Where Evil Lurks Read online

  An unwritten rule at these parties is that pot smoking takes place out of sight behind the trees. This is both for the comfort level of parents with children, and of any cops, judges or city attorneys who happen to be at the party. I rounded a copse behind which revelers were passing joints. Suddenly a man screamed in panic, “Oh shit! It bit me, it bit me.” Another man cried, “Fuckin’ A, it’s a fuckin’ copperhead.”

  I ran toward a fat, barefoot man hopping on one leg, his belly undulating under a thin shirt. “Where’d it bite you? Quick!” I called.

  “Right there,” he pointed at the dangling foot, “on my fourth toe are you a nurse?” A pair of tiny pinpricks marked the spot.

  I knew what to do, but I was scared to do it. I balked for a moment, full of doubt. Then I heard in my mind’s ear the voice of Colonel Tom Hart, the M.D. who had trained my class. I didn’t hear any words, just his voice, and it gave me confidence. I didn’t think my lawyer would like this.

  “I’m not a nurse; I’m an ex-army medic.” (I do love that look a man gives a woman when she’s unorthodox.) “Put your foot down flat,” I commanded. I took out my Swiss Army Knife and deployed the razor-sharp small blade. There was no time for the niceties of sterilization. I pressed the thumb of my left hand down hard on the transverse vein located an inch behind the joint of the toe.

  “Try not to move,” I said. “This will sting.” I quickly made a half-inch incision to open the vein at a point just in front of my thumb.

  The man yelped. One woman screamed at the sight of the considerable amount of blood now flowing over his foot, while another buried her face in her companion’s shoulder. I was praying that my patient wouldn’t faint on top of me. He stood stoically, his eyes focused on the thin red flush in the western sky.

  While the blood and at least a portion of the venom were draining, I asked for a T-shirt.

  “I suppose you should use mine,” said a voice. “I’m his wife. It’s just…I’m not wearing a bra.”

  “Use this,” offered one of the men. He handed me a T-shirt from which I cut a large strip. I was tying the makeshift bandage around the foot, knotting it over the wound for pressure, when I saw that the other foot was missing a toe. This jolted me. This was far too strange a coincidence. I needed to know more about this man.

  A number of people had been drawn to our little group. There was a buzz of explanations going on around me, but one thing was clear: the man needed to be taken to the ER at Memorial Hospital. “I’ll drive,” I said. “I’ve only had a beer and a half.”

  “Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” asked the man’s wife. Others nodded in agreement, and one woman got out her cell phone, evidently intending to dial 911.

  “We’ll get him there quicker ourselves. Cynthia’s place is hard to find,” I said, “and we don’t want to wait for an ambulance that’s got lost.”

  The wife and I began walking toward my car. Two of his friends assisted the injured man while the rest trailed along behind, chattering to one another. A light plane motored low overhead on final approach to the one-runway airport that served the town of Chapel Hill.

  Cynthia had sensed something was wrong and ran out to meet us. I quickly explained what had happened.

  “Oh crap, I’m so sorry,” she said to the injured man. “This is my fault. I should’ve warned people not to walk around there without shoes. Damn it all!”

  With the ordinarily serene Cynthia swearing, the entire party knew something was up. The sight of the blood-soaked bandage intensified the drama. People stopped what they were doing and came over to see if they could help. The more timid among them lent moral support by looking on sympathetically. We left Cynthia to deal with the crowd and continued on to my car.

  I’d brought the hounds and had left them in the wagon. “I hope you’re not bothered by dogs,” I said. I ordered the startled greyhounds into the way back. The husband, panting from exertion, fell heavily into the passenger seat, pulling the bloody foot in behind him. One of the men helped the wife into the back seat. I got in and started the engine.

  “That’s Midas and Hank behind you,” I said to the wife.

  “I saw them earlier. They’re beautiful,” she said, trying to pet simultaneously the two heads that were now more or less in her face. I ordered the dogs to lie down so I could see while backing up.

  All were silent as we jerked and jolted on the uneven country road. Occasionally a dog would stand up, only to be knocked off his feet by the careering wagon. Greyhounds have high centers of gravity and low centers of common sense. When we reached the pavement and the ride became smooth, we became more inclined to converse.

  “I’m Philip Martin and this is my wife Beth,” the man said, still a little out of breath. “I don’t know who you are, miss, but I suppose you saved my life.”

  “I’m Dagny Jamison. I don’t think I saved your life exactly. From the little I know, copperhead bites aren’t usually fatal, but they can make a person sick. I think you were lucky. The snake couldn’t get much venom into a toe.”

  We soon left the dimly lit rural roads and came into the town. I wove through the evening traffic with a lack of courtesy that I ordinarily detest, mentally composing a story for the fuzz, just in case. Time was essential, if not critical.

  I had little trouble finding the emergency room of Memorial Hospital. I knew my way to every ER in the Raleigh metro area. This, too, was part of my training as a P.I. by my brother John. Indeed, John’s book, How to be a Private Eye, is specific on that point:

  People who are licensed to carry handguns, and may have occasion to use them, must know where the ERs are located, either for someone they shoot, or for themselves.

  Beth and I helped Philip out of the car and into one of the wheelchairs lined up outside the ER entrance. Inside, few people were waiting, it being early evening. Soon enough the knife- and gun-wounded would trickle in, the inevitable victims of too much alcohol mixed with too much testosterone on a warm Saturday night.

  Philip’s foot was beginning to swell and his breathing was shallow. Already the bitten toe was twice its normal size. I went to report a man with a copperhead bite to the check-in person. She was a hard-faced, middle-aged, white woman. Her rumpled uniform suggested that she was at the end of her shift.

  “Oh, cripes, another one. S’that time of year. Damn snakes get aggressive when they’re trying to fatten up for the cold weather. Back on Daddy’s farm, always someone gettin’ bit just afore winter. Y’all bring him on back. We’ll treat him with anti-venom and have a doc look at it. You his wife?”

  “No—she’s over there with him.” I indicated the couple.

  “Well, I guess she can authorize us to treat him. Best to bring him back now and get started. The missus can do most of the paperwork.”

  A man in green scrubs emerged to wheel Philip into an examining room. Beth barely had time for a quick kiss. “I’ll be right outside here, lovey,” she said.

  We took two seats made of molded plastic with thin foam upholstery. The walls of the ER were light green, their monotony broken by several austerely framed prints of restful scenery. Every few seconds, it seemed, the staticky public address system paged Dr. So-and-So with a request to call station such-and-such.

  Beth was an attractive woman with intelligent brown eyes and medium-length straight brown hair. Hers was the kind of figure that let her go braless under a T-shirt without appearing brazen. She sped through the mass of forms the nurse had given her. When she had finished, she put the clipboard aside and began to fidget with her rings.

  Several more unfortunates had drifted in while Beth was writing. One had his left thumb dislocated so badly it pointed toward his wristwatch. Beth noticed it and muttered “Ouch” under her breath. Another, a chunky woman in a sports uniform with the name “Carrboro Giants” emblazoned in green across the chest, was lying on the floor with her left leg raised on a chair, the ankle swollen to twice normal size and turning blue.

  “You don’t ne
ed to stay with us,” Beth said. “I’m sure we can get a cab back to Cynthia’s when Philip has been treated. It’s beginning to look like a long wait.”

  “I really don’t mind. I’d like to know the outcome. I guess I’ve got a vested interest in your husband.”

  “How did you know what to do?” she asked.

  “I had some medical training when I was in the army. We learned a lot of blood vessel anatomy. Bleeding to death is the greatest danger from getting shot or hit by shrapnel. We also learned how to treat venomous snakebites. Jungle warfare, you know.”

  “I’m so thankful you happened along. We owe you a tremendous debt. What do you do when you’re not treating snakebites?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I work in Raleigh out of my own home. What about you?”

  “I work for the state. I’m the associate director of MVIS—motor vehicles information systems—in the Department of Motor Vehicles. I do computers, in short.”

  “So you work downtown?”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you live in Raleigh?”

  “In Cary, actually. Philip works in the Park for Green Cap, that software company that just went public. He’s a computer scientist. That’s how we met. We both majored in computer science at State.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “It’ll be four years next month. How did you get to be a private investigator? I always thought that was a man’s domain.” She lowered her voice an octave on the last two words. “I guess that’s sexist of me, isn’t it?” she added.

  “When people hear ‘private investigator’ they often think of fictional characters. The job is rarely as dramatic as it is in books or on TV. No Maltese Falcons in our daily rounds. Mostly it’s grunt work, and a lot of that takes place in front of a computer screen, as a matter of fact.”

  A nurse called out. “Mrs. Martin, please.”

  Beth got up and walked to the check-in window. She handed in the clipboard and exchanged some words with the nurse. She called to me that she’d be right back, then opened the door to the hospital innards and disappeared behind it.

  While she was away, I searched my memory for details of Ashley’s story. Fatboy was missing a toe. Which toe? Which foot? Had she been specific? I did some deep breathing relaxation to help bring my mind around to Ashley’s recollections of Fatboy. It was a second toe but I was nearly certain she didn’t mention, or didn’t remember, on which foot. Philip was missing a second toe from his right foot. And he’d be about the right age and body build, too.

  “I’m sorry to make you wait,” said Beth when she returned. “This is a busy place. He’s going to be okay, but they want to keep him overnight just in case. They won’t let me stay, so do you think you could drive me to our car?”

  “Of course. I’m glad it’s not too serious.”

  We left the ER just as a man with his head bound up in a bloody rag was coming in. His wife or girlfriend trailed behind, chewing him out in PG-17 language for brawling. The wail of an ambulance siren grew louder, its pitch rising as it drew nearer, and then descending through the octaves to silence as the vehicle came through the entranceway and stopped. We reached the car a moment later.

  “I don’t know how I can repay you for your kindness,” Beth said to me.

  “Why don’t you let me drive you home,” I asked. “I don’t mind and it’s barely out of my way. Please. I’d like to ask you something. You’d be doing me a favor. Tomorrow, whenever Philip’s ready, we can go back to Cynthia’s and collect your car.”

  Beth thought a moment. “Okay. I’m really tired. I know I shouldn’t drive. I’m sure my sister will give me a lift back, so I won’t have to put you out any more. But I’d love to know what I can do for you.”

  Traffic was sparse and we quickly made our way to the Interstate, which would speed us both home. I engaged the cruise control and stretched my legs.

  In the passenger seat Beth was nodding off. Her face was drawn and she was struggling to keep her eyes open. She had already yawned several times, and now I was starting to yawn myself. I might have let her sleep but I needed to talk to her.

  “Philip has bad luck with feet,” I remarked. “I couldn’t help noticing the missing toe on his other foot. I’m curious as to how he lost it, though it’s none of my business.”

  “It’s a funny story—I mean, not funny ha-ha, you know. He says when he was nine he was sitting on the curb one day and a steamroller ran over it. Can you believe that?”

  “I guess it could happen, but it does seem odd.”

  “Well, that’s his story, and his parents don’t deny it. But anyway, you said you wanted to ask a favor of me.”

  An 18-wheeled rig passed us doing at least 80. The Volvo shuddered but held the road. I strengthened my grip on the steering wheel and said to Beth, “I think you can help me with a case that I have, because you must know a lot about getting motor vehicle information.”

  “That’s for sure,” she said.

  “I have a client who wants to know who owned a certain vehicle in March 1990.”

  “That’s easy enough. All you need is the plate.”

  “Mmm, that’s a snag. We don’t have a plate number. All we know is that it was a dark-blue Dodge van manufactured, we think, between 1985 and 1989.”

  “Do you know if it’s still on the road?”

  “I don’t. Even if it is, I don’t know whether it’s still registered in North Carolina, assuming it was back then. It’s a toughie.”

  She turned toward me, tucking a leg under her and brushing back some wisps of hair. “It may not be as tough as it is expensive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The department keeps all of its records on magnetic tape dating back to 1970. It raises money by selling the tapes to businesses and election campaigns. I’m afraid the price is $25,000.”

  “Wow! That’s a chunk of change, but would the tapes have the data I need?

  “Oh yes. They contain the year and month of all registrations. Each record has the make, model, description, and year of manufacture of the vehicle, as well as details about the owner.” She yawned deeply, deepening the lines in her face.

  “I suppose the van I’m looking for would’ve been registered between March 1989 and March 1990.”

  “I can tell you that about five million vehicles were registered in North Carolina at the time. That’s ninety-eight or ninety-nine percent of all vehicles on the road, but we never have one hundred percent.”

  “Suppose I have these tapes. Then what?”

  “Then, unless you happen to have a mainframe in your living room and you happen to be a programmer and you happen to know the right database language, you still have a ways to go.”

  Actually, there was nothing in Beth’s list of unlesses that couldn’t be bought. Ashley had made a big show of “money is no object.” It might be as well to see how far she’d go with that.

  “If I wanted to buy the tapes, what would I do?”

  “You’d put an application in at the main office downtown. It takes about a week to copy the tapes. You’d need a cashier’s check for the exact amount. Are you really serious?”

  “Very serious.”

  “What would you do with the tapes?”

  “Find someone to write a program to print out every record of a dark-blue Dodge van from those years. I shouldn’t think that’d be too difficult.”

  “It wouldn’t be difficult, but you’d have about ten gigabytes of data to search for that information. That would eat up some computer time. And you might end up with a load of records. That’s a fairly common vehicle in this state.”

  We took the Cary off-ramp. Traffic signals were in their late-night blinking mode and for the most part ours was the only vehicle on the streets. A few cars were parked at a 24/7 McDonald’s restaurant that I happened to know was a refuge for pot smokers with the munchies who had depleted their food supply at home.

  “How many of these vans would yo
u guess were registered?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Thousands for the whole state, I suppose. If you could eliminate parts of the state, that would cut down on the numbers.”

  “I guess I’ll have to think about that possibility.” I was feeling a little daunted by the sheer weight of numbers.

  Beth guided me through the residential areas of Raleigh’s chief bedroom community until we reached her home. “Thanks a million, Dagny. If you want the tapes, I’ll get the job expedited. Just call me.” She handed me a slip of paper with her phone number on it.

  “I will. I’ll call anyway to see how Philip is doing.” I dug a business card out of my wallet and gave it to her.

  I watched her walk into the house and waited for a light to come on. When she was safely inside, I drove away, wondering not so much about locating the van as whether beyond all odds I’d stumbled upon Fatboy.

  CHAPTER 6

  I was wound up when I got home in the wee hours of Sunday morning. The house was stuffy and I threw open some windows to let in the mild night air. While the house aired out, I walked the greyhounds around the block. When we got back I clicked on the TV to check college football scores. When I was a student at UCLA I hung out with some of the older guys on the football team, as I was a “non-traditionally aged” student at 25. I learned a lot about football and I’ve been a fan of the sport ever since.

  The ribbon of scores at the bottom of the screen began to repeat itself. I got up and washed my face, removing what little makeup I wear. I gave my teeth a quick once over and tuned the TV to the American Movie Classics channel. They were about to show The 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the host was pointing out that they were Famine, Pestilence, Destruction, and Death. The opening credits with the four chargers bearing ghostly riders in the sky were impressive, but the plot dragged, so I clicked off. I was half asleep, and before I could move off the sofa the other half of me fell asleep, and there I spent the night.