No matter what she did, it couldn't be bad enough to deserve what she got."

He was on the edge of tears. She stared for a minute, then sat by him and rubbed his shoulders.

I'm a sucker for pain, she thought: starving dogs.

Crying cops.