Snakes and Ladders Read online

  “Weren’t we looking for someone as a person of interest in the Hazlitt case?”

  Roger flipped over a page in the file in front of him. “Yes—Patrick Ballard and his daughter Elizabeth were seen fleeing 30th Street after Hazlitt’s collapse. I know the detective who interviewed Ballard—Joe Booth—and gave him a call. Turns out that after Booth talked to him, Ballard ended up dead in an alley a block from the station.”

  “From a stroke?” asked Holland, his voice spiking.

  “No. Two gunshots—one to the abdomen, one to the back of the neck. They figured it for a mugging.”

  “What about the daughter?”

  “Elizabeth. Never caught up with her. That incident in Roxborough happened right after Patrick Ballard’s death and all the manpower got diverted to that.”

  Roger heard the gust of an exhale from the Chief. “So what is this vigilante—protector of boutique fertility clinics and bane of rap stars—doing to stroke out the people he wants to get rid of?”

  Roger shrugged. “Hard to say. It would have to be very targeted, since no one around the victims was reported to suffer any ill effects. That would point away from any kind of generalized virus or other infectious agent.”

  “Maybe they snuck them something in their food.”

  “I can’t imagine what you could feed a person that would have the effects we’re seeing. Especially the homeless man.”

  “Injection?”

  “Possible, I suppose.”

  “Jesus, Stanislas—you’re no help at all,” growled Holland. He heaved a deep sigh. “I’ll have someone do some digging, see if they can find any connection. And you let me know if you find any more bodies with exploded brains, will you?”

  “Will do, Chief.”

  In the world of cell phones, one rarely had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of a loud hang-up. Roger suspected the Chief held onto his landline for just this purpose.

  18

  The lawyers had advised Louise to stay out of the public eye until the furor over Brashear’s death subsided, and although it was clear that staying out of the public eye was no hardship for her, staying away from her lab was. So despite the lawyers’ disapproval, she continued her daily commutes to and from the Vivantem facility in Center City, leaving through an entrance at the back of the property to avoid any reporters who might be staking out the front gate.

  For a few days after the events at the federal courthouse, Mitchell was laid up at the Pocopson house. He didn’t feel quite as awful as he had after the incident at the Basilica, but he felt awful enough—a throbbing headache that no amount of aspirin could cure, a dull pain in his legs and neck that made sitting in front of a fire in the library with a book the most appealing pastime. With Louise at the lab and Millard in Arizona to deal with Elizabeth Ballard and Owen McNally—and so no witnesses to his debilitated state—he gave himself over to Juana’s care.

  But once his symptoms began to ease up, Mitchell started to find the solitude of the big house oppressive. Perusing a website of local events, one caught his eye: a whiskey tasting at a local restaurant. He broached the idea cautiously to Louise over dinner. Her mind was still as opaque to him as ever, but he didn’t need to be a mind-reader to sense a flicker of relief at the idea of having the house to herself for an evening.

  She loaned him an older but pristinely maintained Range Rover. She had offered the use of her Jaguar, but he declined. While saving for his dream car—an Audi A3—he had relied mainly on public transportation, and even though he was twenty-three, his driving experience was fairly limited. The bulky Range Rover seemed a safer bet than the Jag, at least for him. Once he brushed up on his driving skills, he hoped Louise would repeat the offer of the Jaguar, or possibly of Gerard Bonnay’s Boxster, for his outings.

  The event started out well. He was the only man wearing a suit, eliciting mental raised eyebrows from all the men whose thoughts he could sense, and approval from most of the women. The tasting was held in the bar of a Kennett Square restaurant, so once the participants were seated, his solo status was less apparent than if they had been sitting at tables. A line of six small glasses stood in front of each taster, and there was much joking and laughter among the guests about designated drivers.

  Ten minutes after the tasting began, a group of three girls—he really couldn’t think of them as women—made their entrance. They were celebrating the twenty-first birthday of one of the group, and with their over-loud talking and laughing, it was clear that they had already started the celebration. There weren’t three seats together, and they exclaimed over the horror of having to sit apart from each other. The host rearranged the other participants so that there were three seats together—the three seats next to Mitchell.

  The thoughts of two of the girls were jumbled messes, but the thoughts of the third—the birthday girl, the most drunk of the three, and the one in the seat next to him—wavered toward him and locked on. She examined him with frank, if bleary, interest. He did his best to block out her thoughts.

  The bartender poured the whiskey while the host regaled the group with information about barrel-aging, the role of terroir, and the physics of snifters.

  Mitchell didn’t want to take any chances with Louise’s Range Rover so he took a few tiny sips of each pour, leaving most of it in his glass. After a few minutes, the girl next to him leaned over.

  “You’re wasting it!” she said in a voice loud enough to cause several people on Mitchell’s other side to glance over. Mitchell hoped it was clear he was not with her group.

  “It’s a whiskey tasting, not a whiskey swilling,” he whispered back.

  She shrieked with laughter, attracting the attention of the entire group. “‘Not a whiskey swilling’!” she gasped. “You’re funny!”

  One of her less-drunk friends turned toward her. “Act like a grown-up, Kim—this isn’t Chili’s.”

  “It’s my birthday,” Kim retorted. “Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud.”

  The girl rolled her eyes and turned back to her other, somewhat less drunk, friend.

  Kim turned to Mitchell. “It’s my birthday.”

  “Happy birthday,” said Mitchell mechanically.

  Kim extended her hand. “I’m Kimberlee—” she said, and with two Es floated through Mitchell’s mind. “—with two Es,” she concluded.

  “Pleased to meet you,” whispered Mitchell, taking her hand.

  She kept ahold of his hand. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Mitchell.”

  “Cool. That sounds so, like—” Evidently unable to decide what it sounded like, her voice trailed off.

  Mitchell extracted his hand.

  Kimberlee was quiet for a minute, her arm leaning against Mitchell’s, watching the host with exaggerated gravity.

  “Now take a sip of the next glass,” said the host, “and you’ll notice a much more peaty taste than with the first glass.”

  “Petey?” Kimberly asked.

  “Peaty, as in ‘like peat,’” said the host. “Peat is partly decomposed vegetable matter.”

  “Ew!” she cried, returning the glass in her hand to the bar top with a crash and slosh of whiskey. This time the eye rolls and head shakes extended all the way down the bar. Mitchell felt his ears burn with embarrassment.

  Kimberlee reached over to the glasses in front of Mitchell. “I liked the first one. It didn’t taste like dead vegetables. You didn’t finish it, can I have the rest?” She tossed it back and smacked her lips.

  “Excuse me,” Mitchell whispered, sliding off the barstool.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I have to use the restroom.”

  “Kinda early to need to pee already.”

  Mitchell felt his ears turn redder, and slipped past the other tasters and through the dining room, his eyes on the floor.

  In the men’s room, he straightened his tie and smoothed his hair back. Was it worth it to stay? There were no empty seats at the ba
r, so he couldn’t just switch to another seat—and even if he did, Kimberlee would no doubt make a scene about it. He couldn’t slip out—he hadn’t paid yet. Perhaps he would pay the maître d’ and leave.

  He stepped out of the men’s room, right into the maître d’ himself.

  “I was just coming to see you,” said Mitchell.

  “And I was just coming to see you, sir.”

  “Listen, I can’t stay,” said Mitchell, getting out his wallet. “How much do I owe you for the event?”

  The maître d’ looked mollified. “That will be thirty-five dollars each.”

  Mitchell looked up. “Each?”

  “For you and your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” said Mitchell, horrified.

  “Okay. Your date,” amended the maître d’. “So the total will be seventy dollars.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend or my date. She’s just some drunk girl who happened to sit next to me.”

  “That’s not what she says,” said the maître d’.

  “She said she’s my date?”

  “She said she’s your girlfriend.” The maître d’ leaned toward Mitchell. “I really think you need to take her home. I mean to her home. To sleep it off.”

  Just then, Kimberlee came around the corner, wobbling slightly on high heels. When she saw Mitchell she gave a coy giggle. “Sweetie, where in the world did you get off to?” she cried in a wavering soprano. Several diners turned toward Kimberlee, Mitchell, and the maître d’.

  “Sir,” whispered the maître d’, “please just pay your bill and get her out of here.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” said Mitchell, trying to pitch his voice low enough to sound discreet but loud enough that the diners nearest to them would hear him.

  “Okay, fine,” said the maître d’, exasperated, “please get your date out of here.”

  Kimberlee giggled, moved to Mitchell’s side, and looped her arm through his. “Take me home, honey,” she cooed.

  An image leapt out at him from her mind: a nutcracker soldier straight out of the Christmas ballet, but with Mitchell’s face above the clenched jaw.

  He had to get her to shut up. He reached out with his mind and dropped that first stone of the peine forte et dure—the crushing death—he had described to Louise.

  Kimberlee’s scrunched up her nose for a moment, then amended her instruction. “Actually, we should finish our drinks, and then go home, Sweet Buns.”

  He dropped the second stone.

  “Damn,” she whined, “now I have a headache.” She leaned into him more heavily.

  “Sir,” said the maître d’, “please remove her.”

  Mitchell jerked his arm out of Kimberlee’s hold, fumbled four twenties out of his wallet, and stuffed them into the man’s jacket pocket. “Remove her yourself,” he said. He brushed by Kimberlee, her laughter like salt to his wounded pride, and made his way through the dining room to the front door, hoping for a purposeful stride, but achieving only an embarrassed scuttle.

  19

  Mitchell drove the Range Rover carefully back to Pocopson, trying not to allow his anger at the girl to distract him from the task of maneuvering the large vehicle. He drove around to the back of the house and pulled the Rover into the detached garage where it was kept, the spaces in the attached garage being occupied by Louise’s Jaguar, Gerard’s Boxster, and the large black Mercedes they used when Millard was driving.

  Mitchell parked the car, rolled closed the large barn-style doors that allowed the garage to pass for a stable, and let himself in the back door. Juana was pulling on her coat as he stepped into the kitchen.

  “Good evening, Juana,” he said.

  “Buenas tardes, Señor Pieda.”

  “Is Dr. Mortensen home yet?”

  “No, pero debería llegar pronto.”

  Since his knowledge of Spanish didn’t extend beyond the niceties exchanged while Juana was serving dinners, he scanned Juana’s thoughts to establish the general sense that Louise had not yet returned from the lab. He nodded. “Gracias.”

  “De nada.” Juana stepped outside and turned toward the back of the house where her car was parked.

  Mitchell stood looking after her for a moment, unreasonably disappointed that Louise wasn’t yet home. Perhaps he would get a glass of whiskey from Gerard’s study and test out his newly acquired—although truncated—education on the topic.

  At the bar in Gerard’s study, he found a glass of the type that had been used at the tasting and poured himself a small portion. But when he took a sip, the liquid tasted bitter, and he returned to the kitchen and poured it down the drain.

  He was still standing at the sink, gazing out at the inky darkness of the Pennsylvania night, when he saw the headlight beams from Louise’s car sweep across the trees and bushes lining the gravel road that gave access to the back of the Pocopson property. The Jag passed the kitchen window and continued around to the side of the house, where the main garage was. A minute later he heard the muted rumble of the garage door, the clatter of hangers in the coat closet, then her steps heading toward her study. He let a few minutes pass, then followed her to the room.

  She was seated at her desk, opening the letters that Juana had left on her blotter.

  He knocked lightly on the door frame.

  She looked up. “How was the wine tasting?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It was a whiskey tasting.”

  “Ah.” Louise slit open another envelope and removed the contents.

  After a few moments, Mitchell said, “The maître d’ wasn’t very professional.”

  “Oh?” Louise put the envelope in a wicker basket under her desk and the contents in a wooden tray on the desk.

  Mitchell sat on one of the chairs in front of her desk. “There was a drunk girl there, and she told the maître d’ that she was my girlfriend.”

  “Really? How awkward.”

  “Yes.”

  Louise opened the next envelope.

  “She was being quite a nuisance,” he said.

  “I can imagine.” Louise scowled at the contents of the second envelope and dropped both the envelope and the contents into the wicker basket.

  “I thought I might just give her a little bit of the crush to keep her quiet.”

  Louise’s eyes snapped up. “What?”

  “I didn’t do her any harm,” he added quickly. He had gotten Louise’s attention; he didn’t want to incur her anger.

  Louise set aside the letter opener. “You know you can’t do that, don’t you, Mitchell?”

  “It was just to get her to shut up,” he said, a slight whine that even he hated creeping into his voice. “She won’t even have a headache by the time she gets home. Staggers home,” he amended.

  “It’s important that you use your power judiciously, and only after we have a thorough plan in place.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said irritably. “Next time I’ll wait until you’ve given me permission to use it.”

  “Mitchell—” she began, then stopped and took a breath. “Glass of sherry?”

  He didn’t like sherry. He nodded. “Yes, that would be nice.”

  She stood and crossed to a side table and poured two glasses, then sat down on the chair next to his. She passed him a glass.

  “You’re not my employee, Mitchell. We’re partners.”

  He sipped his drink.

  “We each bring something to the table. You bring your powers. And I”—she smiled ruefully—“bring many years of experience.”

  “And a plan.”

  “Yes. And a plan to turn the results of your powers into something beneficial for both of us.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, then Mitchell said, “I haven’t seen anything in the news about the attorney general’s investigation continuing. Seems like they lost interest.”

  “It sounds like it was a pet project of Russell Brashear,” replied Louise, “and on
ce he was gone—thanks to you—there wasn’t anyone interested in carrying it forward.”

  “Lucky for us the story sounded unbelievable.”

  “Yes. Lucky.”

  He waited for more, but she was silent.

  “So,” he said finally, “what is the plan?”

  “We need to find Ballard. And McNally. Then we can decide.”

  “Any progress?”

  “George is looking for them in Sedona. He’ll find them.”

  “I could help,” he said. “It seems like it would be useful to have someone who can read minds involved.”

  Louise gave him a tired smile. “If we find someone whose thoughts might reveal where they are, we can reassess. But you’ve taken care of your part of the business, Mitchell. We need to let George take care of his.”

  He stood abruptly and saw a flicker of alarm cross her face. Did she think that his ability to use the crush without the benefit of the drug wasn’t as limited as he had described? He made an effort to relax his posture, to soften the frown that had been forming on his face.

  “I’m bored,” he said, more mildly than he felt. “I’ve been here in Pocopson for almost two months. I need to do something.”

  “It’s not so bad, is it?”

  “I’m not saying it’s been any sacrifice,” he said. “It’s been like a vacation. But I can’t be on vacation forever. We have goals, and I want to work toward them.”

  She shook her head. “Gerard’s death has put a bit of a damper on our original plans. We thought that with your mind-reading ability and his …” Her voice trailed off, then she took a deep breath and continued. “Well, you know, with Gerard being who he was, there would be little that could stand in our way. In business. In politics.” She looked at Mitchell sadly. “Now, I have to admit, my goals have become more focused on keeping Elizabeth Ballard and Owen McNally from ruining what is left of what Gerard and I built: the Vivantem clinic. My professional position. A quiet life here in Pocopson without the authorities breathing down our necks.”