The Menace: A Thriller

Chapter 7

Roy still had work to do in his one-doctor clinic in the cement-block building to one side of the big old house. He’d determined to call each of his patients personally and assure them the physicians he was referring them to would be more than up to the task of filling in for him, and that he should be available again for consultation before too very long. The vagueness of this was obviously not terribly reassuring, but virtually all of his patients appreciated him making the effort.

Of course he’d been vague as well about the reason for the indefinite hiatus in his practice, saying simply, “I have some family matters to deal with.” Most all of his patients — probably most of the population of Peachtree Heights — knew that those “family matters” likely had to do with his wealthy estranged wife and their special boy. But no one was tactless enough to bring any of that up.

Word about the attacks at the Ryan compound didn’t seem to have gotten out, which in such a small town was a big miracle. But Chief Cutter ran a tight ship and his men, many of them NYPD early retirees Cutter had worked with during his tenure on that department, knew how and when to keep the lid on.

Roy and his wife, since the guest room blow-up last night, had kept out of each other’s way ever since. Oh, they’d shared a quiet, polite breakfast in the company of their chipper son — the husband making breakfast again, eggs and bacon and toast this time — and Helen had found a quiet corner in the big living room to do sketches for a painting she was planning. Richie said he was going to read comic books and then do his Special Olympics training.

“Please stay away,” his mother said to her son, “from that thing up there.”

Richie started to answer but his father gave him a look that said it was best not to get into this with his mother. His son took the hint. And of course Roy knew, for all his blustering at the boy, that Richie would no doubt spend a good deal of time talking to his “friend.”

As long as his friend doesn’t enter the conversation, Roy thought wryly, we’re probably okay...

Lovely in a pink pants suit, her hair pony-tailed back, Helen fixed lunch — tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. The conversation ran to Richie again saying he wanted to go to the park and go rowing when “Dad gets over the flu.” The child also commented on how nice it was of his mother to come and be his daddy’s nurse.

She’d let that pass with an “Um-hmmm.”

Chief Cutter showed up after lunch and, as Helen worked with Richie with the homework assignments that had been delivered and on his coloring books in the study-cum-library area of the living room, the officer and the doctor took the couch by the unlighted fire for an update. Roy was in a white polo and off-white slacks that unintentionally gave him a medical look; Cutter, his usual shirt-and-tie and chinos.

“I’ve enlisted some help,” Cutter said, still in his windbreaker but with the Stetson in his lap, “from several Atlanta suburbs.”

“Not the Atlanta PD itself?”

Cutter made a slight face. “I can do that you insist, Roy, but I frankly prefer to keep in charge of this thing myself, and bolstering my team with these suburban troops allows me to work closely with you. The Atlanta boys would likely blow in and roll over both of us.”

Nodding, Roy said, “I’m content with what you’re doing, Blake. How are you deploying these extra men?”

“Some’ll be here on the grounds. Detective Janet Hodges from Buford is following up by phone on some leads and a detective from Decatur is going over the files of the three deceased doctors, looking for tie-ups. But I also have a roadblock set up, checking anyone who approaches the road past your house, and then shooting them off on a detour.”

“Well, that’s fine, but you don’t really expect our sawed-off intruder to drive a car, do you?”

Cutter shrugged. “Vehicles can be customized for little people — pedal extenders, hand controls, thick seat cushions to enable seeing over the steering wheel.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Roy said, just a little insulted, “but we have a pretty specific idea of what this individual looks like. You’ve circulated my wife’s sketch?”

“Of course,” Cutter said, no happier at being underestimated than Roy had been.

“Well, would our half-man risk being stopped at a roadblock? Or being spotted?”

Cutter cocked his head. “Let’s say this is a little person with a grudge against doctors, specific doctors like yourself, as we’ve theorized. For one thing, he’s wearing black and striking at night. And he may be making his appearance seem more fearsome on purpose, to better terrorize your household.”

“I hadn’t considered that seriously,” Roy admitted.

Cutter nodded over toward the library where Richie was on the floor hunkered over an Emergency! coloring book. “Is your son at all aware of what’s been going on?”

“No. He’s all caught up with his new ‘friend,’ the Aztec mummy.” Roy shook his head, sighed a laugh. “I’ve been trying to get him to keep away from the grisly thing, and Helen wants it out of here, like now.”

Cutter frowned thoughtfully. “It’s none of my business, but... no. It’s none of my business.”

“Of course it’s your business, Blake. What?”

The chief took air in, let it out. “Maybe postpone getting rid of it. Maybe it’s not entirely a bad thing, having something to distract the boy. Till we get a handle on this thing. Till we catch this bastard.”

Roy hadn’t considered that, either.

But now he did.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll lay off a little. But it’s not healthy. Hell, it’s not sanitary.”

Cutter was just getting up to leave when a knock came at the front door. The chief, Stetson still in hand, waited by the couch while the doctor answered the knock.

Sgt. Leon Jackson, Cutter’s man-in-charge at the scene, nodded to Roy, who gestured for him to step inside.

“Dr. Ryan,” the uniformed officer said, “I need a word with the chief, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly.”

Roy traded places with Cutter, who then huddled near the front door talking sotto voce with his second-in-command. Then the chief came over and rejoined his host.

“Doc, your father-in-law’s at the gate wanting to be let in. We’ve checked his ID and he’s who he says he is.” Cutter half-grinned. “And he’s driving a Lincoln Continental, which supports his claim even better than his driver’s license.”

“What good are roadblocks,” Roy muttered, “if you’re going to let just anybody through.”

The chief gave up half a grin and said, “I’ll admit him, with your permission.”

“Please do.” Although it sounded more like “Please kill me.”

Cutter raised an eyebrow. “You want me to stick around? Back you up? Answer any questions he may have?”

“No. Thank you, but I’ll handle this.”

The chief tugged on his hat, slipped outside, went down the steps and got into his gray Dodge Challenger. Moments later, he was pausing at the gate to allow the new visitor passage.

The silver Lincoln, with Alexander Parsons himself at the wheel — the man was rich enough to have a chauffeur, but Atlanta just wasn’t that kind of town — rolled in and settled on the gravel apron near the porch, where Roy stood waiting, arms folded.

Parsons climbed out into a perfect, sunny day that didn’t seem to impress him, a big, handsome man in his early sixties in Ray-Bans, his silver-gray hair swept back, his wide-lapel suit light gray with blue pinstripes, his tie a matching blue, his shirt white with blue stripes. He looked like a million bucks, but was worth plenty more.

At the foot of the porch steps, the CEO of one of Atlanta’s biggest businesses glanced up and said, “Roy,” and nodded, as if acknowledging a door man.

“Alex,” the doctor said, returning the nod, as his father-in-law strode up the groaning steps, grimacing just a little, as if the shape the old house was in indicated what a failure his daughter had married.

Neither man initiated the handshake ritual — the nods would suffice.

“May I come in?” Parsons asked, making it barely a question. “I’d like to speak to you and my daughter.”

Not with — to.

“Certainly,” his son-in-law said.

Now Roy really did serve as literal doorman.

Helen, sitting in the library on the floor with her similarly seated son, looked over, saw her father coming in with her husband trailing, and her eyes popped. She got to her feet. Richie didn’t notice.

“Dad,” she breathed, barely audible from the distance between the front door and library portion of the vast living room.

Richie turned away from his coloring book and saw who had arrived. He got to his feet slowly and winced as he considered what his grandfather showing up here, in enemy territory, might mean.

But then human emotion took over and the boy ran to his grandfather and gave him a hug around the waist. Alexander Parsons smiled, faintly, tousled the boy’s hair.

This is where, Roy thought, moving away from them, a human being would crouch and meet the boy at eye level.

Instead, Parsons just looked down at his grandson — who looked up at him like a young mirror — and said, “Have you been a good boy?”

“Pretty good, Grandpa. Pretty good.”

“Very nice to see you.” Then Parsons seemed uncomfortable, possibly realizing he hadn’t brought a gift of any sort for the boy. The grandfather dug in his pocket and came back with a five-dollar bill. “Here’s something for you, Richard.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.” Richie looked at it, his eyes bright with the possibility of the comic books he could buy.

Parson raised a finger and again smiled faintly. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“I won’t, Grandpa.”

He gestured vaguely toward the library. “Now, run off and go back to doing what you were doing. I need a little time with your mother and father. For some grown-up talk.”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

And Richie ran back to resume his coloring in the library, where his mother was still standing as frozen as Lot’s wife.

Her father summoned his daughter with a curling finger and walked toward the couch, passing his son-in-law like a vehicle in the slow lane and saying, “Come along, Roy.”

Parsons settled on the couch, patted the cushion next to him and, with a look, informed his daughter that she should sit there, which she did. Roy pulled up a chair, positioning himself between them, the unlit fireplace to his back.

“Does the boy know,” Parsons said, quietly, “about these attacks?”

“No,” Roy said. “But you do, apparently.”

“Belatedly,” Parsons said, eyes narrowing. “I had to hear about it from my sources, and then not till this morning.”

That had been after Cutter brought other cops in from the suburbs — the chief couldn’t keep as tight a lid on with the outsiders in the mix.

Helen told her father, “We didn’t want to concern you.”

“Very thoughtful,” her father said, dryly. He looked pointedly at Roy. “Well, this stops now... I’m going to take my grandson and his mother with me, back to Atlanta, to our home, where I can provide professional security of a standard appropriate to a horrific situation like this. And with the full support of the Atlanta police.”

“Richie is staying here,” Roy said. He had long since stopped allowing Alexander Parsons to roll over him. “And Helen is welcome to stay.”

“How generous of you,” Parsons said.

Helen looked from one man to another as each spoke, as if she were watching a tennis match she’d bet heavily on.

Roy shrugged. “The boy likes having his mom around. As unfortunate as these circumstances are, mother and son are spending time together and that’s a positive.”

Parsons shook his head, not in disagreement just general disgust, his upper lip curling back bitterly. “You would put the safety of my grandson and daughter in the hands of a bunch of bump-in-the-road hick police? You’ve been irresponsible in the past, Roy, but now you’ve really outdone yourself.”

Roy didn’t flinch. “Chief Cutter has taken personal charge. He’s former NYPD and so is much of his staff. He’s filling in with other neighboring departments and I’m satisfied he, and they, are up to the job.”

The older man huffed a disparaging laugh. “That’s a blatantly ludicrous assessment. My understanding is that you’ve had a note threatening my grandson, and a bomb thrown through a window...”

“A Molotov cocktail, yes, which I promptly threw back out.”

“...with a police dog strangled last night, and an officer badly beaten. And an apparent tie to the three previous murders of those doctors. You’re under siege here! And this, this... creature is still out there.”

“He is.” Roy shifted in his chair. “But every effort is being made—”

“What if,” Parsons said, his tone suddenly reasonable, “I remove Richard from the sphere of this threat? To somewhere out of state? Some secure, secret location where he could be properly guarded and protected?”

Roy waved that off. “He’s guarded and protected here. Anyway, taking Richie out of this environment might confuse and badly disorient him. You have no idea how he has grown and flourished in these last six months.”

The upper lip curled back again. “Away from my influence, you mean.”

“You said that, not me. But he’s going to school with other children now, not being sequestered and tutored and psychologically poked and prodded. He’s becoming a normal little boy.”

Parsons grunted a non-laugh. “Going to school with other ‘special needs’ students. What in God’s name is normal about that? Roy, you’ve never been able to face reality. Richard took forever to walk, to talk, he lagged way behind in so many areas...”

“He’s made strides. He is a normal little boy.”

“In Special Education classes.”

“For now.”

Parsons shook a fist, but kept his voice down. “He’s almost eleven and behaves as though he were much younger!”

“He got off to a slow start and it wasn’t helped by you trying to seal him off from the world. But he’s doing fine now. And institutionalizing him would only stunt that growth.”

Another grunted laugh. “You like that word don’t you, Roy, ‘institutionalizing’ — you like to say I wanted to put the boy in an institution when you know damned well it was a school, a specialized school!”

“Live-in. Out of sight. Out of mind.”

Had Parsons sat any farther out on the edge of the couch, he’d have been on the floor. “I will take this to court so fast your damn head will swim. I will charge you with endangerment of my grandson. You’ll lose the custody you should never have been given in the first place.”

Roy knew how to curl back an upper lip, too. “You need to understand, Alex — that ‘creature’ is indeed still out there, and he’s trying to get in. If we remove Richie from the equation, the attacker may recede into the darkness and then turn up again when least expected. Right now we have a shot at stopping and catching him.”

“You’re insane,” Parson said, his voice quiet but trembling. “I will not allow you to use my grandson as bait for this killer.”

“You’re right that we’re dealing with a killer. Three other doctors murdered, and his note threatens both Richie and me. Hiding Richie away won’t stop this fiend from pursuing his twisted goal.”

Helen had said nothing as yet. Parsons turned to his daughter. “What do you have to say in this, girl? My understanding was that you came down here to talk some sense into this man!”

“That was before we faced this menace,” she said. “And before I spent some time with Richie.”

Richie, Roy thought. She called him ‘Richie’...

“I thought you agreed with me,” her father said, something pitiful in his voice now, “that the boy needed structure. That his imagination has a tendency to run away with him — that he can’t tell fantasy from reality!”

Helen looked at her husband, and he knew she was weighing it — whether to tell Parsons about her son’s “friend” in the attic upstairs.

“He watches television,” she said, “and he reads comic books. And he understands they are not real.”

“You’re on the side of this man who would use your son as bait!”

She shook her head once. “I’m on Richie’s side. And if Mother were still alive, that’s whose side she would be on.”

Parsons took that like the verbal slap it was.

His daughter continued: “And if the moment comes when I think Richie and I would be better off elsewhere, under your protection, I will call you immediately. That much I promise you, Dad.”

The father studied his daughter, and obviously knew her well enough to realize this was the best he was going to get right now.

He stood. Smoothed his expensive suit. Moved his neck around as if his collar were suddenly too tight. “You’ll be hearing from my attorneys,” he told Roy.

“Who knows?” Roy said, not getting up. “Maybe they’ll do better for you this time around. But I don’t think so.”

Parsons was fuming as he headed for the door.

“Grandpa!”

Richie ran to him and took his hand. His grandfather looked down at him quizzically, as if the abstract problem of the boy had somehow inexplicably manifested itself.

“I have a new friend,” the boy said. He gestured toward the ceiling. “Would you like to meet him?”

Roy looked at Helen and Helen looked at Roy, both white as a sheet. As a ghost.

“No thank you, Richard,” Parsons said. “Your grandfather has to get back to work. That’s what responsible grown-ups do.”

The boy gave his grandfather another hug, which seemed to make the man uncomfortable, though he did again tousle the child’s hair before slipping back into the sunshine, putting on his Ray-Bans to banish it from view.

Night had fallen by the time a ’67 Chevy sedan got to the front of the line of cars at the roadblock that was swinging cars away from the stretch of pavement from which the Ryan compound could be accessed.

A broad-shouldered individual — with long dark hair combed back neatly, in a Georgia Tech sweatshirt that spoke of a powerful upper build — smiled pleasantly at the young-looking officer who peered in the driver’s side window.

“Any trouble, officer?” The voice of the man behind the wheel was soft and rather high-pitched.

“Sorry, sir,” the young cop said. He wore the uniform of the Sugar Hill PD. “You’re going to have to detour around this area.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Just routine police work.”

The driver nodded. “Will the detour take me around to the highway?”

“It will. Just turn right at the second intersection and follow the signs.”

The driver smiled, nodded again. “Thank you, officer. Good night.”

“Night, sir.”

The next vehicle, a station wagon filled with a family, pulled up as the Chevy pulled away, its driver smugly smiling, knowing the angle and the dark would prevent the uniformed cop from seeing the specially installed push-pull hand controls affixed to the steering wheel.