Blood-Stained Kings

by Tim Willocks

Genres: Legal Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Tom Willock’s first book, Green River Rising, earned the kind of reviews that are rarely accorded to most so-called literary thrillers. This remarkable debut was hailed for its rich, powerful writing as well as its dramatic, page-turning suspense. The New York Times Book Review called it “beautifully vivid” and “triumphantly realized,” while People called it “as fine a thriller as one could ask for.”
 
The author’s much-anticipated second novel is as powerful and ambitious as its predecessor. Set in New Orleans and the rural South, it is the story of a chain of cataclysmic events let loose by the murder of Clarence Jefferson, a legendary lawman who has gathered a cache of evidence that could imprison corrupt politicians in five states. His last act, it appears, was to handpick two people as the unlucky heirs of his potentially explosive evidence files. The pair must either dispose of them as fast as they can or—at considerable risk to themselves—deliver the files to the authorities. Lenna Parillaud and Dr. Cicero Grimes, Jefferson’s “beneficiaries,” have never met. Lenna, a millionaire businesswoman, has been racked by grief and rage over the loss of her daughter. Dr. Grimes is a clinically depressed psychiatrist. Though both have burdens enough of their own, they are swept up into this story of Southern violence, passion, and vengeance, the likes of which perhaps only the readers of Willocks’s previous novel can imagine.
 
Compared by critics to Norman Mailer, James Ellroy, Stephen Hunter, and Andrew Vachss, Willocks offers a unique amalgam of gritty realism and something more—a depth and intensity that is seldom achieved in popular fiction.

Release date: April 23, 2009

Publisher: Random House

Print pages: 336

Sample

A Plantation Farm on the Mississippi Delta.

Twenty Years Ago.

See the fatman. See him run.

See his legs--massive in their strength, in their flight--plunge and flounder and suck through the muddy deltan ooze. Feel the clinging weight of that melted clay, that driven rain, that night; that steaming dark. Know the spasms in his gut as he feels the gaze of the great grandfather spirit: appalled by the horror the fatman leaves behind him.

A brilliant shard of lightning cleaves the sky. It floods the midnight campo with incandescent witness: the fatman is there.

He is running. He is running.

But the earth cannot stop him, nor her gods, nor the gone dead souls that grieve upon the wind. For he cannot be killed, the fatman. No. Not this night. He cannot be stopped. And the pounding of his vein and blood, the pressure in his skull, the encoiled writhings of his bowel come not from fear. As the futile thunder dies, enraged, the screams return. The screams of a woman. They seek him out across the harrowed field. But these screams too--of a pain too wide and deep for human knowing---these screams too must stumble and fall unheeded. They do not pierce the fatman's heart. They cannot stop him in his course.

He will not let them, though he could. The blood on his hands--and flung in splashed, diluted gouts across his gale-drenched coat--is not his own. For now the losing of blood is the work of others: others past; others yet to come.

And still he pounds; and plunges and sucks.

His left arm holds a bundle of sodden rags pressed hard into his heaving chest. The arm is thickened; it is clenched; yet in spite of all the violence of the world, its embrace is tender. So tender. A wooden fence looms front: raw hickory posts held fast in barbed wire lacings. With his right-hand fist the fatman grabs the stave that blocks his way and wrenches and uproots it in one; for he is strong, is the fatman. He tramples down the twisted wire and is gone. His feet, encased in dirt, now pound a blacktop road. From up ahead come yellow beams: a vehicle in the rain. A car.

The fatman's lips are beautiful. They're full. They smile.

The woman's screams have vanished on the wind.

The car pulls down and over, alongside his massive form. A pale face, young and thin--a man'smiles back. Unknowing. Without knowledge. Unpossessed of truth. The young gaze falls on the bundle, ragged and drenched; his mouth gapes wide. The fist that wrenches hickory staves enfolds around his neck, a fist so large the fingers almost reach the thumb across the nape. Rolling whites of pale young eyes are speckled of an instant with the stars of tiny vessels bursting red. The car heaves and rocks to the hammering of convulsion, of flailing, panicked limbs.

The smell of shitting and death. Another soul sighs its passing, slipping through the fatman's strangling hand; yet throughout all, the muscled cradle of his arm is tender still. The pale one, thin and young, is dragged--and stomped for measure--into a watery roadside ditch. It was not his destiny either, then, to be a bearer of witness. Is that the scream--the distant, vast and bottomless scream--that the fatman catches on the wing? Windblown far--as far as this--as he treads the pale one down? It matters to him not. His embrace is tender. He runs no more. The vehicle shelters his bulk within and roars; and carries the fatman, and his bundle, hence. Whither he knows not, nor yet does he care.

For though he knows not why, he loves her whom he carries. He loves her dear.

One

Hatred had desiccated Lenna Parillaud's soul and she knew it. The thought sickened her. As she drove toward the Stone House beneath an April blue sky she tried to tell herself that her thought was not true; but despite its desiccation--or maybe because of it--her soul replied otherwise. It was the truth and worse than merely truth: her hatred was her destiny; it was that which she was meant to be. Yet where once her hate had been a wrathful deity, calling for horizons blazed with fire and cities cracked in sunder, it was now a squirming creature that clung to her back, its arms coiled around her neck while its sour breath in her ear droned a litany, the words of which she no longer cared to comprehend. Lenna was tired of listening to it, tired of carrying it; yet who else could or would? The hatred was hers and hers only.

Today--even though today she needed it'she wished the hatred might find itself as weary as she. She was driven most places by her bodyguard, Bobby Frechette; to the Stone House she always drove alone. Now that Clarence Jefferson was dead, Frechette was the only person left in her life with whom she felt she stood on level ground. The possibility had crossed her mind that it was Frechette who had killed Clarence Jefferson and burned his corpse on a pyre in the swamps. He had done worse things on her account with her knowledge and blessing, and yet others without them. Frechette was one of few who could have taken Jefferson down. His contempt for him, though silent, had been clear enough. But even if Frechette had never understood it, he had accepted her need for Jefferson's foul embrace and he would not have taken it away from her without her command. Frechette did not know the secret of the Stone House. Now that Jefferson was dead no one knew except her, not even its keepers; not even its wretched occupant. The Stone House was the receptacle--the squat gray cathedral--of
her shame. Through the windshield it now appeared in the middle distance: a featureless box in a featureless landscape.

Lenna no longer enjoyed these visits, if she'd ever convinced herself that she had. They were a ritual she could not avoid; the first of each month, every month, for over a dozen years. Again she pushed herself to admit a disagreeable truth: without these visits the months would contain nothing of meaning at all. She wondered what else she might have brought into being if she'd committed to some other endeavor the vast energies consumed by her hatred; yet she could not imagine what that endeavor might be. She wasn't blind. She didn't lack for intelligence or insight; on the contrary she had grasped the essence of the world and its workings with a ferocious acuteness of perception. Yet that world was a dark one, filled with malice and pain. She knew that another, brighter, world existed--one in which some were lucky enough to expend their strength in the generation of something more beautiful than themselves--but she knew the existence of that world only as a person leafing through an atlas knows of the existence of faraway lands and glittering seas. She would never go there, nor had she ever been; or, rather, she had been there but in another time, so long ago that it seemed a lost dreamscape, dimly remembered and beyond the power of all her striving to visit again.

She drove a black four-door Mercedes, tooling it one-handed around a broad curve in the blacktop. To either side of the road swept broad fields of marsh grass, yellow as wheat in the spring sunshine and flat--as only the Delta could be flat--as far as the mighty levees that marked the blue horizon and kept the Big Muddy at bay. The black alluvium had once produced a rich yield of cotton, tobacco and maize, but in the thirteen years she'd been keeper of this land she'd returned it to the caprices of the wind and rain, and now the marsh grass had taken it back. She would not profit from this dirt and had no need to. A twelve-thousand-acre oil lease in south-central Louisiana, a pharmaceutical company, a casino license, and a decent chunk of New Orleans, plus other real estate in Florida and Kentucky, bloated her assets week in, week out with more cash than she cared to know. She would never spend a fraction of it; would not have known how to. The land here, at least, could become what it knew itself to be, even if she herself could not.

She turned off the blacktop onto a dirt road. At its far end stood a windowless building constructed of concrete blocks threaded with steel. The gray walls were pale and streaked with the workings of sun and rain. Though its shell was of concrete, its heart was of stone, and so to Lenna the Stone House it remained and always had been. The Stone House was built on one side of a large tarmacadamed yard. On another, adjacent, side stood a suburban frame house with a garden, a garage and a pickup truck. The gap between the two buildings was open to the fields. The fourth side of the yard was closed in by a grove of silver birch trees. In the frame house lived Harvill and Woodrow Jessup.

The Jessups were brothers, originally Mingo County backwoodsmen from northern Mississippi. As a young man Woodrow had trained as a psychiatric nurse in Tupelo, but the company of his coworkers, and what he'd regarded as         big city life,         hadn't agreed with him and he'd thrown it in and gone back home to raise livestock and run a still. Harvill, by a decade the younger of the two, was of borderline subnormal intelligence.

Neither had ever been married or, as far as Lenna knew, showed much interest in human sexual relations of any kind at all. They'd worked for her at the Stone House since it was built and, in their way, were as dependable as Bobby Frechette. They too owed her their allegiance. Their house did not exist in the records of the parish or those of any utilities company. Neither man was known to the IRS or any other agency, public or private.

Before the brothers had been picked to work here, Harvill--fourteen years ago and aged sixteen--had butchered his widowed mother --like the last shoat of a long winter,         as Woodrow put it. Thanks to the intervention, on Lenna's behalf, of Clarence Jefferson, Harvill had never been punished, or even charged with this crime. Harvill never left the property and didn't seem inclined to, and whatever feelings he harbored about his adolescent matricide he kept to himself.

Woodrow's needs weren't much greater than his brother's. A drinker in his youth, he'd been born again since his mother's death and favored the Old Testament over the New. Once a week he drove down to a mall on Route 51 and bought supplies and took in a movie at the multiplex. His passion was in breeding dogs, German shepherds, the litters of which he was allowed to sell once a year under a false name and out of state. He also raised hogs. As Lenna pulled over in the Mercedes and got out, two of the last batch of German shepherds, which Woodrow had held on to, came bounding toward her with ebullient, throaty barks. They were still a little under a year old but already big, going on massive: long-haired, mostly black with slashes of gold. Lenna smiled and held out her hands to greet them. The dogs were still too young to have much meanness in them--Woodrow would train them in that capacity to a pinnacle of savage obedience when the time was right--and they danced around her waist in a low cloud of dust. One of them stood on its hind legs and threw its paws on her shoulders, licking her throat and slavering on the jacket of her black Karan pantsuit. Lenna grabbed two handfuls of dense neck fur and wrestled him back and forth while he rolled the whites of his eyes with joy. At the sound of a guttural shout both dogs spun away from her and bounded toward a big, lugubrious man with an easy stride.

He was dressed in clean white overalls and burnished oxblood Red Wings. At the man's heels--a heavy black shag of fur swaying from its belly and chest with each step--padded a cool, bleak-eyed monster that made the average wolf look like a muskrat searching for the nearest hole. The man was Woodrow Jessup. The dog was the pups' father; his name was Gul. Gul cast a single brief glance at the pups and they quietened down and fell in behind him. Woodrow nodded his long face at Lenna.

"Hope th'animals din't bother you there, Miss Par-low."

"Par-low" was as close as Woodrow ever got to Parillaud. Lenna didn't mind. Gul, though he knew her well, stared up at her with neither a pant nor a blink. She knew better than to hold that black gaze for too long.

She realized that she'd never heard Gul bark; then found herself hoping that she never would. She turned back to Woodrow.

"They're growing fast," she said.

"Oh, they've a ways to go yet." Woodrow nodded at one of the pups.

"Seth's paws're already bigger than his pappy's. Give him another year, he'll be full growed into 'em."

"That's frightening," said Lenna.

Woodrow didn't smile. He raised his hand and Seth jumped up and took his wrist in his jaws, growling with fake menace.

"Not yet," said Woodrow. "But it will be."

He cuffed Seth down and looked over to the heavy steel door of the Stone House, then at Lenna.

"Smilin' Boy's ready in thar if you are, Miss Par-low," he said.

Lenna nodded. The good feelings provoked by the dogs vanished from her chest. As they walked over to the steel door Woodrow pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door and slid it open on bearings so well oiled they murmured. Inside, a walkway led off between crates of farm implements stacked to twice head height. The crates were dusty. The room was illuminated with harsh white strip lights. Woodrow turned to the dogs.

"Sit."

Gul sank back on his haunches. A moment later the younger dogs followed suit.

"Now, stay."

Woodrow went inside first and Lenna followed him through the maze of crates. They stopped at a second door set into a blank wall. Woodrow opened it and they stepped through into an antechamber: six feet by eight, matte steel walls; a ten-foot ceiling with a light set behind a metal grille. The antechamber was hot. At the far end was a third door
set with a peephole. On the wall next to the door was housed an intercom. Woodrow closed and locked the door behind them. Despite the heat Lenna felt a chill. Woodrow went to the intercom and pushed a button.

"Harvill? Coming through with Miss Par-low! You ready?"

A pause. The intercom crackled with a voice. "Ready, Wood."

Woodrow opened this door and stepped back. On the other side stood Harvill Jessup, shorter than his brother by four inches, but heavier, barrel-chested, open-faced. At his feet stood the German shepherd bitch Dot. She was black and gold like the pups and didn't have her mate's psychopathic eyes, but the fear of God was at her disposal even so. Harvill squared his shoulders and half bowed and smiled at Lenna, and Lenna thought: "Like the last shoat of a long winter." She smiled back at him.

"Mornin', Miss Parillaud," said Harvill.

He seemed proud to have gotten her name right again.

"Morning, Harvill."

Harvill stepped through into the antechamber.

"You need anything, I'll be right here," said Woodrow.

Lenna nodded and stepped past Harvill through the door.



Inside, a single huge room stretched away to the far wall. There were no windows in the walls, and no other doors, but shafts of sunlight fell through the space in two intersecting cones from a pair of skylights, one set into either slope of the tented roof. Between Lenna and the rest of the room a giant cage wall of inch-and-a-half steel bars sprouted up
from the tiled floor toward its bolted fastenings thirty feet above. The bars were set five inches apart and in the center was a locked gate.

Behind the bars, in the middle of the room, was a shack: a mildewed clapboard shack with a corrugated iron roof, a one-room dwelling of the kind a sharecropper might at some time past have called his home, or might call home still. The shack had been transplanted wholesale, and with meticulous craft, into the concrete chamber, where it stood on a specially constructed timber platform at the common focus of the intersecting cones of sunlight. The single door to the shack was reached by a short flight of steps up to the supporting platform. Between the shack and the cage wall sat a man on a padded rubber armchair. He looked at her.

Lenna walked up to the bars and sat down in the chair left for her on this side. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. The man was fifty-six, fifteen years older than she, and his face was bloated and pale. His torso, clothed in a clean blue denim shirt, was similarly swollen; his legs, in jeans and rope-soled deck shoes, were wasted reeds. Until his forties he had been a handsome, vigorous--even vainglorious--man; these days, when he stood up, he looked like a boiled potato penetrated by cocktail sticks. Right now he couldn't stand at all: Harvill had bound him to the chair with leather straps around his chest, wrists and ankles. The strapping was not because the man was likely to harm her--even though at this very moment he was no doubt willing her slow mutilation and death with whatever imagination was left to him--but because it increased the depth of the humiliation and helplessness that she required from him. From those depths, which could never be deep enough, his gray eyes stared out at her with the still, dead malevolence of a lizard.

Lenna imagined that her own eyes, staring back, looked much the same. His name was Filmore Eastman Faroe and he was still--though only she and he knew it--her husband.

"Hello, Fil," said Lenna.

Faroe said, "Magdalena." He paused, then opened with, "You never look any older."

"Remind me to give you my workout schedule," said Lenna.

Faroe's voice was flat and uninflected by emotion. This was a side effect, like the bloating of his flesh and the stiffness of his features, of the neuroleptic tranquilizers that he had been given, in enormous quantities, for over a decade. A week before Lenna's scheduled visits, the Jessups routinely withheld the drugs and Faroe's central nervous system was allowed to recover from the stupor in which it was generally maintained. On the morning of her visits he was strapped into the chair and given an injection of the amphetamine drug methedrine--pure speed--to boost his dulled consciousness to the frantic level of a Super Bowl quarterback about to make a big play. In that heightened and overstimulated state he would endure her presence for as long as it pleased her. When she left, Faroe would remain in the chair--alone; immobilized; chemically hypercharged so as to dwell more acutely upon his fate; and soiling himself as his bladder and bowel found necessary--until the following morning, whereupon he would be returned to a state of tranquilized oblivion and released from his strappings to stumble about his cage--a slurring, retarded zombie, more vegetable than man--for a further three weeks.

Perhaps it was only the drugs that prevented him from going insane. Before he'd been involuntarily exiled to this chamber, Filmore Faroe had seen his name make the lower end of Forbes's list of the four hundred richest men in America. Now, this was his life. Lenna Parillaud had designed and constructed it for him; and thus did she maintain it.

She stared at him now and couldn't think of anything to say. These meetings had changed for both of them over the years. Faroe no longer foamed and ranted and shrieked in the eye-bulging, speed-stoked frenzies of rage and despair that had characterized the beginning; and Lenna no longer shrieked and laughed back, while lifting her dress to show him her pussy and torment him with pornographic inventions. When that had paled--and it had taken a long time--she had shown him videos of herself engaged in sweating, grateful congress with Clarence Jefferson. And Faroe's lips had bled and his nails had peeled the skin from the palms of his hands and he'd pleaded to be killed there and then, and she'd told him: Never. Never. Always it will be like this. When that too had lost its savor, Lenna had taken to reminding Faroe of how the great kingdom that he'd built and won was now hers, and of how, under her direction, it was making more money than even he ever had, and of how also, while all those activities he had loved continued and thrived in what once had been his world, he himself could only sit there in his rubber chair--at the epicenter of all he'd created--and piss in his pants while she smiled.

Now, like two junkies who could no longer remember why they'd ever taken smack in the first place, and had long ago lost the buzz, they sat staring at each other through the bars in mute and mutual disgust.

Finally, Faroe asked, "Have you fucked any niggers lately?"

In his eyes she saw a glimmer of the reptilian intelligence that had once put him among the most feared corporate hitmen in the South. His pathetic attempt to initiate a dialogue was a measure of how low she had brought him, and her answer of how low she had brought herself.

"You enjoy that one, these days, don't you, Fil?" she said. "It really turns you on."

The lizardy eyes blinked.

"Harvill's seen you, you know," said Lenna, "trying to reach your dick to jerk yourself off after I've gone. If you like I could ask him to do it for you."

Faroe dropped his gaze to the skin of her throat and the suggestion of cleavage. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. His gaze lost focus and grew glassy.

"For want of a nail the shoe was lost," said Faroe. "For want of a shoe the horse was lost." Lenna had heard this before, as she had heard all of his limited repertoire before. According to Woodrow, Faroe, during his one night a month on speed, could sometimes be heard moaning and rocking in his straps as he bellowed the nursery rhyme from his chair, over and over again throughout the early hours. Perhaps it gave him some comfort. She let him finish.

"For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost." Faroe looked back at Lenna, the glaze clearing. "And all for the want of a horseshoe nail."

Lenna stood up. Already, she'd had enough. It was getting difficult to breathe. She asked herself, as she had many times before, why she didn't have Faroe killed and the Stone House plowed beneath the ground. It would have been easier and safer than keeping him alive. She looked past Faroe to the ancient tin-roofed shack, poised on its platform like a surrealist installation amid the gray concrete and yellow sunlight. Her gut tightened. Somehow her instinct insisted that while Faroe was alive there still remained a lingering possibility, however remote, of some kind of completion, of resolution. What that was, she did not know and she couldn't make any sense of it; she just knew that if she killed him,
then she too would remain here in the Stone House forever. She turned away from the wooden shack, and away from Faroe without looking at him.

"Goodbye, Fil."

As she walked away Faroe said, "I loved you, Magdalena. Never forget that."

Lenna stopped. He had played this role before, the noble penitent enduring a cruel and unjustified punishment. She despised him for it. In part she despised herself too, for the pretense of love, sustained over flesh-crawling years, that she'd used to seize his power. Yet she'd done what she had done, and without trying she suddenly recalled something
Clarence Jefferson had once told her. "Consider those deeds that history writes most bold, Lenna," he'd whispered in his honeycomb voice. "Hatred is the blackest ink. Not love."

Lenna looked back at Faroe over her shoulder.

"But remember I never loved you, Fil," she said. "That's the difference between us: you could never fake it. I could."

Without waiting to see his reaction Lenna walked out through the antechamber and between the stacked crates and out into the yard. There the air felt good. She breathed deeply, a hand pressed to her chest. She dropped the hand as she heard Woodrow Jessup cough behind her.

"You okay, Miss Par-low?"

"I'm fine," she said.

"Thought I'd wait till you'd finished your bidness before giving you this. Hope that's all right."

He handed her a sealed white envelope. The back was blank. On the front was handwritten Lenna. Lenna felt a convulsion through her spine. She recognized that elegant and extravagant hand.

"Where did this come from?" she said.

"Fella brought it this morning, a stranger." Woodrow nodded at the letter in her hand. "I asked him, he said he didn't know what was in there or who it was for, he just had to deliver it here by hand. Said them was his instructions. Declined to give his name or who'd sent him, then drove off. Didn't even get out of his car, but maybe that was on
account of the dogs."

"What did he look like?" asked Lenna.

"Old guy, sixty maybe? Lean as a whip and all turned out in a suit and tie. I don't think he was up from the City, though."

"Why not?"

"Well he was polite, for a start-off, and I'd say smart, but not slick, you know? Straight as a string, that was my feeling. Calm, too. His eyes put me in mind of a certain kind of old-time horse trader you see back home, or maybe a lawyer. I don't know exactly where, but he was country for sure."

Lenna frowned and looked again at her name on the envelope. "Would've cost us a fuss to stop him leaving, Miss Par-low. I calculated you wouldn't want that."

"You did the right thing," said Lenna. "Has anyone else been around?"

"No, ma'am."

"Anything strange at all?"

Woodrow shook his head. "Things as quiet as always. The dogs would've picked up any snoopers."

Lenna nodded. She raised the envelope. "You and Harvill forget this ever happened."

"It's forgot."

"You did well. Thank you."

Woodrow blushed and shuffled.

"Anything else happens you call me right away. Okay?"

"Sure thing, Miss Par-low."

Lenna walked over to the Mercedes and got in. She put the envelope on the seat beside her and drove away. Now that she was alone the dread that the letter provoked was so intense she was unable to think. She swung off the dirt road, fishtailed in a billow of red dust, straightened up. A mile along the blacktop she jammed on the brakes and stopped. She opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. The same elegant handwriting met her eyes.

As she read them the words seemed to bypass her consciousness and open a channel to an underground sea of emotions that she could not name and which she had thought long dead. Halfway through the letter she started sobbing. Then the paper fell from her hands. And Lenna clung to the wheel and gave herself up to the roar of forces so immense she would not have believed her body could contain them and still live. Yet if she did not believe, it was because she had known them before but had forgotten, and so she wept: as she had not wept in twenty years. Time passed. The sounds of her grief escaped from the car and drifted away to lose themselves among the whispers of the marsh grass. After a while the car fell silent.

When the forces had finally passed, Lenna put her hands over her face and made things dark. For a while all she knew was the wetness on her palms, the quieting shudder of her breath, the flicker of yellow shadows upon the blackness she squeezed from her eyes. More time passed, in an emptiness so crystalline, so utterly void, she would have stayed there forever if she could. Then into the void came fear, at first of nothing in particular, just fear itself. Then came something worse: hope. With the hope came the knowledge--the horror--that if she failed, then all this--all this and worse than this--awaited her again.

Something wiser than herself shut it down, blanked it out. Her breathing steadied. She took her hands from her face and blinked. Ahead of her she saw again the April blue and the shifting yellow-brown sea divided by a black strip of pavement. She found she couldn't remember what she'd just read; rather, she could not afford to remember. Not yet. She had to act, and to act she had to shield herself from its contents--and from the terrors of the void it might provoke--until she was ready. Lenna snatched up the car phone and punched the buttons. It was answered, silently, after the first ring.

"Bobby?" she said.

"Tell me what's wrong," said Frechette.

Frechette's voice, at the same time mellow and alert, calmed her. She took a breath; her strength flowing back. She felt her jaws grind until her head ached. At last she had something worth going to war for. She let go of the bite.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm on my way back. Call Rufus Atwater. Have him run a check on a guy--a doctor--called Grimes, right now. Tell him I want to see him as soon as he's done."

"I need that name again," said Frechette.

Lenna reached down and picked up the letter. Patches of it were wet,