Eleventh Hour
Page 96
Captain DeLoach gave her a big smile, raised his veiny old hand, lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “So soft,” he said. “You want to know, do you, little girl? Yeah, I guess I do owe you. Weldon wanted to protect his boy.”
“His boy?” Dane said. “Weldon has a son?”
“Sure. Didn’t let me near him when he was young, but then he came here to meet me. I took care of him really good, now didn’t I? I got him all juiced up and now, here he is, following in his granddaddy’s footsteps. Weldon wanted to protect his boy, didn’t want to see him ruined, hounded by the media.”
“Who is his boy, sir?” Savich said.
“You’re FBI, son, it’s your job to find out. I don’t want to make things that easy for you.” He coughed, and a trickle of blood snaked out of his mouth.
Sherlock said, “I don’t want to salute you, sir.”
Captain DeLoach said, head cocked to the side, “Well, after all, you’re just a girl, when it all boils down to what’s important.”
“And I’d say that you’re an evil old man.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Oh yeah, I really am. And I’m eighty-seven years old and sitting real pretty. Ain’t life a kick?”
When they reached the Ventura County Community Hospital, they saw Weldon, who didn’t look too good. He was pale, still in pain, and he knew the dam had burst. Everything he’d been struggling with was over now, and he knew it. Dane lightly laid his palm on Weldon’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Weldon. We’re all very sorry.”
“You know,” Weldon said, his voice dead. “That wretched old man told you all of it?”
Savich said, “Yes, your father finally got around to telling us in simple English, once I asked him to do it, with no crazy allusions or cover-ups. He’s really quite mad. I don’t think he’s senile, not for a moment, but he’s fooled everyone else. He’s a fine actor.”
“He’s been mad all my life. So he’s finally done it. I didn’t know whether or not he really meant it.”
“How old were you when you discovered what he was?” Sherlock asked.
“I was ten years old. I couldn’t sleep one night, and he’d left early in the evening, supposedly on a call. I waited for him. I saw him drive into the garage. I heard the kitchen door open. I started to go to him, but something stopped me, something that had scared me about him for a good long time. I stayed hidden behind some of my mother’s favorite curtains in the living room.
“I heard him come in and he was whistling. I crawled to the kitchen. I saw his clothes, saw his hands—he had blood all over him. So much red, and even as I watched, it was turning darker and darker, almost black. His shirt was stiff with blood. At first I was terrified that it was his, but not for long.
“I watched him scrub his hands in the kitchen sink, watched him strip to his underwear, wrap up his bloody clothes, and tie them up in a neat bundle. It was practiced, everything he did, like he’d done it many times before. He never stopped whistling. I watched him take that bundle of bloody clothes out in the backyard. He paced off six steps from a big old elm tree. He dug down and dumped the bundle in. I saw that there were maybe half a dozen bundles down there. Then he shoveled dirt over all of it. He never stopped whistling.
“When I was twelve, I wondered if he was the one they called the Zodiac killer. I saw all about the murders on TV, but they weren’t on the same days he was gone. And that insane whistling—it was always the same, always “Eleanor Rigby.” He still hums or whistles that damned song now, only he uses it to fool people, to make them think he’s senile.”
“What did you do?” Dane asked.
“Oh man, I was never more scared in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I was just a kid. He was my father.”
Nick said, “You confronted him, didn’t you? You just couldn’t stand it anymore and you confronted him.”
“Yes, and do you know what he did? He just stood there, looking down at me, and began to laugh. He laughed until there was spittle on his mouth. Then he just stopped and went cold. Like, with no warning, his body went perfectly still and his eyes were dead. There was no one behind those eyes and I knew it. I was twelve years old and I knew it.” Weldon paused, took a shuddering breath. There wasn’t a sound in that small room. “He told me in this cold, dead voice exactly what he would do to me if I said anything to anyone.”
“You were brave to confront him,” Nick said. “Very brave.”
“His boy?” Dane said. “Weldon has a son?”
“Sure. Didn’t let me near him when he was young, but then he came here to meet me. I took care of him really good, now didn’t I? I got him all juiced up and now, here he is, following in his granddaddy’s footsteps. Weldon wanted to protect his boy, didn’t want to see him ruined, hounded by the media.”
“Who is his boy, sir?” Savich said.
“You’re FBI, son, it’s your job to find out. I don’t want to make things that easy for you.” He coughed, and a trickle of blood snaked out of his mouth.
Sherlock said, “I don’t want to salute you, sir.”
Captain DeLoach said, head cocked to the side, “Well, after all, you’re just a girl, when it all boils down to what’s important.”
“And I’d say that you’re an evil old man.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Oh yeah, I really am. And I’m eighty-seven years old and sitting real pretty. Ain’t life a kick?”
When they reached the Ventura County Community Hospital, they saw Weldon, who didn’t look too good. He was pale, still in pain, and he knew the dam had burst. Everything he’d been struggling with was over now, and he knew it. Dane lightly laid his palm on Weldon’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Weldon. We’re all very sorry.”
“You know,” Weldon said, his voice dead. “That wretched old man told you all of it?”
Savich said, “Yes, your father finally got around to telling us in simple English, once I asked him to do it, with no crazy allusions or cover-ups. He’s really quite mad. I don’t think he’s senile, not for a moment, but he’s fooled everyone else. He’s a fine actor.”
“He’s been mad all my life. So he’s finally done it. I didn’t know whether or not he really meant it.”
“How old were you when you discovered what he was?” Sherlock asked.
“I was ten years old. I couldn’t sleep one night, and he’d left early in the evening, supposedly on a call. I waited for him. I saw him drive into the garage. I heard the kitchen door open. I started to go to him, but something stopped me, something that had scared me about him for a good long time. I stayed hidden behind some of my mother’s favorite curtains in the living room.
“I heard him come in and he was whistling. I crawled to the kitchen. I saw his clothes, saw his hands—he had blood all over him. So much red, and even as I watched, it was turning darker and darker, almost black. His shirt was stiff with blood. At first I was terrified that it was his, but not for long.
“I watched him scrub his hands in the kitchen sink, watched him strip to his underwear, wrap up his bloody clothes, and tie them up in a neat bundle. It was practiced, everything he did, like he’d done it many times before. He never stopped whistling. I watched him take that bundle of bloody clothes out in the backyard. He paced off six steps from a big old elm tree. He dug down and dumped the bundle in. I saw that there were maybe half a dozen bundles down there. Then he shoveled dirt over all of it. He never stopped whistling.
“When I was twelve, I wondered if he was the one they called the Zodiac killer. I saw all about the murders on TV, but they weren’t on the same days he was gone. And that insane whistling—it was always the same, always “Eleanor Rigby.” He still hums or whistles that damned song now, only he uses it to fool people, to make them think he’s senile.”
“What did you do?” Dane asked.
“Oh man, I was never more scared in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I was just a kid. He was my father.”
Nick said, “You confronted him, didn’t you? You just couldn’t stand it anymore and you confronted him.”
“Yes, and do you know what he did? He just stood there, looking down at me, and began to laugh. He laughed until there was spittle on his mouth. Then he just stopped and went cold. Like, with no warning, his body went perfectly still and his eyes were dead. There was no one behind those eyes and I knew it. I was twelve years old and I knew it.” Weldon paused, took a shuddering breath. There wasn’t a sound in that small room. “He told me in this cold, dead voice exactly what he would do to me if I said anything to anyone.”
“You were brave to confront him,” Nick said. “Very brave.”
