
<#FROWN:L01\>
Seven
"Now what do we do?" Qwilleran asked his companions. He stood in the middle of a dead man's office in total darkness, listening to the rain driving against the house. The darkness made no difference to the Siamese, but Qwilleran was completely blind. Never had he experienced a blackout so absolute.
"We can't stay here and wait for the power lines to be repaired, that's obvious," he said as he started to feel his way out of the room. He stumbled over a leather lounge chair and bumped the computer station, and when he stepped on a tail, the resulting screech unnerved him. Sliding his feet across the floor cautiously and groping with hands outstretched, he kicked a piece of furniture that proved to be an ottoman. "Dammit, Koko! Why didn't you find this room before I bought one!" he scolded.
Eventually he located the door into the living room, but that large area was even more difficult to navigate. He had not yet learned the floor plan, although he knew it was booby-trapped with clusters of chairs and tables in mid-room. A flash of violet-blue lightning illuminated the scene for half a second, hardly enough time to focus one's eyes, and then it was darker than before. If one could find the wall, Qwilleran thought, it should be possible to follow it around to the archway leading to the foyer. It was a method that Lori Bamba's elderly cat had used after losing his sight. It may have worked well for old Tinkertom, who was only ten inches high and equipped with extra-sensory whiskers, but Qwilleran cracked his knee or bruised his thigh against every chair, chest, and table placed against the wall.
Upon reaching the archway, he knew he had to cross the wide foyer, locate the entrance to the dining room, flounder through it to the kitchen, and then find the emergency candles. A flashlight would have solved the problem, but Qwilleran's was in the glove compartment of his car. He would have had a pocketful of wooden matches if Dr. Melinda Goodwinter had not convinced him to give up his pipe.
"This is absurd," he announced to anyone listening. "We might as well go to bed, if we can find it." The Siamese were abnormally quiet. Groping his way along the foyer wall, he reached the stairs, which he ascended on hands and knees. It seemed the safest course since there were two invisible cats prowling underfoot. Eventually he located his bedroom, pulled off his clothes, bumped his forehead on a bedpost, and crawled between the lace-trimmed sheets.
Lying there in the dark he felt as if he had been in the Potato Mountains for a week, rather than twenty-four hours. At this rate, his three months would be a year and a half, mountain time. By comparison, life in Pickax was slow, uncomplicated, and relaxing. Thinking nostalgically about Moose Country and fondly about Polly Duncan and wistfully about the converted apple barn that he called home, Qwilleran dropped off to sleep.
It was about three in the morning that he became aware of a weight on his chest. He opened his eyes. The bedroom lights were glaring, and both cats were hunched on his chest, staring at him. He chased them into their own room, then shuffled sleepily through the house, turning off lights that had been on when the power failed. Three of them were in Hawkinfield's office, and once more he entered the secret room, wondering what it contained to make secrecy so necessary. Curious about the scrapbook that Koko had discovered, he found it to contain clippings from the Spudsboro Gazette - editorials signed with the initials J.J.H. Qwilleran assumed that Koko had been attracted to the adhesive with which they were mounted, probably rubber cement.
The cat might be addicted to glue, but Qwilleran was addicted to the printed word. At any hour of the day or night he was ready to read. Sitting down under a lamp and propping his feet on the editor's ottoman, he delved into the collection of columns headed 'The Editor Draws a Bead.'
It was an appropriate choice. Hawkinfield took pot shots at Congress, artists, the IRS, the medical profession, drunk drivers, educators, Taters, unions, and the sheriff. The man had an infinite supply of targets. Was he really that sour about everything? Or did he know that inflammatory editorials sold papers? From his editorial throne he railed against Wall Street, welfare programs, Hollywood, insurance companies. He ridiculed environmentalists and advocates of women's rights. Obviously he was a tyrant that many persons would like to assassinate. Even his style was abusive:
"So-called artists and other parasites, holed up in their secret coves on Little Potato and performing God knows what unholy rites, are plotting to sabotage economic growth ... Mountain squatters, uneducated and unwashed, are dragging their bare feet in mud while presuming to tell the civilized world how to approach the twenty-first century..."
The man was a mono-maniac, Qwilleran decided. He stayed with the scrapbook, and another one like it, until dawn. By the time he was ready for sleep, however, the Siamese were ready for breakfast, Yum Yum howling her ear-splitting "N-n-NOW!" Only at mealtimes did she assume her matriarchal role as if she were the official bread-winner, and it was incredible that this dainty little female could utter such piercing shrieks.
"This is Father's Day," Qwilleran rebuked her as he opened a can of boned chicken. "I don't expect a present, but I deserve a little consideration."
Father's Day had more significance at Tiptop than he knew, as he discovered when he went to Potato Cove to pick up the four batwing capes.
The rain had stopped, and feeble rays of sun were glistening on trees and shrubs. When he stood on the veranda with his morning mug of coffee, he discovered that mountain air when freshly washed heightens the senses. He was seeing details he had not noticed the day before: wildflowers everywhere, blue jays in the evergreens, blossoming shrubs all over the mountains. On the way to Potato Cove he saw streams of water gushing from crevices in the roadside cliffs -impromptu waterfalls that made their own rainbows. More than once he stopped the car, backed up, and stared incredulously at the arched spectrum of color.
The rain had converted the Potato Cove road into a ribbon of mud, and Qwilleran drove slowly, swerving to avoid puddles like small ponds. As he passed a certain log cabin he saw the apple peeler on the porch again, rocking contentedly in her high-backed mountain rocker. Today she was wearing her Sunday best, evidently waiting for someone to drive her to church. An ancient straw hat, squashed but perky with flowers, perched flatly on her white hair. What caused Qwilleran to step on the brake was the sight of her entourage: a black cat on her lap, a calico curled at her feet, and a tiger stretched on the top step. Today the shotgun was not in evidence.
Slipping his camera into a pocket, he stepped out of his car and approached her with a friendly wave of the hand. She peered in his direction without responding.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he called out in his most engaging voice. "Is this the road to Potato Cove?"
She rocked back and forth a few times before replying. "Seems like y'oughta know," she said with a frown. "I see'd you go by yestiddy. Road on'y goes one place."
"Sorry, but I'm new here, and these mountain roads are confusing." He ventured closer in a shambling, non-threatening way. "You have some nice cats. What are their names?"
"This here one's Blackie. That there's Patches. Over yonder is Tiger." She recited the names in a businesslike way as if he were the census taker.
"I like cats. I have two of them. Would you mind if I take a picture of them?" He held up his small camera for her approval.
She rocked in silence for a while. "Iffen I git one," she finally decided.
"I'll see that you get prints as soon as they're developed." He snapped several pictures of the group in rapid succession. "That does it! ... Thank you ... This is a nice cabin. How long have you lived on Little Potato?
"Born here. Fellers come by all the time pesterin' me to sell. You one o' them fellers? Ain't gonna sell."
"No, I'm just spending my vacation here, enjoying the good mountain air. My name's Jim Qwilleran. What's your name?" Although he was not prone to smile, he had an ingratiating manner composed of genuine interest and a caressing voice that was irresistible.
"Ev'body calls me Grammaw Lumpton, seein' as how I'm a great-grammaw four times."
"Lumpton, you say? It seems there are quite a few Lumptons in the Potatoes," Qwilleran said, enjoying his unintentional pun.
"Oughta be!" the woman said, rocking energetically. "Lumptons been here more'n a hun'erd year - raisin' young-uns, feedin' chickens, sellin' eggs, choppin' wood, growin' taters and nips, runnin' corn whiskey..."
A car pulled into the yard, the driver tooted the horn, and the vigorous old lady stood up, scattering cats, and marched to the car without saying goodbye. Now Qwilleran understood - or thought he understood - the reason for the shotgun on the porch the day before; it was intended to ward off land speculators if they became too persistent, and Grammaw Lumpton probably knew how to use it.
Despite the muddy conditions in Potato Cove, the artists and shopkeepers were opening for business. Chrysalis Beechum met him on the wooden sidewalk in front of her weaving studio. What she was wearing looked handwoven but as drab as before; her attitude had mellowed, however.
"I didn't expect you to drive up here in this mud," she said.
"It was worth it," Qwilleran said, "if only to see the miniature waterfalls making six-inch rainbows. What are the flowers all over the mountain?"
"Mountain laurel," she said. They entered the shop, stepping into the enveloping softness of wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling textiles.
"Was this place ever an old schoolhouse?" he asked.
"For many years. My great-grandmother learned the three Rs here. Until twenty years ago the Taters were taught in one-room schools - eight grades in a single room, with one teacher, and sometimes with one textbook. The Spuds got away with murder! ... Here are your capes. I brought six so you'll have a color choice. What are you going to do with them, Mr...."
"Qwilleran. I'm taking them home to friends. Perhaps you could help me choose. One woman is a golden blond; one is a reddish blond; one is graying; and the other is a different color every month."
"You're not married? she asked in her forthright way but without any sign of personal interest.
"Not any more ... and never again! Did you have a power outage last night?"
"Everybody did. There's no discrimination when it comes to power lines. Taters and Spuds, we all black out together."
"Where's your mother today?"
"She doesn't work on Sundays."
With the weaver's help Qwilleran chose violet for Lori, green for Fran, royal blue for Mildred, and taupe for Hixie. He signed traveler's checks while Chrysalis packed the capes in a yarn box.
"I never saw this much money all at once," she said.
When the transaction was concluded, Qwilleran lingered, uncertain whether to broach a painful subject. Abruptly he said, "You didn't tell me that J.J. Hawkinfield was the man your brother was accused of murdering."
"Did you know him?" she asked sharply.
"No, but I'm renting his former home."
She gasped in repugnance. "Tiptop? That's where it happened - a year ago today! They called it the Father's Day murder. Wouldn't you know the press would have to give it a catchy label?"
"Why was your brother accused?"
"It's a long story," she said with an audible sigh.
"I want to hear it, if you don't mind."
"You'd better sit down," she said, kicking the wooden crate across the floor.
<#FROWN:L02\>
13
I stopped off at Rosie's on the way back to my place. I don't usually hang out in bars, but I was restless and I didn't feel like being alone just then. At Rosie's, I can sit in a back booth and ponder life's circumstances without being stared at, picked up, hit on, or hassled. After the wine at Francesca's, I thought a cup of coffee might be in order. It wasn't really a question of sobering up. The wine at Francesca's was as delicate as violets. The white wine at Rosie's comes in big half-gallon screw-top jugs you can use later to store gasoline and other flammable liquids.
Business was lively. A group of bowlers had come in, a noisy bunch of women who were celebrating their winning of some league tournament. They were parading around the room with a trophy the size of Winged Victory, all noise and whistles and cheers and stomping. Ordinarily Rosie doesn't tolerate rowdies, but their spirits were contagious and she didn't object.
I got myself a mug and filled it from the coffeepot Rosie keeps behind the bar. As I slid into my favorite booth, I spotted Henry coming in. I waved and he took a detour and headed in my direction. One of the bowlers was feeding coins into the jukebox. Music began to thunder through the bar along with cigarette smoke, whoops, and raucous laughter.
Henry slid in across from me and put his head down on his arm. "This is great. Noise, whiskey, smoke, life! I'm so sick of being with that hypochondriac of a brother. He's driving me nuts. I swear to God. His health regimen occupied our entire day. Every hour on the hour, he takes a pill or drinks a glass of water ... flushing his system out. He does yoga to relax. He does calisthenics to wake up. He takes his blood pressure twice a day. He uses little strip tests to check his urine for glucose and protein. He keeps up a running account of all his body functions. Every minor itch and pain. If his stomach gurgles, it's a symptom. If he breaks wind, he issues a bulletin. Like I didn't notice already. The man is the most self-obsessed, tedious, totally boring human being I've ever met and he's only been here one day. I can't believe it. My own brother."
"You want a drink?"
"I don't dare. I couldn't stop. They'd have to check me into detox."
"Has he always been like that?"
Henry nodded bleakly. "I never really saw it till now. Or maybe in his dotage he's become decidedly worse. I remember, as a kid, he had all these accidents. He tumbled out of trees and fell off swings. He broke his arm once. He broke a wrist. He stuck a pencil in his eye and nearly blinded himself. And the cuts. Oh my God, you couldn't let him near a knife. He had all kinds of allergies and weird things going wrong with him. He had a spastic salivary gland ... he really did. Later, he went through a ten-year period when he had all his internal organs taken out. Tonsils and adenoids, appendix, his gallbladder, one kidney, two and a half feet from his upper intestine. The man even managed to rupture his spleen. Out it came. We could have constructed an entire human being out of the parts he gave up."
I glanced up to find Rosie standing at my shoulder, taking in Henry's outburst with a placid expression. "He's having a breakdown?"
"His brother's visiting from Michigan."
"He don' like the guy?"
"The man is driving him nuts. He's a hypochondriac."
She turned to Henry with interest. "What's the matter with him? Is he sick?"
"No, he's not sick. He's neurotic as hell."
"Bring him in. I fix. Nothing to it."
"I don't think you quite understand the magnitude of the problem," I said.
"Is no problem. I can handle it. What's the fellow's name, this brother?"
"His name is William."
Rosie said "William" as she wrote it in her little notebook. "Is done. I fix. Not to worry."
She moved away from the table, her muumuu billowing out around her like a witch's cape.
"Is it my imagination or has her English gotten worse lately?" I asked.
Henry looked up at me with a wan smile.
I gave his hand a maternal pat. "Cheer up. Is done. Not to worry. She'll fix."
I was home by 10:00, but I didn't feel like continuing my cleaning campaign. I took my shoes off and used my dirty socks to do a halfhearted dusting of the spiral staircase as I went up to bed. Works for me, I thought.
I was awakened in the wee hours with a telegram from my subconscious. "Pickup," the message read. Pickup what? My eyes came open and I stared at the skylight above my bed. The loft was very dark. The stars were blocked out by clouds, but the glass dome seemed to glow with light pollution from town. The message had to be related to Tippy's presence at the intersection. I'd been brooding about the subject since David Barney first brought it up. If he was inventing, why attach her name to the story? She might have had a ready explanation for where she was that night. If he was lying about the incident, why take the chance? The repair crew had seen her, too ... well, not really her, but the pickup. Where else had I come across mention of a pickup truck?
I sat up in bed, pushed the covers back, and flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden glare. In lieu of a bathrobe, I pulled on my sweats. Barefoot, I padded down my spiral staircase, turned on the table lamp, and hunted up my briefcase, sorting through the stack of folders I'd brought home from the office. I found the file I was looking for and carried it over to the sofa, where I sat, feet tucked up under me leafing through old photocopies of the Santa Teresa Dispatch. For the third time in two days, I scanned column after column of smudgy print. Nothing for the twenty-fifth. Ah. On the front page of the local news for December 26 was the little article I'd seen about the hit-and-run fatality of an elderly man, who'd wandered away from a convalescent hospital in the neighborhood. He'd been struck by a pickup truck on upper State Street and had died at the scene. The name of the victim was being withheld, pending notification of his next of kin. Unfortunately, I hadn't made copies of the newspapers for the week after that so I couldn't read the follow-up.
I pulled out the telephone book and checked the yellow pages under Convalescent Homes & Hospitals. The sublistings were Homes, Hospitals, Nursing Homes, Rest Homes, and Sanitariums, most of which simply cross-referenced each other. Finally, under Nursing Homes, I found a comprehensive list. There was only one such facility in the vicinity of the accident. I made a note of the address and then turned the lights out and went back up to bed. If I could link that pickup to the one Tippy's father owned, it might go a long way toward explaining why she was reluctant to admit she was out. It would also verify every word David Barney'd said.
In the morning, after my usual three-mile run, a shower, breakfast, and a quick call to the office, I drove out to the South Rockingham neighborhood where the old man had been killed. At the turn of the century, South Rockingham was all ranchland, flat fields planted to beans and walnuts, harvested by itinerant crews who traveled with steam engines, cookhouses, and bedroll wagons. An early photograph shows some thirty hands lined up in front of their cumbersome, clanking machinery. Most of the men are mustachioed and glum, wearing bandannas, long-sleeved shirts, overalls, and felt hats. Staunchly they lean on their pitchforks while a dusty noon sun beats down. The land in such pictures always looks pitiless and flat. There are few trees and the grass, if it grows at all, seems patchy and sparse. Later aerial photos show the streets radiating from a round hub of land, like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Beyond the outermost rim, the squares of young citrus groves are pieced together like a quilt. Now South Rockingham is a middle-class neighborhood of modest custom-built homes, half of which went up before 1940. The balance were constructed during a miniboom in the ten years between 1955 and 1965. Every parcel is dense with vegetation, houses crowded onto every available lot. Still, the area is considered desirable because it's quiet, self-contained, attractive, and well kept.
I located the convalescent hospital, a one-story stucco structure flanked on three sides by parking lots. From the outside, the fifty-bed facility looked plain and clean, probably expensive. I parked at the curb and climbed four concrete steps to the sloping front walk. The grass on either side was in its dormant stage, clipped short, a mottled yellow. An American flag hung limply from a pole near the entrance.
I pushed through a wide door into a comfortably furnished reception area, decorated in the style of one of the better motel chains. Christmas hadn't surfaced yet. The color scheme was pleasant: blues and greens in soothing, noninflammatory shades. There was a couch covered in chintz and four matching upholstered chairs arranged so as to suggest intimate lobby chats. The magazines one the end tables were neatly fanned out in an arc of overlapping titles, Modern Maturity being foremost. There were two ficus trees, which on closer inspection turned out to be artificial. Both might have used a dusting, but at least they weren't subject to whitefly and blight.
At the desk, I asked to see the nursing home director and was directed to the office of a Mr. Hugo, halfway down the corridor to my left. This wing of the building was strictly administrative. There were no patients in evidence, no wheelchairs, gurneys, or medical paraphernalia. The very air was stripped of institutional odors. I explained my business briefly, and after a fife-minute wait Mr. Hugo's personal secretary ushered me into his office. Nursing home directors must have a lot of holes to fill in their appointment books.
Edward Hugo was a black man in his midsixties with a curly mix of gray and white hair and a wide white mustache. His complexion was glossy brown, the color of caramel. The lines in his face suggested an origami paper folded once, then flattened out again. He was conventionally dressed, but something in his manner hinted at obligatory black-tie appearances for local charity events. He shook my hand across his desk and then took his seat again while I took mine. He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "What can I help you with?"
"I'm trying to learn the name of a former patient of yours, an old gentleman who was killed in a hit-and-run accident six years ago at Christmas."
He nodded. "I know the man you're referring to. Can you explain your interest?"
"I'm trying to verify an alibi in another criminal matter. It would help if I could find out if the driver was ever found."
"I don't believe so. Not to my knowledge, at any rate. To tell you the truth, it's always bothered me. The gentleman's name was Noah McKell. His son, Hartford, lives here in town. I can have Mrs. Rudolph look up his number if you'd like to speak to him."
He went on in this manner, direct, soft-spoken, and matter-of-fact, managing in our ten-minute conversation to give me all the information I needed in a carefully articulated format. According to Mr. Hugo's account of the night in question, Noah McKell had removed his IV, disconnected himself from a catheter, dressed himself in his street clothes, and left his private room by the window.
<#FROWN:L03\>
The lawsuit was unexpected because for fifty years Louisiana had allowed itself to be devoured and polluted by oil companies and people like Victor Mattiece. It had been a trade-off. The oil business employed many and paid well. The oil and gas taxes collected in Baton Rouge paid the salaries of state employees. The small bayou villages had been turned into boomtowns. The politicians from the governors down took the oil money and played along. All was well, and so what if some of the marshlands suffered.
Green Fund filed the lawsuit in the U.S. District Court in Lafayette. A federal judge halted the project pending a trial on all issues.
Mattiece went over the edge. He spent weeks with his lawyers plotting and scheming. He would spare no expense to win. Do whatever it took, he instructed them. Break any rule, violate any ethic, hire any expert, commission any study, cut any throat, spend any amount of money. Just win the damned lawsuit.
Never one to be seen, he assumed an even lower profile. He moved to the Bahamas and operated from an armed fortress at Lyford Cay. He flew to New Orleans once a week to meet with the lawyers, then returned to the island.
Though invisible now, he made certain his political contributions increased. His jackpot was still safe beneath Terrebonne Parish, and he would one day extract it, but one never knows when one will be forced to call in favors.
BY THE TIME the Green Fund lawyers, both of them, had waded in ankle deep, they had identified over thirty separate defendants. Some owned land. Some did exploring. Others laid pipe. Others drilled. The joint ventures and limited partnerships and corporate associations were an impenetrable maze.
The defendants and their legions of high-priced lawyers answered with a vengeance. They filed a thick motion asking the judge to dismiss the lawsuit as frivolous. Denied. They asked him to allow the drilling to continue while they waited on a trial. Denied. They squealed with pain and explained in another heavy motion how much money was already tied up in exploration, drilling, etc. Denied again. They filed motions by the truckload, and when they were all denied and it was evident there would one day be a trial by jury, the oil lawyers dug in and played dirty.
Luckily for Green Fund's lawsuit, the heart of the new oil reserve was near a ring of marshes that had been for years a natural refuge for waterfowl. Ospreys, egrets, pelicans, ducks, cranes, geese, and many others migrated to it. Though Louisiana has not always been kind to its land, it has shown a bit more sympathy for its animals. Since the verdict would one day be rendered by a jury of average and hopefully ordinary people, the Green Fund lawyers played heavy on the birds.
The pelican became the hero. After thirty years of insidious contamination by DDT and other pesticides, the Louisiana brown pelican perched on the brink of extinction. Almost too late, it was classified as an endangered species, and afforded a higher class of protection. Green Fund seized the majestic bird, and enlisted a half-dozen experts from around the country to testify on its behalf.
With a hundred lawyers involved, the lawsuit moved slowly. At times it went nowhere, which suited Green Fund just fine. The rigs were idle.
Seven years after Mattiece first buzzed over Terrebonne Bay in his jet helicopter and followed the swamplands along the route his precious canal would take, the pelican suit went to trial in Lake Charles. It was a bitter trial that lasted ten weeks. Green Fund sought money damages for the havoc already inflicted, and it wanted a permanent injunction against further drilling.
The oil companies brought in a fancy litigator from Houston to talk to the jury. He wore elephant-skin boots and a Stetson, and could talk like a Cajun when necessary. He was stout medicine, especially when compared to the Green Fund lawyers, both of whom had beards and very intense faces.
Green Fund lost the trial, and it was not altogether unexpected. The oil companies spent millions, and it's difficult to whip a bear with a switch. David pulled it off, but the best bet is always on Goliath. The jurors were not impressed with the dire warnings about pollution and the frailness of wetland ecology. Oil meant money, and folks needed jobs.
The judge kept the injunction in place for two reasons. First, he thought Green Fund had proven its point about the pelican, a federally protected species. And it was apparent to all that Green Fund would appeal, so the matter was far from over.
The dust settled for a while, and Mattiece had a small victory. But he knew there would be other days in other courtrooms. He was a man of infinite patience and planning.
THIRTY
THE TAPE RECORDER was in the center of the small table with four empty beer bottles around.
He made notes as he talked. "Who told you about the lawsuit?"
"A guy named John Del Greco. He's a law student at Tulane, a year ahead of me. He clerked last summer for a big firm in Houston, and the firm was on the periphery of the hostilities. He was not close to the trial, but the rumors and gossip were heavy."
"And all the firms were from New Orleans and Houston?"
"Yes, the principal litigation firms. But these companies are from a dozen different cities, so of course they brought their local counsel with them. There were lawyers from Dallas, Chicago, and several other cities. It was a circus."
"What's the status of the lawsuit?"
"From the trial level, it will be appealed to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. That appeal has not been perfected, but should be in a month or so."
"Where's the Fifth Circuit?"
"New Orleans. About twenty-four months after it arrives there, a three-judge panel will hear and decide. The losing party will undoubtedly request a rehearing by the full panel, and this will take another three or four months. There are enough defects in the verdict to insure either a reversal or a remand."
"What's a remand?"
"The appellate court can do any of three things. Affirm the verdict, reverse the verdict, or find enough error to send the whole thing back for a new trial. If it goes back, it's been remanded. They can also affirm part, reverse part, remand part, sort of scramble things up."
Gray shook his head in frustration as he scribbled away. "Why would anyone want to be a lawyer?"
"I've asked myself that a few times in the past week."
"Any idea what the Fifth Circuit might do?"
"None. They haven't even seen it yet. The plaintiffs are alleging a multitude of procedural sins by the defendants, and given the nature of the conspiracy, a lot of it's probably true. It could be reversed."
"Then what happens?"
"The fun starts. If either side is unhappy with the Fifth Circuit, they can appeal to the Supreme Court."
"Surprise, surprise."
"Each year the Supreme Court receives thousands of appeals, but is very selective about what it takes. Because of the money and pressure and issues involved, this one has a decent chance of being heard."
"From today, how long would it take for the case to be decided by the Supreme Court?"
"Anywhere from three to five years."
"Rosenberg would have died from natural causes."
"Yes, but there could be a Democrat in the White House when he died from natural causes. So take him out now when you can sort of predict his replacement."
"Makes sense."
"Oh, it's beautiful. If you're Victor Mattiece, and you've only got fifty million or so, and you want to be a billionaire, and you don't mind killing a couple of Supremes, then now is the time."
"But what if the Supreme Court refused to hear the case?"
"He's in good shape if the Fifth Circuit affirms the trial verdict. But if it reverses, and the Supreme Court denies cert, he's got problems. My guess is that he would go back to square one, stir up some new litigation, and try it all again. There's too much money involved to lick his wounds and go home. When he took care of Rosenberg and Jensen, one has to assume he committed himself to a cause."
"Where was he during the trial?"
"Completely invisible. Keep in mind, it is not public knowledge that he's the ringleader of the litigation. By the time the trial started, there were thirty-eight corporate defendants. No individuals were named, just corporations. Of the thirty-eight, seven are traded publicly, and he owns no more than twenty percent of any one. These are just small firms traded over the counter. The other thirty-one are privately held, and I couldn't get much information. But I did learn that many of these private companies are owned by each other, and some are even owned by the public corporations. It's almost impenetrable."
"But he's in control."
"Yes. I suspect he owns or controls eighty percent of the project. I checked out four of the private companies, and three are chartered offshore. Two in the Bahamas, and one in the Caymans. Del Greco heard that Mattiece operates from behind offshore banks and companies."
"Do you remember the seven public companies?"
"Most of them. They, of course, were footnoted in the brief, a copy of which I do not have. But I've rewritten most of it in longhand."
"Can I see it?"
"You can have it. But it's lethal."
"I'll read it later. Tell me about the photograph."
"Mattiece is from a small town near Lafayette, and in his younger years was a big money man for politicians in south Louisiana. He was a shadowy type back then, always in the background giving money. He spent big bucks on Democrats locally and Republicans nationally, and over the years he was wined and dined by big shots from Washington. He has never sought publicity, but his kind of money is hard to hide, especially when it's being handed out to politicians. Seven years ago, when the President was the Vice President, he was in New Orleans for a Republican fundraiser. All the heavy hitters were there, including Mattiece. It was ten thousand dollars a plate, so the press tried to get in. Somehow a photographer snapped a picture of Mattiece shaking hands with the VP. The New Orleans paper ran it the next day. It's a wonderful picture. They're grinning at each other like best friends."
"It'll be easy to get."
"I stuck it on the last page of the brief, just for the fun of it. This is fun, isn't it?"
"I'm having a ball."
"Mattiece dropped out of sight a few years ago, and is now believed to live in several places. He's very eccentric. Del Greco said most people believe he's demented."
The recorder beeped, and Gray changed tapes. Darby stood and stretched her long legs. He watched her as he fumbled with the recorder. Two other tapes were already used and marked.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"I haven't been sleeping well. How many more questions?"
"How much more do you know?"
"We've covered the basics. There are some gaps we can fill in the morning."
Gray turned off the recorder and stood. She was at the window, stretching and yawning. He relaxed on the sofa.
"What happened to the hair?" he asked.
Darby sat in a chair and pulled her feet under her. Red toenails. Her chin rested on her knees. "I left it in a hotel in New Orleans. How did you know about it?"
"I saw a photograph."
"From where?"
"Three photos, actually. Two from the Tulane yearbook, and one from Arizona State."
"Who sent them to you?"
"I have contacts. They were faxed to me, so they weren't that good. But there was this gorgeous hair."
<#FROWN:L04\>
13
Josh MacCallum and Amy Carlson sat nervously on the bench outside Hildie Kramer's office. The house was quiet, for the rest of the kids had already headed for their first classes of the day. But during breakfast Hildie had come into the dining room and instructed the two of them to come to her office at the beginning of the first period. Josh and Amy exchanged an apprehensive glance. For his part, Josh was convinced he was in trouble. Deep trouble: Jeff must have told his parents what he had said yesterday afternoon after the funeral, and Mrs. Aldrich must have called Hildie. But what was so wrong with wondering if maybe Adam hadn't really killed himself? And Jeff hadn't been mad at all - in fact, Josh thought, it seemed Jeff had believed him.
Amy, though, thought they'd been summoned by Hildie Kramer for a different reason. "I bet our moms decided to take us out of school," she said. "I bet they talked to Monica's folks, and now they're going to make us go home, too."
Josh had stared speculatively at the empty chair at the next table, which Monica Lowenstein had habitually occupied until this morning. He shook his head. "How come grown-ups always start acting weird? Monica wasn't going to do anything. She thought Adam was really dumb to kill himself. And it can't be that, anyway. If my mom was going to take me home, she'd have done it yesterday. Besides, she told me she'd decided not to. And your mom and dad didn't even come to the funeral, so how could they have talked to Monica's folks?"
Amy made a face at him. "Haven't you ever heard of the telephone?"
"That's dumb," Josh replied. "Monica's folks probably don't even know where your folks live." Amy had made no reply, but instead poked disconsolately at her oatmeal. "Maybe we're really not in any trouble at all," Josh suggested.
"Oh, sure," Amy said, scowling at him. "Did you ever get called to the principal's office when you weren't in trouble?"
For that argument, Josh had no reply at all. The two of them had sunk into a dejected silence for the rest of breakfast. Nor had it helped when the other kids had begun teasing them as they left for their various classes.
"See you later," Brad Hinshaw had called. "If you're still here!" Laughing, he'd shoved his way through the front door into the bright morning sunlight, while Josh and Amy perched on the bench outside Hildie's office, the relative gloom of the large foyer doing nothing to improve their mood.
Finally the door to Hildie's office opened and Hildie herself stepped out to usher them inside. "Well, look at the two of you," she said, smiling at them. "From those long faces, you must have done something I haven't heard about yet!" As Josh and Amy eyed one another nervously, she burst out laughing. "If I'd known you were going to worry yourselves to death, I wouldn't have said a thing at breakfast. I'd have just stopped you on your way to class. Now come on in."
Warily, the two children followed Hildie into her office. For some reason both of them felt vaguely relieved when she didn't close the door. Hildie, noting their response, smiled to herself. Long ago she'd discovered that all the kids got nervous when she called them in for a closed-door conference. It was as if they instinctively knew that a closed door meant some kind of dressing-down. Conversely, she'd also discovered that the simple act of closing the door was enough to strike terror into the heart of the occasional troublemaker.
"I was talking to Dr. Engersol last night," she told them, settling herself into the chair behind her desk as Josh and Amy perched anxiously on the couch. "With Monica leaving school, there are two vacant places in his seminar. He and I both think you two are ideal candidates to take their places."
Josh felt a quick thrill of anticipation, remembering Jeff telling him a week ago about the seminar, but refusing to talk about exactly what they were doing. All he knew was that it involved computers - something he'd loved since the first moment he'd seen one, when he was only five - and that only a few kids in the school were allowed to be in it.
The smartest, most talented kids.
Adam and Jeff Aldrich, and Monica Lowenstein, and a few others.
Jeff. What about his place? Was it possible that he was coming back to school after all? He voiced the question even as it came into his head, and Hildie's smile broadened.
"He's coming back tomorrow," she told him. "Which should make you happy, right? He's your best friend, isn't he?"
"Except for Amy," Josh replied. "Is he still going to be in the seminar?"
"As far as I know."
"But what's it about?" Amy asked. "None of the kids who are in it ever talk about it."
"Well, it's hardly a big secret," Hildie replied. "Basically, it's a class in artificial intelligence."
Josh's eyes widened. "Wow. You mean like in teaching computers how to think?"
"Exactly. And since both of you seem to have remarkable abilities in math, we think you'd fit in very well."
Amy looked uncertain. "I don't really like computers," she said. "All the games are kind of dumb, once you've played them a couple of times. I mean, it's always the same stuff, over and over again."
"And why do you think it's always the same stuff?" Hildie asked.
Amy looked puzzled by the question, but Josh saw the answer instantly.
"Because all a computer does is put things together the way it's told to. It can't figure out anything new, because it can't think like people can."
Amy's brows knit as she concentrated on the idea. "But how could a computer ever think like a person?" she asked.
"That's what the seminar is all about," Hildie explained. "Most of what Dr. Engersol is trying to do is learn how people think. In a way, our brains are like computers, but there's a big difference. Somehow, we manage to put all the data in our heads together and come up with new ideas. Computers can't do that. A lot of people think that if we can figure out just how our brains come up with new ideas, we might be able to design a computer to do it, too. That's what artificial intelligence is all about."
"But what would we be doing?" Amy asked.
Hildie shrugged. "Dr. Engersol will have to explain that to you. But I can promise you, you'll like the seminar. Everyone who's been in it loves it." She smiled ruefully. "Unfortunately, I don't think I understand it enough to know quite why they love it, but they do."
"I don't know," Amy said, fidgeting on the couch. "Do I have to take it? What if I don't want to?"
"Well, I'm sure if you don't want to, Dr. Engersol will understand," Hildie told her. "Of course, you probably won't get to move down to the second floor, but it's entirely up to you."
"The second floor?" Amy asked, her interest suddenly engaged. The rooms on the second floor were much larger than the ones on the third, which had originally been the servants' quarters when the mansion had been built. "Why would we get to move downstairs?"
Hildie smiled as if it should have been obvious. "It has to do with the seminar. All the students in Dr. Engersol's class are issued special computers, and the rooms on the third floor are just too small. And since Adam's room, and Monica's, are empty..." She left the bait hanging. As she'd been certain would happen, both Amy and Josh snatched at it.
"Could we move downstairs today?" Amy asked eagerly. "This morning?"
Hildie chuckled. "You can move right now, if you want to," she told them. "Does that mean you both want to join the seminar?"
The two children agreed eagerly. Hildie took two pieces of paper out of a file folder that was already lying on her desk. "In that case, here are your new schedules. Starting tomorrow, you'll both be going into the new class first period. Amy, you'll be moved into the mathematics class that meets at two, and I've put you into the same one, Josh."
Josh broke into a smile. "Since we're taking another class, does that mean we can stop doing P.E.?" he asked eagerly.
Hildie made a face of exaggerated disapproval. "No, it doesn't mean you can stop doing P.E. But it does mean," she added, as Josh's face fell, "that we'll be making some changes in that, too. So as soon as you leave here, I want you both to go to the gym behind the college field house and see Mr. Iverson. I'll give you a note telling him why you're there, and he'll give you some tests and then help you set up a gym schedule that won't interfere with any of your classes. Okay?"
Both children, slightly dazed by the sudden change in the schedules that had been set up little more than a week ago, nodded silently, and Hildie handed them the note for Joe Iverson, who headed the university's physical education program. Years ago, working closely with George Engersol, Iverson had designed a special regimen for the children in the Academy, emphasizing individual sports over team activities.
"None of the kids we're targeting is going to grow up to be a team player," Engersol had explained even before they'd taken in their first students. "They'll all be unique kids, and most if not all of them will have had nothing but bad experiences with team sports. If they're forced into situations where they have to curtail their intellects in favor of someone else's physical superiority, they'll only resent it, and I don't intend for this Academy to be an unhappy experience for any of them. We'll have a few kids who love baseball and football, but for the most part physical competition just won't mean anything to our kids. So I want you to design a program that will give them the exercise they need, but not bore them. Is it possible?"
Iverson had nodded. "Anything's possible," he'd agreed, and set to work. What he'd come up with was a program emphasizing swimming, which he knew most kids loved to start with, and gymnastics, which, of one was to achieve any sort of proficiency, demanded nearly as much brain power as muscle development. Furthermore, the sports he'd selected for the kids were individual enough that most of them were able to work their P.E. sessions in at their own convenience, merely appearing at the pool or gym when they had time, so long as they put in a minimum of five hours a week.
For Josh and Amy the choice had been easy - an hour a day in the pool was more like playing than anything else.
Now, they left Hildie Kramer's office and headed across the lawn and out the gate, then turned left into the main university campus, on the other side of which were the field house, a smaller gym, the pool, and the football stadium. Amy gazed curiously at Josh.
"How come they have to change our P.E.? Why can't we just keep going swimming every day, like we have been?"
Josh shrugged. "Maybe they have something special for the kids in the seminar."
"But why?" Amy pressed. "What's dumb old P.E. got to do with artificial intelligence?"
"Who cares?" Josh grinned. "We get new rooms and new computers, don't we?"
Amy nodded halfheartedly. The new room was great - she was already looking forward to that. But she didn't really care about the new computer, and the thing with changing her P.E. program seemed stupid. She started to say something else, then changed her mind. After all, Josh didn't know any more about the seminar than she did, and the other kids in it hadn't ever said a word.
<#FROWN:L05\>
By the time I got down there, the Weasel had his notepad and tape recorder out. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. "Lieutenant Smith," he said. "I wonder if I could talk to you."
"I'm pretty busy," I said.
"Come on," Connor called to me. "Time's a'wasting." He was holding the door open for me.
I started toward Connor. The Weasel fell in step with me. He held a tiny black microphone toward my face. "I'm taping, I hope you don't mind. After the Malcolm case, we have to be extra careful. I wonder if you would comment on racial slurs allegedly made by your associate Detective Graham during last night's Nakamoto investigation?"
"No," I said. I kept walking.
"We've been told he referred to them as 'fucking Japs.'"
"I have no comment," I said.
"He also called them 'little Nips.' Do you think that kind of talk is appropriate to an officer on duty?"
"Sorry. I don't have a comment, Willy."
He held the microphone up to my face as we walked. It was annoying. I wanted to slap it away, but I didn't. "Lieutenant Smith, we're preparing a story on you and we have some questions about the Martinez case. Do you remember that one? It was a couple of years back."
I kept walking. "I'm pretty busy now, Willy," I said.
"The Martinez case resulted in accusations of child abuse brought by Sylvia Morelia, the mother of Maria Martinez. There was an internal affairs investigation. I wondered if you had any comment."
"No comment."
"I've already talked to your partner at that time, Ted Anderson. I wondered if you had any comment on that."
"Sorry. I don't."
"Then you aren't going to respond to these serious allegations against you?"
"The only one I know that's making allegations is you, Willy."
"Actually, that's not entirely accurate," he said, smiling at me. "I'm told the D.A.'s office has started an investigation."
I said nothing. I wondered if it was true.
"Under the circumstances, Lieutenant, do you think the court made a mistake in granting you custody of your young daughter?"
All I said was, "Sorry. No comment, Willy." I tried to sound confident. I was starting to sweat.
Connor said, "Come on, come on. No time." I got into the car. Connor said to Wilhelm, "Son, I'm sorry, but we're busy. Got to go." He slammed the car door. I started the engine. "Let's go," Connor said.
Willy stuck his head in the window. "Do you think that Captain Connor's Japan-bashing represents another example of the department's lack of judgment in racially sensitive cases?"
"See you, Willy." I rolled up the window, and started driving down the hill.
"A little faster wouldn't bother me," Connor said.
"Sure," I said. I stepped on the gas.
In the rearview mirror, I saw the Weasel running for his Mercedes. I took the turn faster, tires squealing. "How did that lowlife know where to find us? He monitoring the radio?"
"We haven't been on the radio," Connor said. "You know I'm careful about the radio. But maybe the patrol car phoned in something when we arrived. Maybe we have a bug in this car. Maybe he just figured we'd turn up here. He's a scumbag. And he's connected to the Japanese. He's their plant at the Times. Usually the Japanese are a little more classy about who they associate with. But I guess he'll do everything they want done. Nice car, huh?"
"I notice it's not Japanese."
"Can't be obvious," Connor said. "He following us?"
"No. I think we lost him. Where are we going now?"
"U.S.C. Sanders has had enough time screwing around by now."
We drove down the street, down the hill, toward the 101 freeway. "By the way," I said. "What was all that about the reading glasses?"
"Just a small point to be verified. No reading glasses were found, right?"
"Right. Just sunglasses."
"That's what I thought," Connor said.
"And Graham says he's leaving town. Today. He's going to Phoenix."
"Uh-huh." He looked at me. "You want to leave town, too?"
"No," I said.
"Okay," Connor said.
I got down the hill and onto the 101 going south. In the old days it would be ten minutes to U.S.C. Now it was more like thirty minutes. Especially now, right at midday. But there weren't any fast times, anymore. Traffic was always bad. The smog was always bad. I drove through haze.
"You think I'm being foolish?" I said. "You think I should pick up my kid and run, too?"
"It's one way to handle it." He sighed. "The Japanese are masters of indirect action. It's their instinctual way to proceed. If someone in Japan is unhappy with you, they never tell you to your face. They tell your friend, your associate, your boss. In such a way that the word gets back. The Japanese have all these ways of indirect communication. That's why they socialize so much, play so much golf, go drinking in karaoke bars. They need these extra channels of communication because they can't come out and say what's on their minds. It's tremendously inefficient, when you think about it. Wasteful of time and energy and money. But since they cannot confront - because confrontation is almost like death, it makes them sweat and panic - they have no other choice. Japan is the land of the end run. They never go up the middle."
"Yeah, but..."
"So behavior that seems sneaky and cowardly to Americans is just standard operating procedure to Japanese. It doesn't mean anything special. They're just letting you know that powerful people are displeased."
"Letting me know? That I could end up in court over my daughter? My relationship with my kid could be ruined? My own reputation could be ruined?"
"Well, yes. Those are normal penalties. The threat of social disgrace is the usual way you're expected to know of displeasure."
Well, I think I know it, now," I said. "I think I get the fucking picture."
"It's not personal," Connor said. "It's just the way they proceed."
"Yeah, right. They're spreading a lie."
"In a sense."
"No, not in a sense. It's a fucking lie."
Connor sighed. "It took me a long time to understand," he said, "that Japanese behavior is based on the values of a farm village. You hear a lot about samurai and feudalism, but deep down, the Japanese are farmers. And if you lived in a farm village and you displeased the other villagers, you were banished. And that meant you died, because no other village would take in a troublemaker. So. Displease the group and you die. That's the way they see it.
"It means the Japanese are exquisitely sensitive to the group. More than anything, they are attuned to getting along with the group. It means not standing out, not taking a chance, not being too individualistic. It also means not necessarily insisting on the truth. The Japanese have very little faith in truth. It strikes them as cold and abstract. It's like a mother whose son is accused of a crime. She doesn't care much about the truth. She cares more about her son. The same with the Japanese. To the Japanese, the important thing is relationships between people. That's the real truth. The factual truth is unimportant."
"Yeah, fine," I said. "But why are they pushing now? What's the difference? This murder is solved, right?"
"No, it's not," Connor said.
"It's not?"
"No. That's why we have all the pressure. Obviously, somebody badly wants it to be over. They want us to give it up."
"If they are squeezing me and squeezing Graham - how come they're not squeezing you?"
"They are," Connor said.
"How?"
"By making me responsible for what happens to you."
"How are they making you responsible? I don't see that."
"I know you don't. But they do. Believe me. They do."
I looked at the line of cars creeping forward, blending into the haze of downtown. We passed electronic billboards for Hitachi (#1 IN COMPUTERS IN AMERICA), for Canon (AMERICA'S COPY LEADER), and Honda (NUMBER ONE RATED CAR IN AMERICA!). Like most of the new Japanese ads, they were bright enough to run in the daytime. The billboards cost thirty thousand dollars a day to rent; most American companies couldn't afford them.
Connor said, "The point is the Japanese know they can make it very uncomfortable. By raising the dust around you, they are telling me, 'handle it.' Because they think I can get this thing done. Finish it off."
"Can you?"
"Sure. You want to finish it off now? Then we can go have a beer, and enjoy some Japanese truth. Or do you want to get to the bottom of why Cheryl Austin was killed?"
"I want to get to the bottom."
"Me, too," Connor said. "So let's do it, k<*_>o-stroke<*/>hai. I think Sanders's lab will have interesting information for us. The tapes are the key, now."
Phillip Sanders was spinning like a top. "The lab is shut down," he said. He threw up his hands in frustration. "And there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing."
Connor said, "When did it happen?"
"An hour ago. Buildings and Grounds came by and told everybody in the lab to leave, and they locked it up. Just like that. There's a big padlock on the front door, now."
I said, "And the reason was?"
"A report that structural weakness in the ceiling has made the basement unsafe and will invalidate the university's insurance if the skating rink comes crashing down on us. Some talk about how student safety comes first. Anyway, they closed the lab, pending an investigation and report by a structural engineer."
"And when will that happen?"
He gestured to the phone. "I'm waiting to hear. Maybe some time next week. Maybe not until next month."
"Next month."
"Yeah. Exactly." Sanders ran his hand through his wild hair. "I went all the way to the dean on this one. But the dean's office doesn't know. It's coming from high up in the university. Up where the board of governors knows rich donors who make contributions in multi-million-dollar chunks. The order came from the highest level." Sanders laughed. "These days, it doesn't leave much mystery."
I said, "Meaning what?"
"You realize Japan is deeply into the structure of American universities, particularly in technical departments. It's happened everywhere. Japanese companies now endow twenty-five professorships at M.I.T., far more than any other nation. Because they know - after all the bullshit stops - that they can't innovate as well as we can. Since they need innovation, they do the obvious thing. They buy it."
"From American universities."
"Sure. Listen, at the University of California at Irvine, there's two floors of a research building that you can't get into unless you have a Japanese passport. They're doing research for Hitachi there. An American university closed to Americans." Sanders swung around, waving his arms. "And around here, if something happens that they don't like, it's just a phone call from somebody to the president of the university, and what can he do? He can't afford to piss the Japanese off. So whatever they want, they get. And if they want the lab closed, it's closed."
I said, "What about the tapes?"
"Everything is locked in there. They made us leave everything."
"Really?"
"They were in a hell of a rush. It was gestapo stuff. Pushing and prodding us to get out. You can't imagine the panic at an American university if it thinks it may lose some funding." He sighed. "I don't know. Maybe Theresa managed to take some tapes with her. You could ask her."
"Where is she?"
"I think she went ice skating."
I frowned. "Ice skating?"
"That's what she said she was going to do. So you could check over there."
And he looked right at Connor. In a particularly meaningful way.
Theresa Asakuma wasn't ice skating. There were thirty little kids in the rink, with a young teacher trying in vain to control them.
<#FROWN:L06\>
After closing the file drawer and turning off the lamp in the den, Hatch and Lindsey stopped at Regina's room to make sure she was all right, moving quietly to the side of her bed. The hall light, falling through her door, revealed that the girl was sound asleep. The small knuckles of one fisted hand were against her chin. She was breathing evenly through slightly parted lips. If she dreamed, her dreams must have been pleasant.
Hatch felt his heart pinch as he looked at her, for she seemed so desperately young. He found it hard to believe that he had ever been as young as Regina was just then, for youth was innocence. Having been raised under the hateful and oppressive hand of his father, he had surrendered innocence at an early age in return for an intuitive grasp of aberrant psychology that had permitted him to survive in a home where anger and brutal 'discipline' were the rewards for innocent mistakes and misunderstandings. He knew that Regina could not be as tender as she looked, for life had given her reasons of her own to develop thick skin and an armored heart.
Tough as they might be, however, they were both vulnerable, child and man. In fact, at that moment Hatch felt more vulnerable than the girl. If given a choice between her infirmities - the game leg, the twisted and incomplete hand - and whatever damage had been done to some deep region of his brain, he would have opted for her physical impairments without hesitation. After recent experiences, including the inexplicable escalation of his anger into blind rage, Hatch did not feel entirely in control of himself. And from the time he had been a small boy, with the terrifying example of his father to shape his fears, he had feared nothing half as much as being out of control.
I will not fail you, he promised the sleeping child.
He looked at Lindsey, to whom he owned his lives, both of them, before and after dying. Silently he made her the same promise: I will not fail you.
He wondered if they were promises he could keep.
Later, in their own room, with the lights out, as they lay on their separate halves of the bed, Lindsey said, "The rest of the test results should be back to Dr. Nyebern tomorrow."
Hatch had spent most of Saturday at the hospital, giving blood and urine samples, submitting to the prying of X-ray and sonogram machines. At one point he had been hooked up to more electrodes than the creature that Dr. Frankenstein, in those old movies, had energized from kites sent aloft in a lightning storm.
He said, "When I spoke to him today, he told me everything was looking good. I'm sure the rest of the tests will all come in negative, too. Whatever's happening to me, it has nothing to do with any mental or physical damage from the accident or from being ... dead. I'm healthy, I'm okay."
"Oh, God, I hope so."
"I'm just fine."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes, I really think so, I really do." He wondered how he could lie to her so smoothly. Maybe because the lie was not meant to hurt or harm, merely to soothe her so she could get some sleep.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you, too."
In a couple of minutes - shortly before midnight, according to the digital clock at bedside - she was asleep, snoring softly.
Hatch was unable to sleep, worrying about what he might learn of his future - or lack of it - tomorrow. He suspected that Dr. Nyebern would be gray-faced and grim, bearing somber news of some meaningful shadow detected in one lobe of Hatch's brain or another, a patch of dead cells, lesion, cyst, or tumor. Something deadly. Inoperable. And certain to get worse.
His confidence had been increasing slowly ever since he had gotten past the events of Thursday night and Friday morning, when he had dreamed of the blonde's murder and, later, had actually followed the trail of the killer to the Route 133 off-ramp from the San Diego Freeway. The weekend had been uneventful. The day just past, enlivened and uplifted by Regina's arrival, had been delightful. Then he had seen the newspaper piece about Cooper, and had lost control.
He hadn't told Lindsey about the stranger's reflection that he had seen in the den mirror. This time he was unable to pretend that he might have been sleepwalking, half awake, half dreaming. He had been wide awake, which meant the image in the mirror was an hallucination of one kind or another. A healthy, undamaged brain didn't hallucinate. He hadn't shared that terror with her because he knew, with the receipt of the test results tomorrow, there would be fear enough to go around.
Unable to sleep, he began to think about the newspaper story again, even though he didn't want to chew on it any more. He tried to direct his thoughts away from William Cooper, but he returned to the subject the way he might have obsessively probed at a sore tooth with his tongue. It almost seemed as if he were being forced to think about the truck driver, as if a giant mental magnet was pulling his attention inexorably in that direction. Soon, to his dismay, anger rose in him again. Worse, almost at once, the anger exploded into fury and a hunger for violence so intense that he had to fist his hands at his sides and clench his teeth and struggle to keep from letting loose a primal cry of rage.
From the banks of mailboxes in the breezeway at the main entrance to the garden apartments, Vassago learned that William Cooper was in apartment twenty-eight. He followed the breezeway into the courtyard, which was filled with palms and ficuses and ferns and too many landscape lights to please him, and he climbed an exterior staircase to the covered balcony that served the second-floor units of the two-story complex.
No one was in sight. Palm Court was silent, peaceful.
Though it was a few minutes past midnight, lights were on in the Cooper apartment. Vassago could hear a television turned low.
The window to the right of the door was covered with Levolor blinds. The slats were not tightly closed. Vassago could see a kitchen illuminated only by the low-wattage bulb in the range hood.
To the left of the door a larger window looked onto the balcony and courtyard from the apartment living room. The drapes were not drawn all the way shut. Through the gap, a man could be seen slumped in a big recliner with his feet up in front of the television. His head was tilted to one side, his face toward the window, and he appeared to be asleep. A glass containing an inch of golden liquid stood beside a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's on a small table next to the recliner. A bag of cheese puffs had been knocked off the table, and some of the bright orange contents had scattered across the bile-green carpet.
Vassago scanned the balcony to the left, right, and on the other side of the courtyard. Still deserted.
He tried to slide open Cooper's living-room window, but it was either corroded or locked. He moved to the right again, toward the kitchen window, but he stopped at the door on the way and, without any real hope, tried it. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open, went inside - and locked it behind him.
The man in the recliner, probably Cooper, did not stir as Vassago quietly pulled the drapes all the way shut across the big living-room window. No one else, passing on the balcony, would be able to look inside.
Already assured that the kitchen, dining area, and living room were deserted, Vassago moved catlike through the bathroom and two bedrooms (one without furniture, used primarily for storage) that comprised the rest of the apartment. The man in the recliner was alone.
On the dresser in the bedroom, Vassago spotted a wallet and a ring of keys. In the wallet he found fifty-eight dollars, which he took, and a driver's license in the name of William X. Cooper. The photograph on the license was of the man in the living room, a few years younger and, of course, not in a drunken stupor.
He returned to the living room with the intention of waking Cooper and having an informative little chat with him. Who is Lindsey? Where does she live?
But as he approached the recliner, a current of anger shot through him, too sudden and causeless to be his own, as if he were a human radio that received other people's emotions. And what he was receiving was the same anger that had suddenly struck him while he had been with his collection in the funhouse hardly an hour ago. As before, he opened himself to it, amplified the current with his own singular rage, wondering if he would receive visions, as he had on that previous occasion. But this time, as he stood looking down on William Cooper, the anger flared too abruptly into insensate fury, and he lost control. From the table beside the recliner, he grabbed the Jack Daniel's by the neck of the bottle.
Lying rigid on his bed, hands fisted so tightly that even his blunt fingernails were gouging painfully into his palms, Hatch had the crazy feeling that his mind had been invaded. His flicker of anger had been like opening a door just a hairline crack but wide enough for something on the other side to get a grip and tear it off its hinges. He felt something unnameable storming into him, a force without form or features, defined only by its hatred and rage. Its fury was that of the hurricane, the typhoon, beyond mere human dimensions, and he knew that he was too small a vessel to contain all of the anger that was pumping into him. He felt as if he would explode, shatter as if he were not a man but a crystal figurine.
The half-full bottle of Jack Daniel's whacked the side of the sleeping man's head with such impact that it was almost as loud as a shotgun blast. Whiskey and sharp fragments of glass showered up, rained down, splattered and clinked against the television set, the other furniture, and the walls. The air was filled with the velvety aroma of corn-mash bourbon, but underlying it was the scent of blood, for the gashed and battered side of Cooper's face was bleeding copiously.
The man was no longer merely sleeping. He had been hammered into a deeper level of unconsciousness.
Vassago was left with just the neck of the bottle in his hand. It terminated in three sharp spikes of glass that dripped bourbon and made him think of snake fangs glistening with venom. Shifting his grip, he raised the weapon above his head and brought it down, letting out a fierce hiss of rage, and the glass serpent bit deep into William Cooper's face.
The volcanic wrath that erupted into Hatch was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, far beyond any rage that his father had ever achieved. Indeed, it was nothing he could have generated within himself for the same reason that one could not manufacture sulfuric acid in a paper cauldron: the vessel would be dissolved by the substance it was required to contain. A high-pressure lava flow of anger gushed into him, so hot that he wanted to scream, so white-hot that he had no time to scream. Consciousness was burned away, and he fell into a mercifully dreamless darkness where there was neither anger nor terror.
Vassago realized that he was shouting with wordless, savage glee. After a dozen or twenty blows, the glass weapon had utterly disintegrated. He finally, reluctantly dropped the short fragment of the bottle neck still in his white-knuckled grip.
<#FROWN:L07\>
100
BRENDON MOODY could not let go of his gut reaction to Karen Grant. The last week of July, as he impatiently waited for the subpoena to be issued by the Chicago court, he wandered around the lobby of the Madison Arms Hotel. It was obvious that Anne Webster had finally retired from the agency. Her desk had been replaced by a handsome cherrywood table, and in general the decor of the agency had become more sophisticated. Moody decided it was time to pay another visit to Karen Grant's ex-partner, this time at her home in Bronxville.
Anne was quick to let Brendon know that she had been deeply offended by Karen's attitude. "She kept after me to move up the sale. The ink wasn't dry on the contract when she told me that it was not necessary for me to come into the office at all, that she would handle everything. Then immediately she replaced my things with new furniture for that boyfriend of hers. When I think of how I used to stick up for her when people made remarks about her, let me tell you, I feel like a fool. Some grieving widow!"
"Mrs. Webster," Moody said, "this is very important. I think there is a chance that Laurie Kenyon is not guilty of Allan Grant's murder. But she'll go to prison next month unless we can prove that someone else did kill him. Will you please go over that evening again, the one you spent at the airport with Karen Grant? Tell me every detail, no matter how unimportant it seems. Start with the drive out."
"We left for the airport at eight o'clock. Karen had been talking to her husband. She was terribly upset. When I asked her what was wrong, she said some hysterical girl had threatened him and he was taking it out on her."
"Taking it out on her? What did she mean by that?"
"I don't know. I'm not a gossip and I don't pry."
If there's anything I'm sure of, it's that, Brendon thought grimly. "Mrs. Webster, what did she mean?"
"Karen had been staying at the New York apartment more and more these last months, ever since she met Edwin Rand. I have the feeling that Allan Grant let her know he was mighty sick of the situation. On the way to the airport, she said something like, I should be straightening this out with Allan, not running a driving service.
"I reminded her that the client was one of our most valuable, and that she had a real aversion to hired cars."
"Then the plane was late."
"Yes. That really upset Karen. But we went to the VIP lounge and had a drink. Then Spartacus came on. It's my-"
"Your favorite movie of all time. Also a very long one. And you do tend to fall asleep. Can you be sure that Karen Grant sat and watched the entire movie?"
"Well, I do know she was checking on the plane and went to make some phone calls."
"Mrs. Webster, her home in Clinton is forty-two miles from the airport. Was there any span of time when you did not see her for somewhere between two to two-and-a-half hours? I mean was it possible that she might have left you and driven to her home?"
"I really didn't think I slept but..." She paused.
"Mrs. Webster, what is it?"
"It's just that when we picked up our client and left the airport, Karen's car was parked in a different spot. It was so crowded when we arrived that we had quite a walk to the terminal, but when we left it was right across from the main door."
Moody sighed. "I wish you had told me this before, Mrs. Webster."
She looked at him, bewildered. "You didn't ask me."
101
IT WAS just like it had been in those months before Lee was locked up in the clinic, Opal thought. In rented cars, she and Bic began to follow her again. Some days they'd be parked across the street and watch Lee hurry from the garage to the clinic entrance, then wait however long it took until she came out again. Bic would spend the time staring at the door, so afraid of missing even one glimpse of her. Beads of perspiration would form on his forehead, his hands would grip the wheel when she reemerged.
"Wonder what she's been talking about today?" he'd ask, fear and anger in his voice. "She's alone in the room with that doctor, Opal. Maybe he's being tempted by her."
Weekdays Lee went to the clinic in the morning. Many afternoons she and Sarah would golf together, usually going to one of the local public courses. Afraid that Sarah would notice the car following them, Bic began to phone around to the starters to inquire about a reservation in the name of Kenyon. If there was one, he and Opal would occasionally drive to that course and try to run into Sarah and Lee in the coffee shop.
He never lingered at the table, just greeted them casually and kept going, but he missed nothing about Lee. Afterwards, he'd emotionally comment about her appearance. "That golf shirt just clings to her tender body... It was all I could do not to reach over and release the clip that was holding back that golden hair."
Because of the 'Church of the Airways' program, they had to be in New York the better part of the weekend. Opal was secretly grateful for that. If they did get a glimpse of Lee and Sarah on Saturday or Sunday, the doctor and the same young man, Gregg Bennett, were always with them. That infuriated Bic.
One mid-August day he called to Opal to join him in Lee's room. The shades were drawn, and he was sitting in the rocker. "I have been praying for guidance and have received my answer," he told her. "Lee always goes to and returns from New York alone. She has a phone in her car. I have been able to get the number of that phone."
Opal cringed as Bic's face contorted and his eyes flashed with that strange compelling light. "Opal," he thundered, "do not think I have not been aware of your jealousy. I forbid you to trouble me with it again. Lee's earthly time is almost over. In the days that are left, you must allow me to fill myself with the sight and sound and scent of that pretty child."
102
THOMASINA PERKINS was thrilled to receive a note from Sarah Kenyon asking her to write a letter on Laurie's behalf to the judge who was going to sentence her.
You remember so clearly how terrified and frightened Laurie was, Sarah wrote, and you're the only person who ever actually saw her with her abductors. We need to make the judge understand the trauma Laurie suffered when she was a small child. Be sure to include the name you thought you heard the woman call the man as they rushed Laurie from the diner. Sarah concluded by writing that a known child abuser by that name had been in the Harrisburg area then and, while of course they couldn't prove it, she intended to suggest the possibility that he was the kidnapper.
Thomasina had told the story of seeing Laurie and calling the police so often that it could practically write itself. Until she got to the sticking point.
That day the woman had not called the man Jim. Thomasina knew that now with absolute certainty. She couldn't give that name to the judge. It would be like lying under oath. It troubled her to know that Sarah had wasted time and money tracking down the wrong person.
Thomasina was losing faith in Reverend Hawkins. She'd written to him a couple of times thanking him for the privilege of being on his show and explaining that, while she would never suggest that God had made a mistake, maybe they should have waited and kept listening to Him. It was just that God had given her the name of the counter boy first. Could they try again?
Reverend Hawkins hadn't bothered to answer her. Oh, she was on his mailing list, that was for sure. For every two dollars she donated, she got a letter asking for more.
Her niece had taped Thomasina's appearance on the 'Church of the Airways' program, and Thomasina loved to watch it. But as her resentment of Reverend Hawkins grew she noticed more and more things about the taped segment. The way his mouth was so close to her ear when she heard the name. The way he didn't even get Laurie's name straight. He had referred to her at one point as Lee.
Thomasina's conscience was clear when she mailed a passionate letter to the judge, describing Laurie's panic and hysteria in lurid terms but without mentioning the name Jim. She sent a copy of the letter and an explanation to Sarah, pointing out the mistake the Reverend Hawkins himself had made by referring to Laurie as Lee.
103
"IT'S GETTING CLOSER," Laurie told Dr. Donnelly matter-of-factly as she kicked off her shoes and settled back on the couch.
"What is, Laurie?"
He expected her to talk about prison, but instead she said, "The knife."
He waited.
It was Kate who spoke to him now. "Doctor, I guess we've both done our best."
"Hey, Kate," he said, "that doesn't sound like you." Was Laurie becoming suicidal? he wondered.
A wry laugh. "Kate sees the handwriting on the wall, Doctor. Got a cigarette?"
"Sure. How's it going, Leona?"
"It's pretty nearly gone. Your golf is getting better."
"Thank you."
"You really like Sarah, don't you?"
"Very much."
"Don't let her be too unhappy, will you?"
"About what?"
Laurie stretched. "I have such a headache," she murmured. "It's as though it isn't just at night anymore. Even yesterday when Sarah and I were on the golf course I could suddenly see the hand that's holding the knife."
"Laurie, the memories are coming closer and closer to the surface. Can't you let them out?"
"I can't let go of the guilt." Was it Laurie or Leona or Kate speaking? For the first time Justin couldn't be sure. "I did such bad things," she said, "disgusting things. Some secret part of me is remembering them."
Justin made a sudden decision. "Come on. We're going to take a walk in the park. Let's sit in the playground for a while and watch the kids."
The swings and slides, the jungle gym and seesaws were filled with young children. They sat on a park bench near the watchful mothers and nannies. The children were laughing, calling to each other, arguing about whose turn it was to be on the swing. Justin spotted a little girl who looked to be about four. She was happily bouncing a ball. Several times the nanny called to the child, "Don't go so far away, Christy." The child, totally absorbed in keeping the ball bouncing, did not seem to hear. Finally the nanny got up, hurried over and firmly caught the ball. "I said, stay in the playground," she scolded. "If you chased that ball in the road, one of those cars would hit you."
"I forgot." The small face looked forlorn and repentant, then, turning and seeing Laurie and Justin watching her, immediately brightened. She ran to them. "Do you like my beautiful sweater?" she asked.
The nanny came up. "Christy, you mustn't bother people." She smiled apologetically. "Christy thinks everything she puts on is beautiful."
"Well, it is," Laurie said. "It's a perfectly beautiful new sweater."
A few minutes later they started back for the clinic. "Suppose," Justin said, "that little girl, very absorbed in what she was doing, wandered too close to the road and someone grabbed her, put her in a car, disappeared with her and abused her. Do you think that years later she should blame herself?"
<#FROWN:L08\>
7:45 A.M., THURSDAY
MANHATTAN
Although she hadn't slept much thanks to her late-night call, Laurie made it a point to arrive at work a little early to compensate for having been late the day before. It was only seven forty-five as she mounted the steps to the medical examiner's office.
Going directly to the ID office, she detected a mild electricity in the air. Several of the other associate medical examiners who usually didn't come in until around eight-thirty were already on the job. Kevin Southgate and Arnold Besserman, two of the older examiners, were huddled around the coffeepot in heated debate. Kevin, a liberal, and Arnold, an arch-conservative, never agreed on anything.
"I'm telling you," Arnold was saying when Laurie squeezed through to get herself some coffee, "if we had more police on the streets, this kind of thing wouldn't happen."
"I disagree", Kevin said. "This kind of tragedy-"
"What happened now?" Laurie asked as she stirred her coffee.
"A series of homicides in Queens", Arnold said. "Gunshot wounds to the head from close range."
"Small-caliber bullets?" Laurie asked.
Arnold looked at Kevin. "I don't know about that yet."
"The posts haven't been done yet," Kevin explained.
"Were they pulled out of the river?"
"No"; Arnold said. "These people were asleep in their own homes. Now, if we had more police presence - "
"Come on, Arnold!" Kevin said.
Laurie left the two to their bickering and went over to check the autopsy schedule. Sipping her coffee, she checked at who was on autopsy besides herself and what cases were assigned. After her own name were three cases, including Stuart Morgan. She was pleased. Calvin was sticking by his promise.
Noting that the other two cases were drug overdose/toxicity cases as well, Laurie flipped through the investigator's reports. She was immediately dismayed to see that profiles of the deceased resembled the previous suspicious cases. Randall Thatcher, thirty - three years old, was a lawyer; Valerie Abrams, thirty-three, was a stockbroker.
The day before she'd feared there'd be more cases, but she'd hoped her fears wouldn't materialize. Obviously that wasn't to be the case. Already there were three more. Overnight her modest series had jumped one hundred percent.
Laurie walked through Communications on her way to the medical forensic investigative department. Spotting the police liaison office, she wondered what she should do about the suspected thievery at the Morgan apartment. For the moment she decided to let it go. If she saw Lou she might discuss the matter with him.
Laurie found Cheryl Myers in her tiny windowless office.
"No luck so far on that Duncan Andrews case," Cheryl told her before she could say a word.
"That's not why I stopped by," Laurie said. "I left word last evening with Bart that I wanted to be called if any upscale drug overdose cases came in like Duncan Andrews or Marion Overstreet. I was called last night for one. But this morning I discovered that there were two others that I wasn't called on. Have you any idea why I wasn't called?"
"No," Cherryl said. "Ted was on last night. We'll have to ask him this evening. Was there a problem?"
"Not really," Laurie admitted. "I'm just curious. Actually I probably couldn't have gone to all three scenes. And I will be handling the autopsies. By the way, did you check with the hospital about the Marion Overstereet case?"
"Sure did," Cheryl said. "I spoke with a Dr. Murray and he said that they were just following policy orders from you."
"That's what I figured," Laurie said. "But it was worth a check. Also, I have something else I'd like to ask you to do. Would you see what kind of medical records you can get, particularly surgical, on a woman by the name of Martha Schulman. I'd love to get some x-rays. I believe she lived in Bayside, Queens. I'm not sure of her age. Let's say around forty." Ever since Jordan had told Laurie about his secretary's husband's shady dealings and arrest record, she'd had a bad feeling abort the woman's disappearance, particularly in view of the odd break-in at Jordan's office.
Cheryl wrote the information down on a pad on her desk.
"I'll get right on it."
Next Laurie sought out John DeVries. As she'd feared, he was less than cordial.
"I told you I'd call you," John snapped when Laurie asked about a contaminant. "I've got hundreds of cases besides yours."
"I know you're busy," Laurie said, " but this morning I have three more overdoses like the three I had before. That brings the body count to a total Of six young, affluent, well-educated career people. Something has to be in that cocaine, and we have to find it."
"You're welcome to come up here and run the tests yourself," John said. "But I want you to leave me alone. If you don't I have to speak to Dr. Bingham."
"Why are you acting this way?"
Laurie asked. "I've tried to be nice about this."
"You're being a pain in the neck," John said.
"Fine," Laurie said. "It's wonderful to know we have a nice cooperative atmosphere around here."
Exasperated, Laurie stalked out of the lab, grumbling under her breath. She felt a hand grip her arm and she spun around, ready to slap John DeVries for having the nerve to touch her. But it wasn't John. It was one of his young assistants, Peter Letterman.
"Could I talk to you a moment?" Peter said. He glanced warily over his shoulder.
"Of course," Laurie said.
"Come into my cubbyhole," Peter said. He mentioned for Laurie to follow him. They entered what had originally been designed as a broom closet. There was barely enough room there for a desk, a computer terminal, a file cabinet, and two chairs. Peter closed the door behind them.
Peter was a thin, blond fellow with delicate features. To Laurie he appeared as the quintessential graduate student, with a marked intensity to his eyes and demeanor. Under his white lab coat was an open-necked flannel shirt.
"John is a little hard to get along with," he said.
"That's an understatement," Laurie answered.
"Lots of artists are like that," Peter continued. "And John is an artist of sorts. When it comes to chemistry and toxicology in particular, he's amazing. But I couldn't help overhearing your conversations with him. I think one of the reasons he's giving you a hard time is to make a point with the administration that he needs more funding. He's slowing up a lot of reports, and for the most part it makes little difference. I mean the people are dead. But if your suspicions are right it sounds like we could be in the lifesaving business for a change. So I'd like to help. I'll see what I can do for you even if I have to put in some overtime."
"I'd be grateful, Peter", Laurie said. "And you're right."
Peter smiled self-consciously. "We went to the same school," he said.
"Really?" Laurie said. "Where?"
"Wesleyan," Peter said."I was two years behind you, but we shared a class. Physical chemistry."
"I'm sorry but I don't remember you," Laurie said.
"Well, I was kinda a nerd then. Anyway, I'll let you know what I come up with."
Laurie returned to her office feeling considerably more optimistic about mankind with Peter's generous offer to help. Going through the day's autopsy folders, she came up with only a few questions on two of the cases similar to her question about Marion Overstreet. Just to be thorough she called Cheryl to ask her to check them out.
After changing in her office, Laurie went down to the autopsy room. Vinnie had Stuart Morgan "up" and was well prepared for her arrival. They started work immediately.
The autopsy went smoothly. As they were finishing the internal portion, Cheryl Myers came in holding a mask to her face. Laurie glanced around to make sure Calvin wasn't in sight to complain that Cheryl had not put on scrubs. Happily he wasn't in the room.
"I had some luck with Martha Schulman," she said, waving a set of x-rays. "She'd been treated at Manhattan General because she worked for a doctor on the staff. They had recent chest film which they sent right over. Want me to put it up?"
"Please," Laurie said. She wiped her hands on her apron and followed Cheryl over to the x-ray view box. Cheryl stuck the x-rays in to the holder and stepped to the side.
"They want them back right away," Cheryl explained.
"The tech in x-ray was doing me a favor by letting them out without authorization."
Laurie scanned the x-rays. They were an AP and lateral of the chest taken two years before. The lung fields were clear and normal. the heart silouette looked normal as well. Disappointed, Laurie was about to tell Cheryl to remove the films when she looked at the clavicles, or collarbones. The one on the right hand had s slight angle to it two-thirds along its length, associated with a slight increase in radiopacity. Marsha Schulman had broken her collarbone some time in the past. Though well healed, there had definitely been a fracture.
"Vinnie," Laurie called out. "Get someone to bring the x-ray we took on the headless floater."
"See something?" Cheryl asked.
Laurie pointed out the fracture, explaining to Cheryl why it appeared as it did. Vinnie brought the requested X-ray over to the view box. He snapped the new film up next to Marsha Schulman's.
"Well. look at that!" Laurie cried. She pointed to the fractured clavicle. they were identical o both films. "I think we'r looking at the same person," she said.
"Who is it?" Vinnie asked.
"The name is Marsha Schulman," Laurie said, pulling down the x-rays from the Manhattan General and handing them over to Cheryl. Then she asked Cheryl to check if Marsha Schulman had had a cholecystectomy and a hysterectomy. She told her it was important and asked her to do it immediately.
Pleased with this discovery, Laurie started her second case, Randall Thatcher. As with her first case of the day, there was essentially no pathology. The autopsy went quickly and smoothly. Again Laurie was able to document with reasonable certainty that the cocaine had been taken IV. By the time they were sewing up the body, Cheryl was back in with the news that Marsha Schulman had indeed had both operations in question. In fact, both had been performed at Manhattan General.
Thrilled by this additional confirmation, Laurie finished up and went to her office to dictate the first two cases and to make several calls. First she tried Jordan's office, only to learn that Dr. Scheffield was in surgery.
"Again?" Laurie sighed. She was disappointed not to get him right away.
"He's been ding a lot of transplants lately" Jordan's nurse explained. "He always does quite a bit of surgery, but lately he's been doing even more."
Laurie left word for Jordan to call back when he could. Then she called police headquarters and asked for Lou.
To Laurie's chagrin, Lou was unavailable. Laurie left her number and asked that he return her call when he could.
Somewhat frustrated, Laurie did her dictation, then headed back to the autopsy room for her third and final case of the day. As she waited for the elevator she wondered if Bingham might be willing to change his mind about making some kind of public statement now that there were six cases.
When the elevator doors opened, Laurie literally bumped into Lou. For a moment they looked at each other with embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It was my fault," Lou told her. "I wasn't looking where I was going."
"I was the one who wasn't looking," Laurie said.
Then they both laughed at their self-conscious behavior.
"Were you coming to see me?" Laurie asked.
"No," Lou said, "I was looking for the Pope.
<#FROWN:L09\>
The next morning the President and Mrs. Roosevelt attended services at St. John's Episcopal Church. The sermon was satisfactorily bland and pleased the great majority of the parishioners. The First Lady said a silent prayer for the soul of Christian Asman. She tried to concentrate on the service and not to think of what circumstance had led to the death of the young lawyer.
At the suggestion of Harry Hopkins, he and not the President issued the White House statement on the death of a staff member: "'He was just the finest type of man you could imagine,' said Harry Hopkins, head of WPA and Asman's boss in the Executive Wing. 'I guess the chief regret the President and I have is that we didn't get to know him any better than we did. When a man does his work faithfully and competently, often you don't have much occasion to get personally acquainted with him.'"
The morning papers carried a brief account of Asman's death and printed the statement without comment. The Post, for example, said:
Christian Asman, an attorney on the White House staff, was found dead last night in an alley between G and H streets. Police say Asman died of gunshot wounds. They have no suspect in the shooting.
Asman, a graduate of Harvard and Harvard Law, was an attorney in New York City before joining the staff of the White House approximately a year ago. He was unmarried, and no family has been identified.
Harry Hopkins, by whom Christian Asman was employed, said 'He was just the finest type of man you could imagine ...'
Back in her office on the second floor of the White House, Mrs. Roosevelt turned over a fresh page in her yellow tablet. Even before Stan Szczygiel and Ed Kennelly arrived, she had written a list:
Who might have killed Mr. Asman?
Senator Fisher (unfortunately).
Miss Fisher (very unlikely).
Congressman Metcalf (jealousy?).
Miss Dempsey (but why?).
What is connection with Miss O'Neil?
Who was 'older woman' at Farragut?
Person not yet identified.
Kennelly nodded as he scanned the list. "We have our work cut out for us, hmm? So where do we start?"
"I suggest," said Mrs. Roosevelt, "that we simplify our work by eliminating the unlikely suspects first. It is highly unlikely, it is not, that Miss Fisher killed Mr. Asman. Even so, I suppose we are obliged to clear up any doubt on that score. We must know if Miss Fisher's relationship with Mr. Asman was the cause of the severance of the romantic relationship between her and Congressman Metcalf. If it was, then conceivably Congressman Metcalf resented that and - Well. You see what I mean."
Stan Szczygiel shook his head over the list. "It's that last entry that bothers me most," he said. "'Person not yet identified.' I've begun to think that half the population of Washington might have wanted to kill Christian Asman. After all - we have to face it - he wasn't really a very nice fellow."
"Do you want to read the autopsy report?" Kennelly asked.
"I don't like to read them," said Mrs. Roosevelt. "They are always so -"
"Clinical," said Kennelly.
She could not help but smile.
"Anyway, there are no surprises," said Kennelly. "Asman was killed by two shots from a thirty-eight caliber revolver, fired at close range. One bullet tore open the left side of his heart. The other went through his left lung. At the time of his death he had consumed enough alcohol to put his blood-alcohol level at oh-one-nine percent - which means he was drunk. Good and drunk."
"Did anyone find his coat and hat?" she asked.
"Yes. When everybody left the Hi-Ho Lounge, there was an extra hat and coat."
"'Hi-Ho Lounge.' Oh, dear!"
"Are there any witnesses to Mr. Asman's having been in the Hi-Ho Lounge? Did anyone see him leave?"
"We're checking. The bartender and the waitresses are scattered all over the city, it being Sunday. We'll talk to them tomorrow evening."
"Does it sound to you like a professional killing?" asked Mrs. Roosevelt.
"Well, whoever did it was calm and cool," said Kennelly.
"Sunday ..." she said quietly. "I think you two gentlemen deserve the rest of the day off. I'm afraid there's not much we can do, anyway."
Maybe there wasn't much for them to do the rest of that day. But there was plenty for her.
That afternoon the First Lady attended an outdoor meeting on the Ellipse. It was held outdoors because the people who had come could not afford to rent a hall. They were farmers displaced by the combined tragedies of the Depression and the Dust Bowl. Not many could even afford to come to Washington. Many were there as representatives of friends and neighbors who had collected money to make it possible for them to come - and, even so, some of them had ridden in boxcars or hitchhiked. They had come in mid-winter because this was their slow season, when they could give their time to a visit to the capitol in hope of making the government hear their pleas.
They were there this winter to urge Congress to enact the Bankhead-Jones Farm Tenant Bill, which was designed, they had heard, to make it possible for them to make their living as farmers, the only thing they knew how to do, and get off the relief rolls.
There were only a few hundred of them. They were ragged. Some of them looked malnourished.
Mrs. Roosevelt talked with a girl who said she was eighteen yeas old. She was pregnant. Her bulging belly was not quite covered by a frayed black coat fastened with safety pins in place of missing buttons. She wore a pair of man's high-top shoes, several sizes too big for her. Her dirty hair was stringy, her complexion splotched.
"My dear, should you have come?" the First Lady asked. "In your condition, it might have been better if you had stayed at home."
"Home done come, Ma'am," said the girl.
"I ... I'm sorry. How do you mean your home -?"
"We-uns live in our truck. Me and the ol' man and the baby ...and th' other baby, comin'. Come from West Virginia. Ain' nothin' else to do. Ain' got no land no more. Ain' got no work. Might's well come see if we can argue for some help."
Secretary of Agriculture Henry Wallace was standing beside the First Lady, listening.
"Do you know who we are?" Mrs. Roosevelt asked the girl.
The girl shook her head.
"This is Mr. Wallace, Mr. Henry Wallace, the secretary of agriculture. And I am Mrs. Roosevelt."
The girl's mouth fell open, and she glanced back and forth between them; but the First Lady remained uncertain that the girl knew who she and Wallace were.
"We are going to do all we can to help you, dear. Everything we can. As quickly as we can."
Mrs. Roosevelt did not make a speech that day. In the damp cold of that February afternoon, she met and talked personally with nearly every one of the farmers and their wives.
On Monday morning the First Lady telephoned the Georgetown home of Senator John Fisher shortly after ten o'clock - when, she had surmised, the senator himself would have left the house for Capitol Hill. As she had anticipated, Joan Fisher answered. Mrs. Roosevelt asked her if she would mind stopping by the White House at her earliest convenience. Joan Fisher said she could be there in an hour. Her tone suggested that she suspected the invitation was actually a summons.
Mrs. Roosevelt spent that hour dictating her column and going through mail. The young woman was prompt and arrived by eleven.
Instinctively, the First Lady was prepared to like Joan Fisher. She was one of those striking blondes who might have been obtrusively spectacular; but she had subdued her appearance in a measured way that suggested she was embarrassed about being so beautiful, but couldn't help it. She had on a black knit wool dress, with skirt at mid-calf length as style dictated. She wore a strand of pearls and a small diamond in a gold setting on her right hand.
Conceding inwardly that her imagination might have escaped discipline, Mrs. Roosevelt thought she saw something more in Joan Fisher: that the young woman was a little cynical and world-weary, as well as discouraged and unhappy.
"I am sorry to have to ask you to come to see me on such an unfortunate occasion, Miss Fisher. I know the death of Mr. Christian Asman must distress you deeply."
Joan Fisher shrugged, as though the death of Asman only added another element to a burdensome life. "He was a friend," she said quietly.
"Miss Fisher," said Mrs. Roosevelt a little more firmly, "I have to ask you some rather personal questions. I have asked you to come here, since I believe it will be easier for you to talk to me than it would be to talk to an investigator from the District Police."
"He was murdered," the young woman said dully.
"More than that, he was a suspect in another murder."
Joan Fisher's eyes widened. "Chris ... My god, who could he have murdered?"
"For the moment, I will not answer that question. What I want to know is, can you think of anyone he might have wanted to kill?"
Joan Fisher shook her head slowly.
"Then, can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Mr. Asman?"
"My father, of course," she answered. "He threatened to do it."
"I feel I can hardly ask you if you think it's possible your father did it."
"Go ahead and ask me. I'll tell you. It's possible. I don't think he did, but he could have. Chris was killed - what? Eight-thirty or nine o'clock? My father was not at home. Saturday night is his poker night. They don't begin to play until nine. It's possible he shot Chris and went on to his poker game. Not likely, but possible."
"So you yourself were at home Saturday evening?"
"Do you think I killed him?"
"No. But we may as well hear you say you didn't."
"My father's poker night is my mother's bridge night," said Joan Fisher. "Three of her friends were at the house all evening. I serve their drinks and food."
Inwardly Mrs. Roosevelt was relieved: for the young woman, first, but also to have a name off her list of suspects.
"Your father says you were at one time engaged to marry Congressman Metcalf."
"Yes. We broke off the engagement about three months ago."
"I said I have to ask personal questions. Was your relationship with Mr. Asman the reason you and the congressman parted?"
"No, not really. I don't think you could say that."
"Were you seeing Mr. Asman when you were still engaged to Congressman Metcalf?"
Joan Fisher was becoming increasingly disturbed by the questions; whether from outrage over their violation of her privacy or because the questions were about to elicit something she didn't want to tell, Mrs. Roosevelt could not be certain. But the young woman's face had stiffened. Her lips were rigid.
"I began to see Chris when I was still engaged to Vern," she said curtly.
"Mr. Asman seems to have had a singular appeal to young women," said the First Lady. "I have become aware that he dated at least one other in the week before he died."
"Name your one other," Joan Fisher demanded.
"Correct me if I am mistaken," said Mrs. Roosevelt, "but I believe you were with Mr. Asman at the Farragut Bar on Thursday evening. He took you home in a taxi. Then -"
"We were being followed!"
"By the police," said the First Lady. "I told you Mr. Asman was suspected of murder. In any event, he took you home. Then he went to the Gayety Burlesque Theater, where he met a Miss Stormy Skye, a striptease dancer. He took her home, and she spent the night with him."
<#FROWN:L10\>"Every effort will be made to keep the matter confidential, Mr. Gillsworth," he said. "What exactly is it?"
Our client drew a deep breath. "About three weeks ago," he began, "a letter arrived at our home addressed to my wife. Plain white envelope, no return address. At the time Lydia was up north visiting cousins in Pawtucket. Fortunately she had left instructions to open her mail and forward to Rhode Island whatever I thought important and might require her immediate attention. I say 'fortunately' because this particular letter was a vicious threat against Lydia's life. It spelled out the manner of her murder in such gruesome and sickening detail that it was obviously the product of a deranged mind."
"Dreadful," my father said.
"Did the letter give any reason for the threat?" I asked.
"Only in vague terms," Gillsworth said. "It said she must die to pay for what she is doing. That was the phrase used: 'for what she is doing.' Complete insanity, of course. Lydia is the most innocent of women. Her conduct is beyond reproach."
"Do you have the letter with you, Mr. Gillsworth?" father asked.
The poet groaned. "I destroyed it," he said. "And the envelope it came in. I hoped it might be a single incident, and I had no wish that Lydia would ever find and read that piece of filth. So I burned it."
Then we sat in silence. Gillsworth had his head averted, and I was able to study him a moment. He was a tall, extremely thin man with a bony face split by a nose that ranked halfway between Cyrano and Jimmy Durante.
He was wearing a short-sleeved leisure suit of black linen. With his mighty beak, scrawny arms, and flapping gestures he looked more bird than bard. I wondered what a young coed had seen in the poet that persuaded her to plight her troth. But it's hopeless to try to imagine what spouses find in each other. It's better to accept Ursi Olson's philosophy. She just shrugs and says, "There's a cover for every pot."
The silence stretched, and when the seigneur didn't ask the question that had to be asked, I did.
"But you've received another letter?" I prompted Gillsworth.
He nodded, and the stare he gave me seemed dazed, as if he could not quite comprehend the inexplicable misfortune that had befallen him and his wife. "Yes," he said in a voice that lacked firmness. "Two days ago. Lydia is home now, and she opened the letter, read it, showed it to me. I thought it even more disgusting and frightening than the first. Again it said that she must die for what she was doing, and it described her murder in horrendous and obscene detail. Obviously the work of a homicidal maniac."
"How did your wife react to the letter?" my father asked gently.
Gillsworth shifted uncomfortably in his wing chair. "First," he said, "I must give you a little background. My wife has always been interested in the occult and in psychic phenomena. She believes in supernatural forces, the existence of spirits, ESP, and that sort of thing." He paused.
I was curious and asked, "Do you also believe in those things, sir?"
He made one of his floppy gestures. "I don't believe and I don't disbelieve. Quite frankly, the supernatural is of minor interest to me. My work is concerned with the conflict between the finite expression of the human psyche and the Ur-reality concealed with it. I call it the Divine Dichotomy."
My father and I nodded thoughtfully. What else could we do?
"To answer your question, Mr. McNally," Gillsworth continued, addressing mein papa, "my wife reacted to the letter with complete serenity. You may find it remarkable - I certainly do - but she has absolutely no fear of death, no matter how painful or horrid its coming. She believes death is but another form of existence, that we pass from one state to another with no loss, no dimination of our powers, but rather with increased wisdom and added strength. This belief - which she holds quite sincerely, I assure you - enables her to face her own death with equanimity. And so that letter failed to frighten her - if that was its purpose. But it frightens me, I can tell you that. I suggested to Lydia that it might be wise if she returned to Rhode Island for an extended visit until this whole matter can be cleared up."
"Yes," father said, "I think that would be prudent."
"She refused," Gillsworth said. "I then suggested both of us take a trip, perhaps go abroad for a long tour. Again she refused. She will not allow the ravings of a lunatic to alter her life. And she is quite insistent that the matter not be referred to the police. She accepts the entire situation with a sangfroid that amazes me. I cannot take it so lightly. I finally won her permission to seek your counsel with the understanding that you will make no unauthorized disclosure of this nasty business to the police or anyone else."
"You may depend on it," my father said gravely.
"Good," the poet said. "Would you care to see the second letter?"
"By all means."
Gillsworth rose and took a white envelope from his outside jacket pocket. He strode across the room and handed it to my father.
"Just a moment, please," I said. "Mr. Gillsworth, I presume only you and your wife have touched the letter since it was received."
"That's correct."
"Father," I said, "I suggest you handle it carefully, perhaps by the corners. The time may come when we might wish to have it dusted for fingerprints."
He nodded and lifted the flap of the opened envelope with the tip of a steel letter opener taken from his desk. He used the same implement to tease out the letter and unfold it on his desktop. He adjusted the green glass shade of his brass student lamp and began to read. I moved behind his shoulder and peered but, without my reading glasses, saw nothing but a blur.
Father finished his perusal and looked up at the man standing before his desk. "You did not exaggerate, Mr. Gillsworth," he said, his voice tight.
"Would you read it aloud, sir?" I asked him. "I'm afraid I left my glasses upstairs."
He read it in unemotional tones that did nothing to lessen the shock of those words. I shall not repeat the letter lest I offend your sensibilities. Suffice to say it was as odious as Gillsworth had said: a naked threat of vicious murder. The letter was triple-distilled hatred.
Father concluded his reading. The client and I returned to our chairs. The three of us, shaken by hearing those despicable words spoken aloud, sat in silence. The pater looked at me, and I knew what he was thinking. But he'd never say it, never dent my ego in the presence of a third person. That's why I loved him, the old badger. So I said it for him.
"Mr. Gillsworth," I said as earnestly as I could, "I must tell you in all honesty that although I appreciate your confidence in me, I am beyond my depth on this. It requires an investigation by the local police, post office inspectors, and possibly the FBI. Sending a threat of physical harm through the mail is a federal offense. The letter should be analyzed by experts: the typewriter used, the paper, psychological profile of the writer, and so forth. It's possible that similar letters have been received by other Palm Beach residents, and yours may provide a vital lead to the person responsible. I urge you to take this to the proper authorities as soon as you can."
My father looked at me approvingly. "I fully concur with Archy's opinion," he said to Gillsworth. "This is a matter for the police."
"No," the poet said stonily. "Impossible. Lydia has expressly forbidden it, and I cannot flout her wishes."
Now my father's glance at me was despairing. I knew he was close to rejecting Gillsworth's appeal for help, even if it meant losing a client.
"Mr. Gillsworth," I said, leaning toward him, "would you be willing to do this: Allow me to meet and talk with your wife. Let me try to convince her how seriously my father and I take this threat. Perhaps I can persuade her that it really would be best to ask the authorities for help."
He stared at me an excessively long time. "Very well," he said finally. "I don't think it will do a damned bit of good, but it's worth a try."
"Archy can be very persuasive," my father said dryly. "May we keep the letter, Mr. Gillsworth?"
The poet nodded and rose to leave. Handshakes all around. My father carefully slid the opened letter into a clean manila file folder and handed it to me. Then he walked Roderick Gillsworth out to his car. I carried the folder up to my cave and flipped on the desk lamp.
I put on my glasses and read the letter. It was just awful stuff. But that wasn't what stunned me. I saw it was on good quality paper, had been written with a word processor, and had an even right-hand margin.
How does that grab you?
3
I went to sleep that evening convinced that the Peaches letter and the Gillsworth letter had been written on the same machine, if not by the same miscreant. But what the snatching of a cranky cat had to do with a murderous threat against a poet's wife, the deponent kneweth not.
I awoke the next morning full of p. and v., eager to devote a day to detecting and sorry I lacked a meerschaum pipe and deerstalker cap. Unfortunately I also awoke an hour late, and by the time I traipsed downstairs my father had left for the office in his Lexus and mother and Ursi had taken the Ford to go provisioning. Jamie Olson was seated in the kitchen, slurping from a mug of black coffee.
We exchanged matutinal greetings, and Jamie - our houseman and Ursi's husband - asked if I wanted a 'solid' breakfast. Jamie is a septuagenarian with a teenager's appetite. His idea of a 'solid' breakfast is four eggs over with home fries, pork sausages, a deck of rye toast, and a quart of black coffee - with maybe a dram of aquavit added for flavor. I settled for a glass of OJ, buttered bagel, and a cup of his coffee - strong enough to numb one's tonsils.
"Jamie," I said, sitting across the table from him, "do you know Leon Medallion, the Willigans' butler?"
"Uh-huh," he said.
Our Swedish-born houseman was so laconic he made Gary Cooper sound like a chatterbox. But Jamie had an encyclopedic knowledge of local scandals - past, present, and those likely to occur. Most of his information came from the corps of Palm Beach servants, who enjoyed trading tidbits of gossip about their employers. It was partial recompense for tedious hours spent shining the master's polo boots or polishing milady's gems.
"You ever hear anything freaky about Leon?" I asked.
"Like he might be inclined to pinch a few pennies from Mrs. Willigan's purse or perhaps take a kickback from their butcher?"
"Nope."
"How about the cook and the maid? Also straight?"
Jamie nodded."I know Harry Willigan strays from the hearth," I said. "Everyone knows that. What about his missus? Does she ever kick over the traces?"
The houseman slowly packed and lighted his pipe, an old discolored briar, the stem wound with adhesive tape. "Mebbe," he said. "I heard some hints."
"Well, if you learn anything definite, pass it along to me, please. Their cat's been swiped."
"I know."
"Have you heard anything about the Gillsworths, the poet and his wife?"
"She's got the money," Jamie said.
"That I know."
"And she's tight. He's on an allowance."
"What about their personal lives?"
<#FROWN:L11\>
"Mrs. Williams, I know this is difficult for you, but I'd appreciate it if you answered the question. Was it difficult to remember that the driver's hair was gray?"
"No. I remember that it was gray."
"Didn't you earlier say, 'I think it was gray'?"
"Yes, I think that's what I said."
"You think you said, 'I think it was gray'?"
"Yes."
"Does that mean you're not sure it was gray?"
"No, I'm sure it was gray."
"Then why did you say you only thought it was gray?"
"Because it was a long time ago, and it's hard to remember. My daughter was killed, damn you!"
Oh boy, I thought. There it goes. Right up the chimney.
"Your Honor," Atkins said, getting to his feet, "I ask that the court excuse Mrs. Williams's outburst. But I would like to object at this time to the way the defense is badgering and harassing the witness. By my count, she has repeated some five times that the person she saw driving that car had gray hair. The defense attorney insisting that she repeat the color over and over again isn't going to change the color. She has testified that ..."
"Is this your closing argument, Mr. Atkins?"
"No, Your Honor, I was merely ..."
"Your objection is overruled. I do not believe that Mr. Hope was harassing the witness. Jury will ignore all of Mr. Atkins's comments following his objections. Witness will confine herself to answering the questions and will make no further comments on the merits of the case. Proceed, Mr. Hope."
"Just a few more questions," I said. "Mrs. Williams, when is the first time you saw the defendant, Mary Barton?"
"I saw her on television the day she was arrested."
"I mean in person. When did you first see her in person?"
"Today."
"In this courtroom?"
"Yes."
"Had you ever seen her before today?"
"No."
"Never saw her on your street, did you? Pineview and Logan, isn't that what you said?"
"Pineview. The corner of Logan."
"Never saw her on Pineview Street, did you?"
"No."
"Lurking about? Or walking past the house?"
"No."
"Did you ever see her at the bus stop?"
"No."
"Abbott Avenue and Suncrest Drive, isn't that where you said the bus stop is?"
"Yes."
"Just outside the entrance road to the development."
"Yes."
"You never saw Mary Barton waiting there at the bus stop, did you?"
"No."
"Or walking past it?"
"No."
"Never saw her anywhere in the vicinity of your home, isn't that true?"
"I never saw her."
"Or in the vicinity of Suncrest Acres?"
"I never saw her anywhere near there. But ..."
"Did you ever see her in the vicinity of the Judy Cornier Elementary School?"
"No."
"That's the school your daughter attended, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you never saw Mary Barton there, waiting in the area where the children load onto the buses, did you?"
"No."
"Or anywhere in the neighborhood surrounding the school?"
"I never saw her near the school, no."
"Are you familiar with Galin Memorial Park?"
"I know where it is."
"Have you ever been there?"
"Once or twice."
"Ever see Mary Barton in that park?"
"No."
"How about the G&S Supermarket? Do you know it?"
"No."
"Never been there?"
"Never."
"Then you couldn't possibly have seen Mary Barton there, isn't that so?"
"I never saw her there."
"Mrs. Williams ... did your daughter ever mention having been approached by a woman answering the description of Mary Barton?"
"No."
"Did your daughter give you any reason to believe that she was being stalked by a woman answering Mary Barton's description?"
"No, she didn't. But ..."
"Yes, please tell me," I said.
This was a risk. I didn't know what she might say, and a lawyer should never ask a question to which he does not already know the answer. But at the same time, I didn't want the jury to think I was cutting her off. Tell me, I'd said, inviting her to elaborate. But now I was holding my breath.
"I had the feeling someone was watching her."
"Your Honor?" I said.
"I'll allow that," she said, and turned to the jury. "I want to explain to you," she said, "that this is admissible only as to the witness's state of mind and not as to the truth of whether or not someone was actually watching. Go ahead, Mr. Hope."
"I'm sure you worried a great deal about your daughter," I said.
"I did."
"The way any mother would worry about her seven-year-old daughter going off into the world alone."
"Yes."
"But you didn't have any real reason to expect she was in imminent danger, did you?"
"No."
"That is, you didn't actually see anyone who might pose a threat to her."
"No, I just had this feeling."
"Well, feelings aside, you certainly never saw Mary Barton near any of the places your daughter frequented, did you?"
"No."
"Your home ... her school ... the bus stop ...?"
"No."
"In fact, did you ever see Mary Barton anywhere near your daughter?"
"No."
"Thank you, no further questions," I said.
"No further questions," Atkins said.
"Let's adjourn till tomorrow at nine," Rutherford said.
8
The distances troubled Toots most.
"What I don't understand," she told Warren, "is why she would've started her rampage ..."
"Well, if she did it," Warren said.
"Well, we have to believe she didn't do it."
"Amen," Warren said.
"But for the sake of argument, if she did it, why would she've started her rampage ..."
"If you can call it that," Warren said.
"Call it whatever you want to call it, okay? An extended adventure, okay? Why would she've started it so far from home?"
"Why indeed?"
"Take a look at this map," she said.
They were in a diner on the South Tamiami Trail, sitting in the booth closest to the door. All day long, they'd been trying to come up with something on Charlotte Carmody. So far, they had nothing. But nothing looked better over dinner. Warren had ordered a couple of hamburgers and a glass of beer. Toots had ordered turkey breast and Swiss on rye, no mayo, but lots of mustard. She was drinking a glass of milk. The day she'd kicked cocaine, she also stopped drinking anything alcoholic. Substance abuse was substance abuse. That's what she'd learned and that's what she believed.
The diner was decorated with Santa Clauses and red and green bells hanging from red and green tinsel stretched from corner to corner. A sickly-looking, artificial, miniature white Christmas tree was on the corner near the cash register. Nothing down here ever looked Christmasy. Warren wondered why they even bothered. He took a look at the map.
Somerset, where little Jenny Lou Williams had lived before her disappearance, was some ninety-eight miles from Calusa. Toots had marked the town with the numeral 1 in a circle. It was close enough to Eagle Lake to make it an attractive inland location, but its real advantage was its proximity to all the lakes in Osceola County, one of the loveliest areas in all Florida. Moreover, Route 17 was a major north-south artery, providing easy access to other parts of the state.
"The next one was snatched in Alietam," Toots said, and put her finger on the circled numeral 2. "Kimberly Holt. About forty miles outside Calusa."
For the most part, the towns dotting this inland part of the state were featureless and unattractive; even the landscape looked dry and dusty, dotted with scruffy palmettos and cabbage palms, gnarled scrub oaks twisting mossy branches against a brassy sky.
"And finally," Toots said, poking her forefinger at the circled numeral 3, "little Felicity Hammer was grabbed right here in Calusa. Now, it's entirely possible that Mary Barton drove the ninety-some-odd miles for Calusa to Somerset in search of her first victim ..."
"That would've meant almost a two-hundred-mile round trip," Warren said.
"Exactly my point. That's a lot of traveling, Warren."
"It is."
"Mary isn't stupid ..."
"Far from it."
"So why'd she range so far afield? Didn't she realize a stranger in any of the dinky little towns would be noticed? And remarked upon? And remembered later? Do you see my point, Warren? If she planned to bury her victims in her own backyard, why not choose them in Calusa, kill them in Calusa, the way she finally did with Felicity?"
"You're making Matthew's closing argument."
"I'm making the only argument he's got," Toots said, and shook her head. "I'll tell you something, Warren, if we don't come up with something to impeach Carmody when she takes the stand ..."
"I know," Warren said.
"She's the one we really have to worry about. She's the one who saw Mary burying that kid."
"Yeah," Warren said glumly.
Toots was silent for a moment.
Then she said, "You think she's innocent?"
"I hope she is," Warren said.
The voter registration list from which they were working named the residents of 603 Palmetto Court as Bradley Morse and Nettie Morse, presumably his wife. The Morses lived in the same sort of cinder-block and stucco house that Mary lived in. In fact, all of the houses here in Crescent Cove, as the development was called, were of the same inexpensive construction, creating the look of a hastily constructed 1930s shantytown. Actually, the houses had been built in the late fifties, when Calusa was experiencing a boom that would transform it from a sleepy fishing village to a city of fifty-thousand-plus people.
Despite its name, Crescent Cove wasn't on water. If it had been, the homes here would have become treasures to be purchased, bulldozed, and replaced with houses costing half a million bucks or more. In the state of Florida, the only thing more precious than cocaine was water. The Cove in the development's name came from pure whimsy. The Crescent was somewhat architecturally founded in that the layout of the development was in fact semicircular, the outermost rim containing more houses than the innermost, which was called a court because of its comparative coziness. The only mildly interesting house in Crescent Cove belonged to Mary Barton. And the only thing that made it special was the garden in which the dead little girls had been found on a sunny September morn. There were five houses in the semicircle that formed Crescent Court. Lights were burning in all five of them.
They'd started their canvass of Mary's neighborhood on her own block and had worked inward over the past several days until they were now at the development's hub. There weren't many more houses to go, and so far they'd been unable to turn up anything Matthew could use against Charlotte Carmody when the state attorney called her. Given Atkins's chronological approach, they hoped that wouldn't be for some time yet. But if he changed his mind and decided to put her on tomorrow -
"Watching television," Toots said, and nodded toward the house ahead. She'd based her conclusion on the fact that the light showing in one of the front rooms, presumably the living room, had a bluish cast to it. Warren didn't ask her how come she knew the people in there were watching television. He himself knew that if you wanted to fool a burglar into thinking you were home watching the TV, you screwed a blue light into one of your lamps, drew the blinds, and felt at least partially safe when you went out on the town.
This was a Tuesday night, not a big night out in Calusa, though nowadays not too many people were going out to eat, anyway. More often than not, even on Saturday nights, people were staying home. Renting a video, sending out for pizza, that was about all they could afford for an evening's entertainment. In most cities and towns, you didn't go out because you couldn't afford it. In other cities and towns, you didn't go out because you were afraid you'd get killed on the streets. A thousand points of light were shining in living rooms all over America, a real legacy.
<#FROWN:L12\>
"The local minister, man named Orestes Tillis," Jackie said. "He wants to be a state senator."
"Anyone would," I said. "So Hawk and I are going to clean up Double Deuce and you're going to cover it, and Marge Eagen is going to be able to charge more for commercial time on her show. And Rev Tillis will get elected."
"I know you're being cynical, but I guess, in fact, that's the truth. On the other hand, if you do clean up Double Deuce, it really will be good for the people there. Regardless of Marge Eagen or Orestes Tillis. And whoever killed that child and her baby ..."
"Sure," I said.
"He's just mad," Hawk said, "because he likes to think he's a catcher in the rye."
"I'm disappointed that I didn't figure it out something was up."
"I don't follow this," Jackie said.
"Hawk seemed to be helping people for no good reason. Hawk doesn't do that."
"Except you," Hawk said.
"Except me," I said. "And Susan, and probably Henry Cimoli."
"Who's Susan?" Jackie said.
"She's with me," I said.
"I thought of money, or getting even, or paying some thing off. I never thought of you."
"Me?"
"He's doing it for you."
Jackie looked at Hawk. Her hand still rested quietly on his thigh.
"That why you're doing it, Hawk?" she said.
"Sure," Hawk said.
She smiled at him, as good a smile as I'd seen in a while - except for Susan's - and patted his thigh.
"That's very heartwarming," she said.
Hawk smiled back at her and put one hand on top of her hand as it rested on his thigh.
Good heavens!
CHAPTER 12
As soon as we pulled into the Double Deuce quadrangle the Reverend Tillis and a woman with short gray-streaked hair came out of the building. Tillis had on a dashiki over his suit today. The woman wore faded pink jeans and a Patriots sweatshirt. Hawk got out of the car as they approached. Neither of them looked at me.
"This is Mrs. Brown," Tillis said. "She has a complaint about the Hobarts."
Hawk smiled at her and nodded his head once.
"Go ahead," Tillis said to her.
"They been messing with my boy," the woman said. "He going to school and they take his books away from him and they take his lunch money. I saved out that lunch money and they took it. And one of them push him down and tell him he better get some protection for himself."
The woman put both hands on her hips as she talked and her face was raised at Hawk as if she were expecting him to challenge her and she was ready to fight back.
"Where's your son?" Hawk said.
She shook her head and looked down.
"Boy's afraid to come," Tillis said.
Hawk nodded.
"Which one pushed him down?"
The woman raised her head defiantly. "My boy won't say."
"You know where I can find them?" Hawk said.
"They hanging on the corner, Hobart and McCrory," she said. "That's where they be hassling my boy."
Hawk nodded again. I got out of the car on Hawk's side. Jackie got out the other.
"What you planning on?" Tillis said to Hawk.
"I tell you how to write sermons?" Hawk said.
"I represent these people," Tillis said. "I got a right to ask."
"Sure," Hawk said. "You know Jackie, I guess."
Tillis nodded and put out his hand. "Jackie. Working on that show?"
"Tagging along," she said.
"Figure this is for us?" I said.
"See what we do," Hawk said. "Otherwise no point to it. It ain't exactly the crime of the century."
"Mrs. Brown, I think you and I should allow Hawk to deal with this," Reverend Tillis said, making it sound regretful. Hawk grinned to himself.
There was no one in sight as we walked across the project. Jackie stayed with us. I looked at Hawk. He made no sign. It was warm for April. Nothing moved. The sun shone down. No wind stirred. Jackie took a small tape recorder out of her shoulder bag.
Ahead of us was a loud radio. The sound of it came from a van, parked at the corner. A couple kids were sitting in the van with the doors open. Major leaned against a lamp-post. The big kid that Hawk had nailed last time was standing near him. The others were fanned out around. There were eighteen of them. I didn't see any weapons. The music abruptly shut off. The sound of Jackie's heels was suddenly loud on the hot top.
Major smiled at us as we stopped in front of him. I heard Jackie's tape recorder click on.
"What's you got the wiggle for, Fro?" Major said. "She for backup?"
The kids fanned out around him laughed.
"Which one of you hassled the Brown kid?" Hawk said.
"We all brown kids here, Fro," Major said.
Again laughter from the gang.
Hawk waited. Still no sign of weapons. I was betting on the van. It had a pair of doors on the side that open out. One of them was open maybe six inches. It would come from there. I wasn't wearing a jacket. The gun on my hip was apparent. It didn't matter. They all knew I had one, anyway. Hawk's gun was still out of sight under a black silk windbreaker he wore unzipped. That didn't matter either, they knew he had one to.
"What you going to do, Fro, you find the hobo that hassed him?" Major said.
"One way to find out," Hawk said.
Major turned and grinned at the audience. Then he looked at the big kid next to him.
"John Porter, you do that?"
John Porter said "Ya," which was probably half the things John Porter could say. From his small dark eyes no gleam of intelligence shone.
"There be your man, Fro," Major said. "Lass time you mace him, he say you sucker him. He ain't ready, he say."
Hawk grinned. "That right, John Porter?"
The cork was going to pop. There was no way that it wouldn't. Without moving my head I kept a peripheral fix on the van door.
John Porter said, "Ya."
"You ready now, John Porter?" Hawk said.
John Porter obviously was ready now. His knees were flexed, his shoulders hunched up a little. He had his chin tucked in behind his left shoulder. There was some scar tissue around his right eye. There was the scar along his jawline, and his nose looked as if it had thickened. Maybe boxed a little. Probably a lot of fights in prison.
"Care to even things up for the sucker punch?" Hawk said.
"John Porter say he gon whang yo ass, Fro," Major said. "First chance he get."
The laughter still skittered around the edges of everything Major said. But his voice was tauter now than it had been.
"Right, John Porter?" Major said.
John Porter nodded. His eyes reminded me of the eyes of a Cape buffalo I'd seen once in the San Diego Zoo. He kept his stare on Hawk. It was what the gang kids called mad-dogging. Hawk's grin got wider and friendlier.
"Well, John Porter," Hawk said, friendly as a Bible salesman, "You right 'bout that sucker punch. And being as how you a brother and all, I'll let you sucker me. Go on ahead and lay one upside my head, and that way we start out even, should anything, ah, develop."
John Porter looked at Major.
"Go on, John Porter, do what the man say. Put a charge on his head, Homes."
John Porter was giving this some thought, which was clearly hard for him. Was there some sort of trickery here?
"Come on, John Porter," Major said. "Man, you can't fickle on me now. You tol me you going to crate this Thompson first chance. You tol me that, Homes." In everything Major said there was derision.
John Porter put out a decent overhand left at Hawk, which missed. Hawk didn't seem to do anything, but the punch missed his chin by a quarter of an inch. John Porter had done some boxing. He shuffled in behind the left with a right cross, which also missed by a quarter of an inch. John Porter began to lose form. He lunged and Hawk stepped aside and John Porter had to scramble to keep his balance.
"See, the thing is," Hawk said, "You're in over your head, John Porter. You don't know what you are dealing with here."
John Porter rushed at Hawk this time, and Hawk moved effortlessly out of the way. John Porter was starting to puff. He wasn't quite chasing Hawk yet. He had enough ring savvy left to know that you could get your clock cleaned by a Boy Scout if you started chasing him incautiously. But chasing Hawk cautiously wasn't working. John Porter had been trained, probably in some jailhouse boxing program, in the way to fight with his fists. And it wasn't working. It had probably nearly always worked. He was 6'2" and probably weighed 240, and all of it muscle. He might not have lost a fight since the fourth grade. Maybe never. But he was losing this one and the guy wasn't even fighting. John Porter didn't get it. He stopped, his hands still up, puffing a little, and squinted at Hawk.
"What you doing?" he said.
Major stepped behind John Porter and kicked him in the butt.
"You fry him, John Porter, and you do it now," Major said.
There was no derision in Major's voice.
"He can't," Hawk said, not unkindly.
John Porter made a sudden sweep at Hawk with his right hand and missed. The side door of the van slid an inch and I jumped at it and rammed it shut with my shoulder on someone's hand, someone yelled in pain, something clattered on the street. I kept my back against the door and came up with the Browning and leveled it sort of inclusively at the group. Hawk had a left handful of John Porter's hair. He held John Porter's head down in front of him, and with his right hand, pressed the muzzle of a Sig Sauer automatic into John Porter's left ear. Jackie had dropped flat to the pavement and was trying with her left hand to smooth her skirt down over her backside, while her right hand pushed the tape recorder as far forward toward the action as she could.
Somewhere on the other side of McCrory Street a couple of birds chirped. Inside the truck someone was grunting with pain. I could feel him struggle to get his arm out of the door. A couple of gang members were frozen in midreach toward inside pockets or under jackets.
"Now this time," Hawk was saying, "We all going to walk away from this."
No one moved. Major stood with no expression on his face, as if he were watching an event that didn't interest him.
"Next time some of you will be gone for good," Hawk said. "Spenser, bring him out of the truck."
I kept my eyes on the gang and slid my back off the door. It swung open and a small quick-looking kid no more than fourteen, in a black Adidas sweatsuit, came out clutching his right wrist against him. In the gutter by the curb, below the open door, was an automatic pistol. I picked it up and stuck it in my belt.
"You all walk away from here, now," Hawk said. No one moved.
"Do what I say," Hawk said. There was no anger in his voice. Hawk pursed his lips as he looked at the gang members standing stolidly in place. Behind him Jackie was on her feet again, her tape recorder still running, some sand clinging to the front of her dress.
Hawk smiled suddenly.
"Sure," he said.
He looked at me.
"They won't leave without him," Hawk said.
I nodded.
<#FROWN:L13\>"So what is it, Lieutenant, you gonna read me my rights?" He began to chuckle deep down in his chest. The chuckle quickly became a cough so violent it worried Koesler.
When the coughing finally stopped, Tully said, "No, Carl ... not yet, anyway. Just some questions. You gonna invite us in?"
Costello did not appear eager to reply. He peered at the group on the porch one by one, studying each unhurriedly as he had studied Tully earlier. Then he got to Koesler. Costello pulled up short. "Hey, you a father? You a Catholic priest?"
For the first time in his life Koesler was reluctant to identify himself. He had no idea what would follow the admission that he was, indeed, a priest. Was the whole family in on the killing of Father Keating? Probably. Did the whole family know that Guido had confessed the murder to him? Probably not.
"Wassamatter," Costello said good-naturedly, "you forget if you're a father or not?"
Koesler reddened. "No ... of course not. Yes, I'm a priest, a Catholic priest. Father Koesler."
"You should watch the company you keep, Father." Costello chuckled again, and again it developed into a coughing spasm. He turned his head slightly to address his grandson standing behind him. "Wassamatter with you, anyway, sonny? You see a father on the porch and you don't invite him in? What are you - a Catholic or what?"
"Sorry, Gampa. I woulda done that, but the father came in this package deal. I didn't think you'd want the heat in here."
"We got better hospitality than that, Sonny." He turned back to the group. "Come on in, fellas ... and good lady. Though I must tell you, Lieutenant, if you hadn't had the father along, you woulda had to have some paper with you to get in. But ..." It was a verbal shrug. "... what the hell; it's a short life."
Tully entered first. But Costello stood back waiting for Koesler to cross the threshold. "You bless my home with your presence, Father.
"Hey," his voice raised only slightly, "Momma: Come see who come to visit us."
As Mangiapane and Moore entered, with Sonny bringing up the rear, from somewhere in the back of the house, probably the kitchen, since she was drying her hands on an apron, came a gray-haired woman. Though she might have been of a certain age, she was still quite attractive; she had held on to her youthful figure remarkably.
"Father," Costello announced, "here is my wife, Vita. Vita, see who this is. It's ... uh ... Father ... uh ..."
"Koesler," the priest supplied. He caught the surprise in her eyes. Evidently this home did not get a lot of priest visitors.
"Welcome, Father," she said. "You bless our home with your presence." She walked quickly to Koesler, took his hand with both of hers, and kissed it. Instinctively he started to pull away, thought better of it, and left his hand in Vita's clasp.
Koesler had almost forgotten that once that had been a time-honored custom. Long ago, when newly ordained priests blessed people, the faithful would kiss the hands that so recently had been anointed with holy oil. Even then, Koesler had felt squeamish about the practice.
Then, also in those early days, sometimes the elderly ailing people would kiss his hands when he brought them Communion.
He wondered about what he had seen and heard just now. Somehow, though he knew it was far too facile, Koesler expected all Italians - as well as Poles, Irish, and Hispanics - to be Catholic. But he never would have expected to be greeted so warmly and with such faith by the Mafia or their family. He was reminded of how comfortable and at home Jesus always seemed to be in the presence of outcasts and those whom society branded as hopeless sinners. He resolved to meditate on this later when he could be alone in prayer.
For the moment, despite the cordial welcome, he had to be on his guard. There was still the secret to protect.
Vita Costello, after a few more words of welcome for Koesler - and an invitation to dinner, which the priest graciously declined - returned to the rear of the house whence emanated appetizing aromas of marinara and meatballs.
Carl Costello led the way into a spacious living room, which looked as if it had been furnished in the twenties and thereafter left untouched. The elderly gentleman moved with deliberation to a chair that appeared to be both comfortable and his. Behind the chair Remo stood almost at attention. He might have been a guardian angel or a sentry.
Koesler and Tully each picked an easy chair; Moore sat on the couch. Mangiapane remained standing behind the couch, mirroring Remo's angel-or-sentry stance.
Costello held up his left hand, with the index and middle fingers extended. For a moment Koesler wondered why the don was giving the peace sign. But Remo quickly lit a cigarette and placed it between the upraised fingers. Koesler now knew the source of Costello's cough.
"Now, gentle lady and gentlemen," Costello began, "in what way can we be of service to you?"
Innocent or guilty of whatever, Carl Costello was cool. He might easily, thought Koesler, have been a conscientious citizen eager to help the police in any possible way.
"Carl," Tully said, "you heard we got a missing priest in Detroit?"
"Bloomfield Hills, I heard, Lieutenant." Costello was almost apologetic.
Tully nodded. "He lives in Bloomfield Hills. He's a Detroit priest."
"It was on the radio and TV, is how I know," Costello said. "I don't get around in those circles too much anymore."
"The last anyone saw of him - that we've talked to - he was heading for Detroit. That was Friday afternoon last. No one's heard from him since."
"Is that so!" Costello said. Impossible to tell whether the expression was sincere or sardonic. "Perhaps he will return soon."
"It's been four days, Carl. That's too long to be missing."
"It is indeed. But there is always hope. Sonny, why don't you drop over by church tonight and have a Mass said for ..." Costello looked to each of his four visitors for assistance.
The long pause proved too much for Koesler. "John Keating," he said, "Father John Keating."
Costello nodded good-naturedly toward the priest. "Thank you, Father.
"Sonny, write that down: Father John Keating - wait: Father, maybe you would say the Mass."
Koesler felt most uncomfortable. If he consented, Costello would offer him money. Which he would refuse. He - most Detroit priests - no longer accepted Mass stipends. Costello would insist; there would be explanations. All very inappropriate.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Costello," Koesler said. "Our parish is booked solid for weeks with Mass intentions. I am praying for him though." All of that was true. However, the prayers were for the repose of Keating's soul.
"I understand, Father," Costello said. He turned his head. "Sonny, go to Holy Family. They can't be so busy. Have the Mass said."
"Right, Gampa." Remo was writing down the name.
"Carl," Tully spoke pointedly, "get serious."
How serious can I get, Costello's gesture implied.
"You know anything about the missing priest?"
"Me! I live in Bloomfield Hills? I should know this priest?"
"He's worked other parishes, some in Detroit, even Little Italy. You could know him from lots of places."
"Anybody could know him from lots of places, Lieutenant. Come on, why me?"
Tully's storied patience was wearing thin. "Carl, guess whose car that is out there that's attracting all that attention?"
Costello leaned forward and craned for a better view of the bustle practically outside his front window. "Well, now, Lieutenant, I learned to add. The kind, you know, where two plus two equals four. I'd guess that since you been asking me all these questions about a missing priest named Father Keating, which I've never seen in my life, and since the car in question is parked almost in front of my house, I would guess that that car belongs to the missing priest, Father Keating." Costello looked at Tully with the wide-eyed innocence of a schoolchild who hopes his answer is the right one. "How'm I doin'?"
"Until we came in your house and started questioning you, you weren't curious about what all those police officers were doing with that car?"
"I seen cops before."
"You didn't see that car before today?"
"I didn't say that."
"You did see the car before today."
"I didn't say that either."
"One of your neighbors has been watching it for four days. That's why he called the cops and reported a suspicious vehicle."
"He done good."
"And you?"
"I mind my own business. There's a law against that?"
"You want us to believe there's no connection between you and that car? That it's just a coincidence that a car owned by a person who's been missing four days ends up practically in front of your house?"
"I don't care what you believe."
The conversation was getting a bit intense. It was Costello who tried to defuse it. With a tone of calm reason, he said, "Look, Lieutenant, what it this? We both know I've been around the block a few times. If I done anything to this priest - and God forbid I did! - I'm gonna have his car parked in front of my house? Like I hang a red flag from the car's antenna? Be reasonable, Lieutenant. Gimmee credit for being more than a dumb school kid!"
"Maybe one of your family left it there."
"And I didn't check into it?"
"You didn't notice the car until today."
"I didn't say that. Besides, Lieutenant, why would I have anything to do with a missing priest?"
"Maybe one of your family had something to do with it. Maybe Guido. Maybe Remo. Sonny here doesn't look too clean."
Remo stiffened. Costello checked him with a gesture.
Yes, yes, yes, Koesler thought. Guido! Go after Guido.
"Look, Lieutenant," Costello said, "nobody here had anything to do with your missing priest. Ain't there supposed to be a motive for this kind of thing? Why would we mess with a priest? Especially a priest from Bloomfield Hills?"
"That's what we want to find out, Carl. Why? Somebody want him iced bad enough to hire a hit? Unpaid bills? Lots of possibilities."
Yes, yes, yes, Koesler thought. Gambling debts. Why isn't this ESP working? It was Guido and it was gambling debts. Can't you hear my thoughts, Lieutenant Tully? Can't you read my mind?
"You been reading too many detective stories, Lieutenant. Whoever put that car there probably had a grudge or something. We didn't have nothin' to do with it."
"You didn't have anything to do with the car. You didn't have anything to do with the priest."
"What I said."
"Then you won't mind if we look around your house, eh, Carl? You got nothin' to hide."
For the first time, Costello's demeanor became deadly serious. "For that, Lieutenant, you gotta have some paper."
Tully rose. Koesler and Moore followed suit. "We'll be back."
The four found themselves out on the sidewalk. Only a few of the gawkers turned to look at them, and those spared only a momentary glance. The police checking out the abandoned car were far more interesting.
"Anyone's rump get hit by that door?" Mangiapane asked.
Moore laughed. "We did get ushered out rather firmly," she agreed.
But Tully was all business. "Manj, stay here. Make sure that we question everybody in every house on this block. Neighboring blocks too. We ought to be able to find somebody who saw something out of place - anything odd. That car didn't just grow there.
"Angie, get a warrant. I want our people to go through every inch of that place. Somebody there is in on this. Maybe not the whole family. But someone.
"I'll take the father home. I want to check with Organized Crime, see what they've got on this family. OC ought to have the latest sheet on Costello. I got a hunch if I let OC know what's going on, they might be able to put some pressure on the family."
<#FROWN:L14\>
Her question appealed to the teacher in him. Imagine being here as many years as Elaine had been and not knowing about the Black Museum. Every time he said the phrase, Phil dropped his voice into Orson Welles register, he couldn't help it, but of course Elaine would not have heard that old radio program.
"It's time you saw it. Anything on right now?"
"Your calendar is clear."
"Have someone cover for you."
They took the elevator to the basement and went through a heating tunnel to a building across the street from the courthouse, emerging into the furnace room. The door out of there was not flush with the floor and Elaine had to lift her foot over the sill. Captain Keegan shut the steel door of the furnace room behind them. They now stood in a large, low-ceilinged basement filled with rows and rows of filing cabinets. He took her to the area where recent cases were found and led her down an aisle. In a minute he was unlocking a drawer. Elaine stood close beside him when he pulled it out. It was filled with packages wearing red tags that bore a case number and then an exhibit number.
"We'd need a list to know what each number represents."
Elaine reached into the drawer and began squeezing the packages, but she could not find what was certainly a purse. "I can see the purse so plainly as it lay on the table of exhibits at the trial. You'd think I could detect it through a layer of paper."
"We're not even sure it's here. Didn't you come across that list when you made the report?"
She wasn't sure. Women. Phil wondered if she coveted that purse. Well, there was no way she was going to get it. He should have thought of the list before taking her over here. Or she should have. He pushed the drawer shut and locked it.
"Was Jones her real name, Captain?"
"There'd be a court record if she changed it. When and where. We didn't pursue that. No need to."
"How would we have done that?"
"An APB, then hope. My guess would be Vegas."
Finally Elaine tired of talking of the Wilson murder. Murder, not alleged murder. The woman had been tried, convicted, and sentenced and Phil Keegan didn't give a damn about the appeal. Lawyers would enter an appeal for Judas Iscariot. Appeals were a form of legal harassment of the judicial and jury system.
Back in his office he put the Black Museum key in his desk drawer and went off to have a cup of coffee with Cy Horvath.
"Cy, what was Stacey Wilson's name before she changed it?"
"Jones."
"No. I mean before she changed it to Jones?"
Cy's face was impassive through half a minute's thought. "Did she?"
"Just for the fun of it, find out, will you?"
"Vegas?"
"That would be my guess."
Elaine's question had bugged him, as if there was some stone they had left unturned in investigating the murder of Marvin Wilson. Chief Robertson was still sitting on the report, unsure whether to release it to the press. Phil would give him half a day more, then he would leak it. Stacey Wilson's attorneys were already asking what Chief Robertson had to hide.
12
Cy Horvath felt toward Phil Keegan as a son feels toward his father, which meant that he could see the faults of the man as well as his strengths. Keegan was the best cop Cy knew, but then he was Cy's model, so how could he fail to meet the standard? He was hard-headed, cool-minded, methodical, tenacious. He refused to be deflected by side issues, he kept to the job, he got results.
Usually. Most of the time. It is not in the nature of the job, or of live, to be successful every time. But failure should be explained by factors over which one had no control. Phil Keegan had been a cop a long time and time had taken its toll, no doubt of that. Phil Keegan made mistakes. But Cy Horvath had not imagined he would live long enough to question one of Phil's successes.
The case against Stacey Wilson had been too easy. The pieces fell into place without much effort on their part. Billy Wheaton stuck to his story that Stacey had been in the Lucky Tyke, the McNaughtons reluctantly testified that she had been away from the house during the days in question, a massive life insurance policy taken out on Marvin Wilson in her favor came to light. The nature and occasion of the marriage was public knowledge. Phil was right to say the case was open and shut. He was right, too, that Robertson was an idiot to stonewall when the appeal was filed. Finally the chief released the report Elaine had written up but only when he was told it was already in the hands of the press. The beasts in the press room having been fed, Phil was rightly expecting nothing but praise for a job well done, if any stories appeared. The news had been the unavailability of a report. No one but the defense lawyers had professed any interest in its contents.
When Phil asked about Stacey's name before the legal change, Cy didn't want to tell his boss he had already checked out the Vegas courts. He reported to Phil after an hour.
"Already?"
"The fax," Cy said. And that is how he had communicated with Vegas months ago.
"One, the change was made in Vegas. Here's the newspaper item."
He slid the faxed news story he'd just taken from his desk to Keegan. The captain read it with a scowl. it was far from a perfect transmission.
"It doesn't say what her name was."
"That's right."
"Check the court." He tilted the page toward the window and squinted. "Judge Melbourne."
Cy slid two other items toward Keegan. Melbourne's obit and a form from Vegas saying that the records requested could not be provided.
"Why the hell not?"
"Because they don't have them. They're missing. Maybe they don't keep records like that past a certain date. I don't know. Should I pursue it?"
"Does it matter?"
"I don't see how."
"Neither do I."
"What made you wonder about it."
"Elaine asked."
Cy turned to look at the plumb young woman plinking away at her computer in the outer office.
"What's this date on these transmissions?" Keegan was holding the fax messages an inch from his nose with his glasses pushed up on his forehead.
"When they were sent."
"February?"
"I wondered at the time."
Cy knew Keegan wouldn't chew him out for it but he didn't like it. He shouldn't. But that was the problem with the Stacey Wilson investigation. They took what was offered them without much questioning. Now Keegan had to wonder why Cy months before and Elaine recently had thought of something he hadn't. So what if it meant nothing? You didn't decide that before the fact. That was what he had learned from Captain Keegan.
They had given Billy Wheaton a bit of a hard time when he placed Mrs. Wilson in the boat, nothing like what the defense lawyers did at the trial, but not just taking the word of a known drunk. Poor Billy had gone on such a toot after the trial he had reeled right out of the world.
Stacey Wilson had insisted she was at the farm all the while her husband was out on his fatal boat ride. The McNaughtons who worked at the farm had to testify they could not say she was there.
"You didn't see her?"
"No."
"She didn't ask for any meals to be prepared?"
"No."
"She had no visitors?"
"No."
"Took no phone calls?"
"No."
"Had her bed been slept in?"
"No."
So it had gone at the trial, for both Mr. and Mrs. McNaughton and each question had shot another hole in Stacey's claim to have been at the farm. Why did she say she'd been there when it was so easily disproved? Cy checked the sequence and found that when she made the claim to have been on the farm, Billy Wheaton had not yet come forward. She didn't care whether the story held up, because she didn't think it would matter. If she hadn't been on the boat she could have claimed to be in Las Vegas or on the moon, it wouldn't have mattered as long as she hadn't been placed in the boat with her husband. Cy Horvath could not get rid of the thought that, crazy as her alibi was, it was the lie of a woman innocent of murder, not guilty of it. But if she was not in the boat with Marvin and not in the house, she must have been somewhere and with someone. If not, she'd just say. The only thing that made sense, granting her everything else, was the revealing who that someone was endangered her more than standing trial for murder.
So what would he have done differently if he had been in Keegan's shoes? Talk to Stacey? With her it had been name, rank, and serial number form the start.
Monahan from the prosecutor's office accepted Cy's offer of a drink but when they got across the street to the Pueblo ordered coffee. The bartender looked at him.
"That pot's been brewing since morning."
"Then it ought to be ready."
"What'll you have, Horvath, milk?"
"You got buttermilk?"
"As a matter of fact I do."
"Give me a glass."
The bartender, who could not have remembered it, said it was like Prohibition or something. Nobody drank anymore.
"He should have been with me last night," Monahan said ruefully. "I still can't believe I got through this day. God knows what I did."
"You going to handle our side when the Wilson case comes up?"
"I could handle that one in my sleep. I could have handled it today."
"She's guilty?"
"As charged."
"If she isn't, she sure is dumb."
"Killing her husband is dumb enough."
"No, but think if she really didn't. Just entertain the thought. Geez, we depended on Billy Wheaton. He should have seen two of her if she was in the boat."
Monahan liked that, but laughing made his head ache. The coffee didn't help, but it gave him something to do in a bar that could not bring him further pain.
"Take Billy out of the picture and what do we have? A woman claiming to be where it's easy as pie to show she wasn't."
"Dumb," Monahan agreed.
"She isn't dumb."
Monahan thought about that. "If she's so damned smart why didn't she just enjoy what she had while she had it? He dumps her, it's a golden parachute. She outlives him, she's got it made. Why press matters? Why buy the stupid insurance policy?"
"That's like saying she was at the house."
"Exactly." Monahan paused. "I think."
"Who's she protecting? Or who is a greater threat than life in the slammer?"
"Thank God for Billy Wheaton."
"Yeah. May he rest in peace."
"Amen. Cy, he was the key to our case."
And what would Stacey's story have been if Billy had come forward earlier, before she claimed to have spent those days at the farm? He would have liked to put that question to the lady herself but, one, she wouldn't tell him and, two, he had no excuse to pay her a visit at Joliet.
The booth they sat in gave them a view of the street outside and the courthouse across the street, a convenience for those playing hooky in the Pueblo. As Cy looked across the street, Elaine McCorkle came skipping down the courthouse steps. Cy was struck by the girlishness of her gait and then he saw why. A man awaited her at the foot of the steps. They embraced and then, arms around one another's waists, hips bumping rhythmically, they came across the street.
<#FROWN:L15\>
How young she had been! She'd worn a full skirt that blew against her slender body, her long black hair free about her shoulders, and John hadn't changed from his waterman's gear, his face as brown as his arms in their rolled-up plain sleeves. They had walked together on hard, wet sand, and hadn't touched each other by so much as a finger. Yet they'd moved close in spirit, and they both knew very well what was happening.
For Alex this had been nothing like her feelings for Rudy Folkes, or for Juan Gabriel. This was her first young love -totally abandoned, without caution or forethought. The acceptance, each of the other, had been complete as they walked together on the sand. Something utterly magical had taken hold of them that evening. Something dangerous.
For her, there had been no choice. It had not been difficult to see one another. They had found delicious, secret places along the Tidewater shores for their lovemaking -never anything as mundane as a room or an ordinary bed. Sometimes it was a field where wildflowers bloomed, or perhaps the russet ground beneath pine trees. And how they had talked, opening their hearts to each other. The stoicism of island men had broken down in John. It seemed that each had understood the other as no one else ever could. That belief, of course, had been their greatest mistake.
Curiously, she had felt no betrayal toward Juan Gabriel. Not then. She knew that nothing could change the special devotion she felt for her husband, but this new love, that she'd never before experienced, had risen in her so strongly that it swept all else away. There'd been no thought of the future, or of who might be hurt. How could this much happiness hurt anyone?
Only one insurmountable problem existed between John and herself. John wanted to marry her and she already was married. Juan Gabriel was an old man -in John's eyes -and he felt she deserved a young man's love. Someone with whom she could build a life, with whom she could have children. Her marriage to Juan Gabriel had brought only one child -a boy who had died as a baby before they had come to this country. There had been no more pregnancies, though they'd tried. What she hadn't understood was the deep island tradition of morality that governed John, even though the part of him that was like his mother could throw off such restrictions for a time.
In some strange way, Alex's relationship with John seemed to exist in another dimension that had nothing to do with her everyday life. In this way she avoided thought, avoided the truth of what was happening, even the truth about herself. John was sure about his life. He wanted to go on with the old ways of the men of his family and be a waterman on Chesapeake Bay out of Tangier Island. He found the dangers and uncertainties of that life to his taste. So, he pleaded with Alex to divorce Juan Gabriel and come to live on the island as his wife. The fact that divorce would never be possible for Juan Gabriel meant nothing to Juan. He had the arrogance of a young man and the rock-hard immovability of all his island-bred ancestors. He could never understand Juan Gabriel's principles, or that Alex Montoro had lived an entire life-time as a ballerina before she even turned twenty-one. Even his mainland upbringing had not touched that fierce, hard core. He was a gentle man, whose hidden, inner fierceness came to frighten her. At first, time spent with John existed on a different plane. An unreal plane, perhaps. Something deep within Alex knew she could never leave Juan Gabriel, never go to live on that tiny, bleak island, burying herself forever. Perhaps she had buried herself in Virginia, but at least she had done so with someone who understood who she had once been, someone who valued her in ways John could never understand. So her refusal wasn't entirely cowardice on her part. An unexpected strength had risen in her -a will strong enough to overcome the emotions she felt in John Gower's arms. Perhaps it was a newly awakened sense of herself, of John, of Juan Gabriel. And she made her choice.
In dark moments, when she was being honest with herself, she knew there had been another reason for her decision not to leave Juan Gabriel. His terrible burst of violence back in Lima was something she could never forget. It was always there at the back of her mind as a warning, and more frightening than the same element in John. Perhaps something in Alex herself had attracted passionate, loving, possessive men, with a depth of violence in their nature.
Juan Gabriel had not been young -even then he was already in his fifties -so it was not the violence of youth that had betrayed him. A hot Spanish anger existed just beneath the surface, ready to explode. When she looked back now she could not be sure that her motive had been one of loyalty to her husband, or fear of what he might do. If she had followed John Gower, they both might be long dead by now. The gun she had seen in Juan Gabriel's safe had been a warning.
After she made her choice, there had been times when she wasn't sure she wanted to go on living. Times when she'd cried herself to sleep because John had married Emily. She was unable to be friends with Emily any longer, and there was loss for her there, too -something Emily, in her innocence, had never understood. Alex could not have endured seeing them together and hearing how happy they were in their marriage, since Emily could turn herself into a proper Tangier wife.
Alex had dealt with pain before, and she dealt with it again, carrying on with her life so that Juan Gabriel was never hurt. The only time she had ever doubted Juan Gabriel's love -so many years later -had been when he had shown her his ebony carving of the black swan. She winced at the memory, and was glad that the carving had been misplaced over the years since his death. She remembered packing it away, but she couldn't remember where. It was just as well, she never wanted to see it again.
Strange that she had loved two men named John -two high-spirited men who could hide their deepest feelings.
When Dolores was born, Juan Gabriel had been exultant with pride, and he had not questioned this sudden miracle. He had wanted this daughter, and from the time she was a baby Dolores had given him an equal love. Sometimes Alex recognized John in Dolores, but Juan Gabriel never suspected, and she could be grateful for that.
John Gower never saw his daughter, nor did she ever tell him it was his child she bore. Nevertheless, with some sixth sense, she felt that he knew. Perhaps, that was why he now wanted to see his granddaughter Susan. Perhaps he had a right to see her? The child of the child of his young love.
To break the spell of her thoughts, Alex reached out to a pad of yellow paper upon which Juan Gabriel had written a few lines. The pad had remained here on his writing table, untouched since he'd left it there. Oddly enough, the lines he'd written were about Tangier Island -only snippets of information. He had never written his novel using the island. Yet he had been picking up the idea again all those years later, shortly before he became ill.
She read the words:
Indians occupied the island before the white man came. Perhaps a thousand years before John Smith sailed into its harbor.
2 1/2 miles long. 1 mile wide. 7 feet above sea level. Fragile, vulnerable to hurricanes.
Residents are of English descent. Elizabethan English can still be heard. The men catch crabs, oysters, fish of various sorts, clams. They are called watermen.
The island has a strange beauty of its own and is peopled with men and women inbred and strong enough to survive all that is asked of them.
Alex stopped reading because Juan Gabriel had started to set down a hint of the island's eerie magic. He'd remembered the sunsets, and he had imagined a storm and written words of tense description. John had belonged to those generations of survivors, as Alex could never have belonged.
She set down the pad, not wanting to be drawn back -unable to help herself.
John! His ruggedly handsome young face was as clear in her mind as though she'd seen him yesterday. There'd been times when she'd forgotten how he looked -but every feature was there now, breaking her heart all over again. To her he would remain always young and strong and passionate. And he would remember her as the girl he had loved so desperately. She had been beautiful then. She had the photographs to prove it. So how could she bear to destroy his memory of her with the reality of old age?
She'd continued to hold Juan Gabriel's pencil in her fingers, and she set it back in the jug, pricking her thumb with the sharp point as she did so. She regarded the lead mark as though it was somehow important -a link between present and past.
There was still a question she didn't know how to answer. What if Susan had a right to know this story, and to meet her grandfather before it was too late? How was she to decide?
It was always, so quickly, too late.
Four
Susan climbed the two flights of stairs to the tower room, finding that the last steps took a special effort. She felt utterly weary, yet wide awake, her thoughts whirling in confusion. What she needed now was to be alone in a quiet space, so that she needn't think at all.
In a little while she would take a hot, soaking bath to help her fall asleep, but for now she wanted only to lie down and rest. Without undressing, she lay full-length on the bed and closed her eyes. At once the faces and incidents of the day began to flash through her mind, and there was no way to dismiss them.
What did she think of her grandmother, now that she had met her? The young pictures of her as a ballet dancer had been fascinating, and Susan wanted to know more about that time. Yet the beautiful young girl in the photographs seemed to have little connection with a woman grown weary and remote from life. How could she hope to feel any affection for a woman so old and austere?
The encounter with Theresa at the foot of the stairs haunted her. Why could she remember nothing of what had happened when her mother died? There had been moments, in the past, when some glimmer of memory had risen, only to escape when she tried to grasp it.
In the end, unwillingly, her thoughts turned to Peter Macklin. The small, adoring child who had loved him still existed in some part of her mind -perhaps more vividly than anything else from the past. She felt unhappy and concerned because of the things Eric Townsend had revealed so carelessly -perhaps maliciously -but she must not get involved. In a few days she would have all the answers she needed and she would be gone. Nothing that existed here in Virginia need ever affect her again.
Deep in her subconscious a faint voice was laughing. It's already too late, it seemed to be saying, and she told it to be quiet.
Lying down wasn't going to work. She couldn't rest while her mind was so active. She threw a sweater over her shoulders and went outside to the small balcony that circled the tower. The sky was dark except for millions of stars. A few clouds covered the moon.
<#FROWN:L16\>
I took a shower and touched up my shave, then put the TV news on and listened to fifteen minutes of it with my feet up and my eyes closed. Around five-thirty I called Kenan Khoury and told him I'd made some progress, although I didn't have anything specific to report. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do.
"Not just yet," I said. "I'll be going back to Atlantic Avenue tomorrow to see if the picture fills in a little more. When I'm done there I'll come out to your place. Will you be there?"
"Sure," he said. "I got no place to go."
I set the alarm and closed my eyes again, and the clock snatched me out of a dream at half past six. I put on a suit and tie and went over to Elaine's. She poured coffee for me and Perrier for herself, and then we caught a cab uptown to the Asia Society, where they had recently opened an exhibit that centered on the Taj Mahal, and thus tied right in with the course she was taking at Hunter. After we'd walked through the three exhibit rooms and made the appropriate noises we followed the crowd into another room, where we sat in folding chairs and listened to a soloist perform on the sitar. I have no idea whether he was any good or not. I don't know how you could tell, or how he himself would know if his instrument was out of tune.
Afterward there was a wine-and-cheese reception. "This need not detain us long," Elaine murmured, and after a few minutes of smiling and mumbling, we were on the street.
"You loved every minute of it," she said.
"It was all right."
"Oh boy," she said. "The things a man will put himself through in the hope of getting laid."
"Come on," I said. "It wasn't that bad. It's the same music they play at Indian restaurants."
"But there you don't have to listen to it."
"Who listened?"
We want to an Italian restaurant, and over espresso I told her about Kenan Khoury and what had happened to his wife. When I was finished she sat for a moment looking down at the tablecloth in front of her as if there were something written on it. Then she raised her eyes slowly to meet mine. She is a resourceful woman, and a durable one, but just then she looked touchingly vulnerable.
"Dear God," she said.
"The things people do."
"There's just no end, is there? No bottom to it." She took a sip of water. "The cruelty of it, the utter sadism. Why would anyone - well, why ask why."
"I figure it has to be pleasure," I said. "They must have gotten off on it, not just on the killing but on rubbing his nose in it, jerking him around, telling him she'll be in the car, she'll be home when he gets there, then finally letting him find her in pieces in the trunk of the Ford. They wouldn't have to be sadists to kill her. They could see it as safer that way than to leave a witness who could identify them. But there was no practical advantage in twisting the knife the way they did. They went to a lot of trouble dismembering the body. I'm sorry, this is great table talk, isn't it?"
"That's nothing compared to what a great pre-bedtime story it makes."
"Puts you right in the mood, huh?"
"Nothing like it to get the juices flowing. No, really, I don't mind it. I mean I mind, of course I mind, but I'm not squeamish. It's gross, cutting somebody up, but that's really the least of it, isn't it? The real shock is that there's that kind of evil in the world and it can come from out of nowhere and zap you for no good reason at all. That's what's awful, and it's just as bad on an empty stomach as on a full one."
We went back to her apartment and she put on a Cedar Walton solo piano album that we both liked, and we sat together on the couch, not saying much. When the record ended she turned it over, and halfway through Side Two we went into the bedroom and made love with a curious intensity. Afterward neither of us spoke for a long time, until she said, "I'll tell you, kiddo. If we keep on like this, one of these days we're gonna get good at it."
"You think so, huh?"
"It wouldn't surprise me. Matt? Stay over tonight."
I kissed her. "I was planning to."
"Mmmm. Good plan. I don't want to be alone."
Neither did I.
Four
I stayed for breakfast, and by the time I got out to Atlantic Avenue it was almost eleven. I spent five hours there, most of it on the street and in shops but some of it in a branch library and on the phone. A little after four I walked a couple of blocks and caught a bus to Bay Ridge.
When I'd seen him last he'd been rumpled and unshaven, but now Kenan Khoury looked cool and composed in gray garbadine slacks and a muted plaid shirt. I followed him into the kitchen and he told me his brother had gone to work in Manhattan that morning. "Peter said he'd stay here, he didn't care about work, but how many times are we gonna have the same conversation? I made him take the Toyota so he's got that to get back and forth. How about you, Matt? You getting anywhere?"
I said, "Two men about my size took your wife off the street in front of The Arabian Gourmet and hustled her into a dark blue panel truck or van. A similar truck, probably the same one, was tailing her when she left D'Agostino's. The truck had lettering on the doors, white lettering according to one witness. TV Sales & Service, with the company name composed of indeterminate initials. B&L, H&M, different people saw different things. Two people remembered an address in Queens and one specifically recalled it as Long Island City."
"Is there such a firm?"
"The description's vague enough so that there are a dozen or more firms that would fit. A couple of initials, TV repair, a Queen address. I called six or eight outfits and couldn't come up with anybody who runs dark blue trucks or who had a vehicle stolen recently. I didn't expect to."
"Why not?"
"I don't think the truck was stolen. My guess is that they had your house staked out Thursday morning hoping your wife would go out by herself. When she did they followed her. It probably wasn't the first time they tailed her, waiting for an opportunity to make their play. They wouldn't want to steal a truck each time and ride around all day in something that's liable to show up any hour on the hot-car sheet."
"You think it was their truck?"
"Most likely. I think they painted a phony company name and address on the doors, and once they completed the snatch they painted the old name out and a new name in. By now I wouldn't be surprised if the whole body's repainted some color other than blue,"
"What about the license plate?"
"It had probably been switched for the occasion, but it hardly matters because nobody got the plate number. One witness thought the three of them had just knocked over the food market, that they were robbers, but all he wanted to do was get inside the store and make sure everybody was all right. Another man thought something funny was going on and he did take a look at the plate, but all he remembered was that it had a nine in it."
"That's helpful."
"Very. The men were dressed alike, dark pants and matching work shirts, matching blue windbreakers. They looked to be in uniform, and, between that and the commercial vehicle they were driving, they appeared legitimate. I learned years ago that you can walk in almost anywhere if you're carrying a clipboard because it looks as though you're doing your job. They had that edge going for them. Two different people told me they thought they were watching two undercover guys from INS taking an illegal alien off the street. That's one reason nobody interfered, that and the fact that it was over and done with before anyone had time to react."
"Pretty slick," he said.
"The uniform dress did something else, too. It made them invisible, because all people saw was their clothing, and all they remembered was that both of them looked the same. Did I mention that they had caps on, too? The witness described the caps and the jackets, things they put on for the job and got rid of afterward."
"So we don't really have anything."
"That's not really true," I said, "We don't have anything that leads directly to them, but we've got something. We know what they did and how they did it, that they're resourceful, that they planned their approach. How do you figure they picked you?"
He shrugged. "They knew I was a trafficker. That was mentioned. That makes you a good target. They know you've got money and they know you're not going to call the police."
"What else did they know about you?"
"My ethnic background. The one guy, the first one, he called me some names."
"I think you mentioned that."
"Raghead, sand nigger. That's a nice one, huh? Sand nigger. He left out camel jockey, that's one I used to hear from the Italian kids at St. Ignatius. 'Hey, Khoury, ya fuckin' camel jockey!' Only camel ever I saw was on a cigarette pack."
"You think being an Arab made you a target?"
"It never occurred to me. There's a certain amount of prejudice, no question about it, but I'm not usually that conscious of it. Francine's people are Palestinian, did I mention that?"
"Yes."
"They have it tougher. I know Palestinians who say they're Lebanese or Syrian just to avoid hassles. 'Oh, you're Palestinian, you must be a terrorist.' That kind of ignorant remark, and there are people who have bigoted ideas about Arabs in general." He rolled his eyes. "My father, for instance."
"Your father?"
"I wouldn't say he was anti-Arab, but he had this whole theory that we weren't actually Arabs. Our family's Christian, see."
"I wondered what you were doing at St.Ignatius."
"There were times I wondered myself. No, we were Maronite Christians, and according to my old man we were Phoenicians. You ever hear of the Phoenicians?"
"Back in biblical times, weren't they? Traders and explorers, something like that?!"
"You got it. Great sailors, they sailed all around Africa, they colonized Spain, they probably reached Britain. They founded Carthage in North Africa, and there were a lot of Carthaginian coins dug up in England. They were the first people to discover Polaris, that's the North Star, I mean to discover that it was always in the same spot and could be used for navigation. They developed an alphabet that served as the basis for the Greek alphabet." He broke off, slightly embarrassed. "My old man talked about them all the time. I guess some of it must have soaked in."
"It looks like it."
"He wasn't a lunatic on the subject, but he knew a lot about it. That's where my name comes from. The Phoenicians called themselves the Kena'ani, or Canaanites. My name should be pronounced Keh-nahn, but everyone's always said Kee-nan."
"Ken Curry' is the message I got yesterday."
"Yeah, that's typical. I've ordered things on the phone and they turn up addresses to Keane & Curry, it sounds like a couple of Irish lawyers. Anyway, according to my father the Phoenicians were a completely different people from the Arabs. They were the Canaanites, they were already a people at the time of Abraham.
<#FROWN:L17\>
Again Richie was quickly aware. "Don't speed up. Gradually slow down, drive him nuts. He won't hit you unless you stop without warning."
This took a lot of nerve, for as soon as John began subtly to decelerate, the truckdriver sounded shattering blasts of his horn. The only way to persist in the tactic was to avoid looking in the mirror, grit your teeth, and put your being on automatic pilot. He had once successfully employed the technique as a passenger on a light aircraft in stormy skies. Whether it would have worked again he was not to determine now, for after another mile, by which point he was still going better than forty, the highway became positively spacious, with two full lanes separated by a grassy median strip from the two that went the other way.
His sigh of relief, however, proved premature: the truck stayed directly behind him even when both vehicles had gained the wider road. Furthermore, the deafening sound of the horn had become constant.
When he quickly changed lanes, so did the truck.
"Okay," Richie cried in elation. "We got him now!"
What scared John about this sort of dueling was the irrationality of it. He put the accelerator to the floor. The car responded more vigorously than he had anticipated and sprang out to a substantial lead on the truck. But the driver of the larger vehicle was quick to answer what he took as a challenge. It was unfortunate that, as John could see only now that the highway began an ascent, the powerful tractor had no trailer in tow, which undoubtedly meant that Sharon's little car would be no match for its brute power even when going uphill.
"Christ, why doesn't a cop come along now?" He regretted the need to express fear in Richie's presence. Though he was going flat out, the truck was overtaking him, its windshield reflecting the sun in an impenetrable glare. He still could not see the driver.
"We're in luck," Richie shouted, over the noise of an engine at maximum power. "A cop would only take the bastard's side. Don't worry. We've got him now!"
An empty boast if there ever was one! John had reached the crest of the rise and looked down a long slope of highway on which its weight would give the truck an even greater advantage in speed. Furthermore, several cars were in sight ahead, in each lane, so that he might be trapped behind them in either. To be sure, were they driven by good citizens, perhaps by some effort of them all in concert the truck would be the one so confined or captured. Then, too, car phones and emergency CB sets were commonplace. An observant and law-loving driver might well alert the state police to such conspicuous and illegal slipstreaming.
Yet while entertaining such fantasies, John was aware that no help would be forthcoming. Though accompanied by, and in fact responsible for the well-being of, two other souls (both of them strangers, so that while providing little effective company, they denied him privacy), he stood alone.
But Richie suddenly helped. "Let him get right up against you in the right lane, then suddenly switch to the left. You can maneuver a lot quicker than him. He can't turn that fast at speed without being in danger of losing it. Soon as you get over, slow down some. He'll have to go on by. Once we get behind him, we'll own his ass."
But who wanted it? John looked forward only to seeing the last of the menace. To him the driver was a potential homicide, without a motive: he yearned for no revenge on such a depraved human being. Naturally, if he saw a cop he would report the incident, but that was another thing entirely. As to 'letting' the truck ride his back bumper, it had arrived there once more without his permission and would stay there. What Richie had suggested was better than that.
He gave a warning to his passengers, and Richie heeded it, seizing the handhold above the upper left corner of his door, but Sharon apparently did not, and when he made his abrupt lane-switch, he heard the sound of her body being flung across the backseat by centrifugal force.
Richie's tactic worked! The truck thundered by in the right lane, its rushing bulk and giant brutal wheels even more frightening than its seemingly static and one-dimensional image had been in the mirror. By such a simple device, the thing that could have flattened them was now rendered harmless. Perhaps the madman behind its wheel would roar on to threaten other defenseless motorists. If so, who cared? Quite a natural feeling at this instant. In the next, he would continue to look for a policeman.
Now he was able to ask Sharon, "Are you okay back there?"
She mumbled an affirmative. At such a time there was surely an advantage in being tranquilized.
"Okay," Richie said eagerly. "Now let's nail him."
The truck was already fifty yards ahead, John having diminished his speed so as to fall far behind and thus recede from the immediate memory of the driver, who might just be crazy enough to retain a grudge. Nowadays you were always hearing about people who on the occasion of traffic squabbles produced the guns they carried in their cars for just such a purpose, and shot adversary motorists or even others who were faultless.
"Forget about the bastard," John said. "Good riddance." He was relieved to see Richie accept this with a stoical shrug and fall back into the seat, slumping so low that he could barely see over the dashboard. John had feared that a need for revenge might be the man's dominant emotion. What was his own? He was conscious of a lifetime urge to do right. This put him at a frequent disadvantage, as in the case of the tailgating truck. It was true that he had now escaped from the situation, but it was unfair that he had been in it in the first place. He had given no rational offense. How could one do so by driving in an orderly manner at the speed limit? To behave otherwise would endanger the lives of human beings: that was what had been at issue, not the narrow concerns of traffic law.
Richie grumbled, down in his slump, kicking the firewall. "Those kind of people make me mad: they don't have any respect."
All John wanted to do was get to Hillsdale, and back, without further incident. What Richie said might be true, but nothing could be done about it beyond complaining, and John hated to waste his time in negative lament.
"How big a town is Hillsdale?"
"I don't know."
"Have you lived there long?" John glanced at him. "Do you live there at all?"
Richie grinned. "I said I did, didn't I?"
"Well, that's where I'm taking you."
"Then that's where I'm going." Without emerging from his slump, Richie made a long reach for the knobs of the radio.
"Do you mind?" John asked. "I don't want to hear any music now." He did not quite understand why he had said that. Had he been alone he would have switched on the radio and listened to almost anything but elevator music, though what he preferred were the records popular when he was in the latter years of high school, which to younger people were already far out of date.
"Do you ever enjoy yourself?" It was Richie's sudden question and bore an implication John did not care for.
"I've done some things in my day. I wasn't always married, with little kids. I've been around."
"I'm talking of right now," Richie said. "You interested in some partying? We'll pick up a couple bottles." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "She's got everything else. Maybe go to a motel, do it right."
"Oh, come on," John complained. "Just let that-"
"Think I'm kidding? Should of seen what she had in her purse. That's why she was so worried about the cop back there. Junkie bitch."
John was hit hard by this information. He lacked the spirit to ask Sharon to confirm or deny, but assumed she would have protested had the charge been baseless. He did not even wish to know what sort of drugs were at issue.
"I'm dropping you off in Hillsdale and then going straight home. Since this is the only form of transportation available to me, I'm driving myself home in this car." He had made the latter statement for Sharon's benefit, should she herself be (despite her professed fear of Richie) inclined to acquiesce in the proposal, and looked for her in the mirror, but she was presumable lying on the seat and could not be seen.
"Just an idea," Richie said.
John saw something that brought him back to the moment. A quarter mile ahead, the truck that had tailgated him was parked on the shoulder, which had widened with the broadening of the highway. Instantly chilled, he would have turned and run if he could, but the road was one-way and at this point on the median the simple grass had given way to bushes, so it was not physically possible to perform an illegal U-turn and head back where they had come from - for such he might well have done, in a sudden and unprecedented access of mortal fear.
In another moment, however, he again was in command of himself. The truckdriver was surely not waiting for him, but rather immobilized by mechanical trouble. John was in fact instantly ashamed of himself and grateful that he had said or done nothing that could have revealed his fright to Richie, whom he glanced at now.
Richie, too, had already seen the truck. "Hey, look!"
"I guess he's broken down," John said hopefully.
Richie eyed him. "Maybe we just ought to stop and ask. Maybe he's in real trouble."
John took refuge in a sardonic tone. "I doubt it's life or death." They were not far from the truck now, but he had yet to see the driver.
"Pull in," Richie said abruptly. "You can stay in the car if you want. I'll see what's what."
Insulted by the implied slur on his courage, John accelerated onto the shoulder and then had to brake hard, skidding on the loose dirt and gravel, to stop the car before it collided with the rear of the truck.
He jumped out, in a certain disorder. He disliked hearing the sound his old sneakers, normally quiet, made on the gritty shoulder. Before he reached the truck, the driver's door was hurled open. A burly figure emerged and did not jump but rather descended to the ground with the deliberation of the overweight.
So that his intentions could not be misinterpreted, John quickly said, "Hi. Anything we can help you out with?"
The driver wore a dirty plaid shirt but was clean-shaven and pinkly scrubbed of skin. He spoke in some kind of hick accent. "You mess around with me, and I'll make you cry." He was taller than John and wider, but much of his poundage consisted, visibly, of lard, and he looked to be about forty. He held a metal bar.
John had not been in a fight since childhood, and in fact had not been offered one since then. But now that he was out of the car and actually in this situation, he was not unduly apprehensive. He was a salesman, and knew how to talk to people.
"Hey, I just stopped to see if I could help out." He smiled. "Really. We thought you just might be in some trouble."
"I ain't," said the truckdriver. "You are." He lowered his heavy head, on which the thick hair looked freshly combed.
"Now take it easy," John said, suppressing his annoyance. "I mean it. If your radio's out, I'll be glad to make a call for you at the next phone.
<#FROWN:L18\>
Mr. Beck looked at Anthony, perhaps with the hope that he would say something in answer to the implied invective, perhaps with the expectation of Anthony's offering some word of comfort or support to his former wife. When Anthony said nothing, Mr. Beck continued quickly.
"You'll need to let me know where and when the services are to be held and where she's to be interred. We've a lovely chapel here if you'd like to use that for the service. And - of course, I know this is difficult for you both - but you need to decide if you want a public viewing."
"A public ...?" At the thought of his daughter being put on display for the curious, Anthony felt the hair bristle on the backs of his hands. "That's not possible. She isn't -"
"I want it." Glyn's nails, Anthony saw, were going completely white with the pressure she was exerting against her palms.
"You don't want that. You haven't seen what she looks like."
"Please don't tell me what I want. I said I'll see her. I'll do so. I want everyone to see her."
Mr. Beck intervened with, "We can do some repairs. With facial putty and makeup, no one will be able to see the full extent of -"
Glyn snapped forward. Like a self-preserving reflex, Mr. Beck flinched. "You aren't listening to me. I want the damage seen. I want the world to know."
Anthony wanted to ask, "And what will you gain?" But he knew the answer. She'd given Elena over to his care, and she wanted the world to see how he'd botched the job. For fifteen years she'd kept their daughter in one of the roughest areas of London and Elena had emerged from the experience with one chipped tooth to mark the only difficulty she'd ever faced, a brawl over the affections on an acne-scarred fifth former who'd spent a lunch hour with her instead of his steady girlfriend. And neither Glyn nor Elena had ever considered that uncapped tooth even a minute lapse in Glyn's ability to protect her daughter. Instead, it was for both of them Elena's badge of honour, her declaration of equality. For the three girls whom she had fought could hear, but they were no match for the splintered crate of new potatoes and the two metal milk baskets which Elena had commandeered for defensive weapons from the nearby greengrocer's when she'd come under attack.
Fifteen years in London, one chipped tooth to show for it. Fifteen months in Cambridge, one barbarous death.
Anthony wouldn't fight her. He said, "Have you a brochure we might look at? Something we can use in order to decide ...?"
Mr. Beck seemed only too willing to cooperate. He said, "Of course," and hastily slid open a drawer of his desk. From this he took a three-ring binder covered in maroon plastic with the words Beck and Sons, Funeral Directors printed in gold letters across the front. He passed this across to them.
Anthony opened it. Plastic covers encased eight-by-ten colour photographs. He began to flip through them, looking without seeing, reading without assimilating. He recognised woods: mahogany and oak. He recognised terms: naturally resistant to corrosion, rubber gasket, crepe lining, asphalt coating, vacuum plate. Faintly, he heard Mr. Beck murmuring about the relative merits of copper or sixteen-gauge steel over oak, about lift and tilt mattresses, about the placement of a hinge. He heard him say:
"These Uniseal caskets are quite the best. The locking mechanism in addition to the gasket seals the top while the continuous weld on the bottom seals that as well. So you've maximum protection to resist the entry of -" He hesitated delicately. The indecision was written plainly on his face. Worms, beetles, moisture, mildew. How best to say it? - "the elements."
The words in the binder slid out of focus. Anthony heard Glyn say, "Have you coffins here?"
"Only a few. People generally make a choice from the brochures. And under the circumstances, please don't feel you must -"
"I'd like to see them."
Mr. Beck's eyes flitted to Anthony. He seemed to be waiting for a protest of some sort. When none was forthcoming, he said, "Certainly. This way," and led them out of the office.
Anthony followed his former wife and the funeral director. He wanted to insist that they make the decision within the safety of Mr. Beck's office where photographs would allow both of them to hold the final reality at bay for just a while longer. But he knew that to call for distance between them and the fact of Elena's burial would be interpreted as further evidence of inadequacy. And hadn't Elena's death already served to illustrate his uselessness as a father, once again underscoring the contention which Glyn had asserted for years: that his sole contribution to their daughter's upbringing had been a single, blind gamete that knew how to swim?
"Here they are." Mr. Beck pushed open a set of heavy oak doors. "I'll leave you alone."
Glyn said, "That won't be necessary."
"But surely you'll want to discuss -"
"No." She moved past him into the showroom. There were no decorations or extraneous furnishings, just a few coffins lined up along the pearl-coloured walls, their lids gaping open upon velvet, satin, and crepe, their bodies standing on waist-high, translucent pedestals.
Anthony forced himself to follow Glyn from one to the next. Each had a discreet price tag, each bore the same declaration about the extent of protection guaranteed by the manufacturer, each had a ruched lining, a matching pillow, and a coverlet folded over the coffin lid. Each had its own name: Neapolitan Blue, Windsor Poplar, Autumn Oak, Venetian Bronze. Each had an individually high-lighted feature, a shell design, a set of barley sugar end posts, or delicate embroidery on the interior of the lid. Forcing himself to move along the display, Anthony tried not to visualise what Elena would look like when she finally lay in one of these coffins with her light hair spread out like silk threads on the pillow.
Glyn halted in front of a simple grey coffin with a plain satin lining. She tapped her fingers against it. As if this gesture bade him to do so, Mr. Beck hurried to join them. His lips were pursed tightly. He was pulling at his chin.
"What is this?" Glyn asked. A small sign on the lid said Nonprotective exterior. Its price tag read pounds200.
"Pressed wood." Mr. Beck made a nervous adjustment to his Pembroke tie and rapidly continued. "This is pressed wood beneath a flannel covering, a satin interior, which is quite nice, of course, but the exterior has no protection at all save for the flannel itself and to be frank if I may, considering our weather, I wouldn't be at all comfortable recommending this particular coffin to you. We keep it for cases where there are difficulties ... Well, difficulties with finances. I can't think you'd want your daughter ..." He let the drifting quality of his voice complete the thought.
Anthony began to say, "Of course," but Glyn interrupted with, "This coffin will do."
For a moment, Anthony did nothing more than stare at his former wife. Then he found the will to say, "You can't think I'll allow her to be buried in this."
She said quite distinctly, "I don't care what you intend to allow. I've not enough money for -"
"I'll pay."
She looked at him for the first time since they'd arrived. "With your wife's money? I think not."
"This has nothing to do with Justine."
Mr. Beck took a step away from them. He straightened out the small price sign on a coffin lid. He said, "I'll leave you to talk."
"There's no need." Glyn opened her large black handbag and began shoving articles this way and that. A set of keys clanked. A compact snapped open. A ballpoint pen slipped out onto the floor. "You'll take a cheque, won't you? It'll have to be drawn on my bank in London. If that's a problem, you can phone for some sort of guarantee. I've been doing business with them for years, so -"
"Glyn. I won't have it.
She swung to face him. Her hip hit the coffin, jarring it on its pedestal. The lid fell shut with a hollow thud. "You won't have what?" she asked. "You have no rights here."
"We're talking about my daughter."
Mr. Beck began to edge towards the door.
"Stay where you are." Angry colour patched Glyn's cheeks. "You walked out on your daughter, Anthony. Let's not forget that. You wanted your career. Let's not forget that. You wanted to chase skirts. Let's not forget that. You got what you wanted. All of it. Every bit. You have no more rights here." Chequebook in hand, she stooped to the floor for the pen. She began to write, using the pressed wood coffin lid as support.
Her hand was shaking. Anthony reached for the cheque<?>-book, saying, "Glyn. Please. For God's sake."
"No," she said. "I'll pay for this. I don't want your money. You can't buy me off."
"I'm not trying to buy you off. I just want Elena -"
"Don't say her name! Don't you say it!"
Mr. Beck said, "Let me leave you," and without acknowledging Glyn's immediate "No!" he hurried from the room.
Glyn continued to write. She clutched the pen like a weapon in her hand. "He said two hundred pounds, didn't he?"
"Don't do this," Anthony said. "Don't make this another battle between us."
"She'll wear that blue dress Mum got her last birthday."
"We can't bury her like a pauper. I won't let you do it. I can't."
Glyn ripped the cheque from the book. She said, "Where'd that man get off to? Here's his money. Let's go." She headed for the door.
Anthony reached for her arm.
She jerked away. "You bastard," she hissed. "Bastard! Who brought her up? Who spent years trying to give her some language? Who helped her with her schoolwork and dried her tears and washed her clothes and sat up with her at night when she was puling and sick? Not you, you bastard. And not your ice queen wife. This is my daughter, Anthony. My daughter. Mine. And I'll bury her exactly as I see fit. Because unlike you, I'm not hot after some big poncey job, so I don't have to give a damn what anyone thinks."
He examined her with sudden, curious dispassion, realising that he saw no evidence of grief. He saw no mother's devotion to her child and nothing that illustrated the magnitude of loss. "This has nothing to do with burying Elena," he said in slow but complete understanding. "You're still dealing with me. I'm not sure you even care much that she's dead."
"How dare you," she whispered.
"Have you even cried, Glyn? Do you feel any grief? Do you feel anything at all beyond the need to use her murder for a bit more revenge? And how can anyone be surprised by that? After all, that's how you used most of her life."
He didn't see the blow coming. She slammed her right hand across his face, knocking his spectacles to the floor.
"You filthy piece of -" She raised her arm to strike again.
He caught her wrist. "You've waited years to do that. I'm only sorry you didn't have the audience you'd have liked." He pushed her away. She fell against the grey coffin. But she was not spent.
She spit out the words: "Don't talk to me of grief. Don't you ever - ever - talk to me of grief."
She turned away from him, flinging her arms over the coffin lid as if she would embrace it. She began to weep.
"I have nothing. She's gone. I can't have her back. I can't find her anywhere. And I can't ... I can never ..." The fingers of one hand curled, pulling at the flannel that covered the coffin. "But you can.
<#FROWN:L19\>
Chapter 1
ENJOYING A RARE MOMENT of relaxation, Gordon Barclay swiveled in his chair and watched a loaded freighter make its ponderous way across Puget Sound. For most men turning sixty meant winding down, taking fewer risks, planning for oblivion. To Barclay it seemed as if the ride had just begun.
He heard a light rap on the door - Nancy with his letters to sign. He pivoted so he could watch her from the corner of his eye while pretending to scrutinize a document. Her dress was one he hadn't seen before, a pink flowery sort of thing with a lace collar and made of a silky fabric that swung playfully on her narrow hips. She laid the letters on his desk.
"The Wilson interrogatories went out today, and I called and confirmed the trial date on Mastriani. Word Processing says your brief and jury instructions will be done by five."
"I'd sure be up a creek without you, my dear, wouldn't I?" He took the stack of letters from her and quickly scribbled his signature on each one. He hated proofreading and trusted that her typing was accurate.
"How was lunch at Fuller's?" asked Nancy.
"As usual, the restaurant was sublime, the company ridiculous." Barclay lowered his voice. "I trust you'll never tell Walt Wiley at Trans-Pacific Casualty what I really think of him."
"Your biggest client? I'd never dream of it. Did he wear that awful seersucker suit again?"
"No, today's was worse - blue and white houndstooth made of some sort of fabric that looked like spun Styrofoam. He ordered homogenized milk with lunch, made them cook his tournedos of beef well done, and asked the waiter for more bread four times. Oh, before I forget. Would you round up two tickets to the Sonics game for next Wednesday? I discovered that our friend Walt's a basketball fan."
"But I thought you hated basketball."
"I like basketball exactly as much as I like Walt Wiley."
She giggled. "I see. Anything else?"
"Not right now, thanks. Oh, and, uh, about that Friday night you were asking me about? I'll see what I can manage, but I'm not sure yet if Adele's definitely going to be out of town. You know how she is about making decisions." Barclay shrugged.
Nancy frowned, looked as if she wanted to say something, then changed her mind and turned to leave. As Barclay watched her go, a ray of sunlight fell on her hair, bringing out the golden highlights. He remembered what she'd looked like playing tennis, her long brown legs in a short white skirt. She'd practically danced on the court. Despite the difference in their ages he'd beaten her in all three sets.
Once Nancy was out of the room, he slipped on the reading glasses he never wore in public and turned toward his overflowing in-basket. The top item was another memo about the law firm's annual dinner-dance on Saturday night. Now that was something he wished he could get out of. Those damned parties were always boring as hell, and it was going to be on that blasted boat again - impossible to leave early. But he couldn't skip out, not after having made such a fuss about trying to hire Annie MacPherson. She and her partner were supposed to be there to meet the executive committee. No sense in taking chances now after weeks of laying the groundwork. The partners would be voting at the meeting on Wednesday, and it was imperative that they approve this merger. If MacPherson got out of his grasp, his entire plan could go down the toilet.
Barclay's face betrayed no emotion when he saw the next item in his correspondence. Like the other notes he'd received, it was in a sealed envelope, on office stationery, with his name neatly typed in the center. Below it the words EXTREMELY PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL were highlighted in blue.
As he reached for the envelope, Barclay's pulse quickened and he felt his face grow warm. He slashed it open with a letter opener. Inside was a single sheet of paper that looked just like the others. He skimmed it quickly:
TO: GORDON BARCLAY
FROM: AN INTERESTED PARTY
RE: YOUR FUTURE, ASSHOLE
IT'S ME AGAIN, BIG GUY. THE ONE WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING. YOU AIN'T IN PARADISE ANYMORE, TOTO.
ARE YOU GONNA COME CLEAN AND TAKE IT LIKE A MAN, OR AM I GONNA HAVE TO
HUNT
YOU
DOWN?
Barclay shuddered. He didn't need to read the note a second time. He unlocked his personal filing cabinet and shoved the paper and envelope in next to the others. Then, eyes closed, he took several deep breaths, fighting the urge to do something rash.
When he could feel his heart beating normally again, he buzzed Nancy and asked for some tea.
Chapter 2
KNIFELIKE JABS of pain throbbed in Annie's arches and jolted up her calves as she walked across the terminal building to the restroom. The overly bright fluorescent lights in the ladies' lounge gave her freckled skin a bluish cast and turned her red-gold hair the color of kelp. She wondered if it was too late to bolt.
She felt absurd. Even though the invitation said semi-formal, the strapless black dress and the Italian instruments of torture masquerading as shoes were totally out of character for her. She tugged at the top of her dress and prayed it would stay in the right place all evening.
Combing her hair, Annie took several deep breaths and tried to get into the right frame of mind for this party. All week Joel Feinstein, her law partner, had been reminding her how important it was that they make a good impression tonight. After several years of struggling, their two-person partnership was about to self-destruct. It was no one's fault. Sure, Annie felt guilty about having taken a three-month leave of absence, but the real blow had come when Joel's largest client, a local savings and loan, had been bought out by a California bank. They might have squeaked by if their professional liability carrier hadn't picked that moment to double their malpractice insurance premium. What had been a minor blowup at the beginning of the year had, by April, escalated into a financial Chernobyl.
That was when Kemble, Laughton, Mercer, and Duff had called to propose a merger. KLMD was one of the Northwest's largest law firms; it had seemed like a gift from the gods. But mega-law firms didn't merge with small partnerships without first taking a good, hard look. Annie and Joel had been subjected to endless hours of interviews. The books had been pored over, accounts receivable tallied, client names run through the computer to check for conflicts of interest.
Now all that remained was to see if the big fish liked the small fish enough to gobble it up. And Annie MacPherson felt just like a mackerel about to be fed to Moby Dick.
Joel and his wife, Maria, were waiting for Annie outside. The Kemble, Laughton party was being held on the Alki Lady, a vintage ferryboat from the 1920s specially refurbished for such elegant affairs. As soon as all of the guests were aboard, they'd begin a nighttime cruise around Seattle's Elliott Bay.
"Do you realize we're going to be trapped on a boat with over two hundred lawyers with no means of escape?" Annie asked.
"You can always jump," said Joel. "That dress of yours has almost as much fabric as a swimsuit."
"Knock it off, Feinstein, before I tell you what you look like in that monkey suit."
Formally dressed couples ranging in age from their late twenties to their midsixties were heading for the docked boat. Annie was greatly relieved to see that hers wasn't the only strapless dress in the crowd.
"I feel so dowdy all of a sudden," said Maria, looking around at the sequins and plunging necklines. "But what could I do? They don't make sexy evening gowns in my size." Joel's wife stood barely five feet tall and normally weighed about hundred pounds. In her tasteful black maternity dress she bore a striking resemblance to an olive on a toothpick. "And forget what Joel says. I think your dress looks fantastic. I wish I had the guts to wear something like that!"
"So do I," Annie replied.
For a fleeting moment she wondered what David Courtney would think if he could see her right now. For the three months she'd spent on his sailboat in the South Pacific she'd worn nothing but shorts, swimsuits, and a lot of sunscreen, with her biggest decision being what to fix for lunch. But that had all ended when she'd left the boat in February, Annie reminded herself. It no longer mattered what David Courtney thought.
"Now remember, Annie," said Joel nervously, "tonight's our last chance to make this deal work. I don't need to tell you what bankruptcy can do to a lawyer's reputation."
"You already have, Joel. About four times."
"Don't fret so much, honey," said Maria. "You're starting to sound like your mother."
"That world-class worrier? No way. I'm strictly an amateur."
"Practice makes perfect," said Annie.
"You two sure know how to gang up on a guy. Now listen. I'm going to spend my time with the corporate folks, and you've got to try to meet the guy who heads up the insurance defense group, right? What was his name again?"
"Oh, damn. I'm drawing a blank." She caught Joel's anxious glance. "I can do this, I really can."
Joel scowled.
One of the senior partners, a genial man in a plaid cummerbund and matching bow tie, was playing host and ushering the crowd up the stairs to the deck where drinks were being served. HHHe beamed when he saw Annie and Joel, shook their hands, got their names wrong, and assured them he would catch up later to see how they were doing.
"Now don't you be intimidated," he chortled, "we're quite a wild bunch when we get going."
"Oh, I'm sure of that," said Annie.
He thrust out a hip and snapped his fingers. "Party down, as the kids say!"
Annie smiled feebly in response and didn't resist as the surging crowd carried her into the salon. She gave a last look at Joel, easy to spot since he towered a good head above the crowd. He flashed her a thumbs-up and then she was on her own.
A score of waitresses circled the crowd taking drink orders. After Annie ordered a glass of white wine, she took a moment to survey the crowd. Barclay. Gordon Barclay. How could she have forgotten one of the most prominent trial attorneys in the state? If the merger went through, she'd be working in his insurance defense group, and his vote at the upcoming partners' meeting would be crucial. She wasn't quite sure where to start looking for him.
"So the rumors are true after all." The voice behind her sounded vaguely familiar. Annie turned. "Jed Delacourt? What are you doing here?"
"You obviously don't read your alumni newsletter. I work here. It'll be six years next week. Fabulous dress by the way."
"Thanks."
With his fair hair and boyish good looks John Edward Delacourt III looked no older to Annie than he had ten years earlier when they had graduated together from the University of Washington Law School. They hadn't been close friends. Jed, newly arrived from Boston smelling of old money, had had little to do with anyone who wasn't on Law Review, wealthy, or both. Annie had been neither.
"I thought you went to work for the public defender's office after law school?"
"Mm-hmm," he said, grabbing a prawn from a passing tray and popping it into his mouth. He wiped a touch of cocktail sauce from the side of his mouth. "Foolish me, thinking I'd be happier helping the poor than making money for myself. It only took me a few years to wise up. Kemble, Laughton made me an offer I couldn't refuse.
<#FROWN:L20\>
19
Jessie awoke in the mild, milky light of dawn with the perplexing and ominous memory of the woman still filling her mind - the woman with her graying hair pulled back in that tight countrywoman's bun, the woman who had been kneeling in the blackberry tangles with her slip puddled beside her, the woman who had been looking down through broken boards and smelling that awful bland smell. Jessie hadn't thought of that woman in years, and now, fresh from her dream of 1963 that hadn't been a dream but a recollection, it seemed to her that she had been granted some sort of supernatural vision on that day, a vision that had perhaps been caused by stress and then lost again for the same reason.
But it didn't matter - not that, not what had happened with her father out on the deck, not what had happened later, when she had turned around to see him standing in the bedroom door. All that had happened a long time ago, and as for what was happening right now -
I'm in trouble. I think I'm in very serious trouble.
She lay back against the pillows and looked up at her suspended arms. She felt as dazed and helpless as a poisoned insect in a spider's web, wanting no more than to be asleep again - dreamlessly this time, if possible - with her dead arms and dry throat in another universe.
No such luck.
There was a slow, somnolent buzzing sound somewhere close by. Her first thought was alarm clock. Her second, after two or three minutes of dozing with her eyes open, was smoke detector. That idea caused a brief, groundless burst of hope which brought her a little closer to real waking. She realized that what she was hearing didn't really sound very much like a smoke detector at all. It sounded like ... well ... like ...
It's flies, toots, okay? The no-bullshit voice now sounded tired and wan. You've heard about the Boys of Summer, haven't you? Well, these are the Flies of Autumn, and their version of the World Series is currently being played on Gerald Burlingame, the noted attorney and handcuff-fetishist.
"Jesus, I gotta get up," she said in a croaking, husky voice she barely recognized as her own.
What the hell does that mean? she thought, and it was the answer - Not a goddam thing, thanks very much - that finished the job of bringing her back to full wakefulness. She didn't want to be awake, but she had an idea that she had better accept the fact that she was and do as much with it as she could, while she could.
And you probably better start by waking up your hands and arms. If they will wake up, that is.
She looked at her right arm, then turned her head on the rusty armature of her neck (which was only partially asleep) and looked at her left. Jessie realized with sudden shock that she was looking at them in a completely new way - looking at them as she might have looked at pieces of furniture in a showroom window. They seemed to have no business with Jessie Burlingame at all, and she supposed there was nothing so odd about that, not really; they were, after all, utterly without feeling. Sensation only started a little below her armpits.
She tried to pull herself up and was dismayed to find the mutiny in her arms had gone further than she had suspected. Not only did they refuse to move her; they refused to move themselves. Her brain's order was totally ignored. She looked up at them again, and they no longer looked like furniture to her. Now they looked like pallid cuts of meat hanging from butchers' hooks, and she let out a hoarse cry of fear and anger.
Never mind, though. The arms weren't happening, at least for the time being, and being mad or afraid or both wasn't going to change that a bit. How about the fingers? If she could curl them around the bedposts, then maybe ...
... or maybe not. Her fingers seemed as useless as her arms. After nearly a full minute of effort, Jessie was rewarded only by a single numb twitch from her right thumb.
"Dear God," she said in her grating dust-in-the-cracks voice. There was no anger in it now, only fear.
People died in accidents, of course - she supposed she had seen hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of "death-clips" on the TV news during her lifetime. Body-bags carried away from wrecked cars or winched out of the jungle in Medi-Vac slings, feet sticking out from beneath hastily spread blankets while buildings burned in the back-ground, white-faced, stumble-voiced witnesses pointing to pools of sticky dark stuff in alleys or on barroom floors. She had seen the white-shrouded shape that had been John Belushi toted out of the Chateau Marmont Hotel in Los Angeles; she had seen aerialist Karl Wallenda lose his balance, fall heavily to the cable he had been trying to cross (it had been strung between two resort hotels, she seemed to remember), clutch it briefly, and then plunge to his death below. The news programs had played that one over and over as if obsessed with it. So she knew people died in accidents, of course she knew it, but until now she had somehow never realized there were people inside those people, people just like her, people who hadn't had the slightest idea they would never eat another cheese-burger, watch another round of Final Jeopardy (and please make sure your answer is in the form of a question), or call their best friends to say that penny poker on Thursday night or shopping on Saturday afternoon seemed like a great idea. No more beer, no more kisses, and your fantasy of making love in a hammock during a thunderstorm was never going to be fulfilled, because you were going to be too busy being dead. Any morning you rolled out of bed might be your last.
It's a lot more than a case of might this morning, Jessie thought. I think now it's a case of probably. The house - our nice quiet lakeside house - may very well be on the news Friday or Saturday night. It'll be Doug Rowe wearing that white trenchcoat of his I hate so much and talking into his microphone and calling it "the house where prominent Portland lawyer Gerald Burlingame and his wife Jessie died." Then he'll send it back to the studio and Bill Green will do the sports, and that isn't being morbid, Jessie; that isn't the Goodwife moaning or Ruth ranting. It's -
But Jessie knew. It was the truth. It was just a silly little accident, the kind of thing you shook your head over when you saw it reported in the paper at breakfast; you said "Listen to this, honey," and read the item to your husband while he ate his grapefruit. Just a silly little accident, only this time it was happening to her. Her mind's constant insistence that it was a mistake was understandable but irrelevant. There was no Complaint Department where she could explain that the handcuffs had been Gerald's idea and so it was only fair that she should be let off. If the mistake was going to be rectified, she would have to be the one to do it.
Jessie cleared her throat, closed her eyes, and spoke to the ceiling. "God? Listen a minute, would You? I need some help here, I really do. I'm in a mess and I'm terrified. Please help me get out of this, okay? I ... um ... I pray in the name of Jesus Christ." She struggled to amplify this prayer and could only come up with something Nora Callighan had taught her, a prayer which now seemed to be on the lips of every self-help huckster and dipshit guru in the world: "God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen."
Nothing changed. She felt no serenity, no courage, most certainly no widsom. She was still only a woman with dead arms and a dead husband, cuffed to the posts of this bed like a cur-dog chained to a ringbolt and left to die unremarked and unlamented in a dusty back yard while his tosspot master serves thirty days in the county clink for driving without a license and under the influence.
"Oh please don't let it hurt," she said in a low, trembling voice. "If I'm going to die, God, please don't let it hurt. I'm such a baby about pain."
Thinking about dying at this point is probably a really bad idea, toots. Ruth's voice paused, then added: On second thought, strike the probably.
Okay, no argument - thinking about dying was a bad idea. So what did that leave?
Living. Ruth and Goodwife Burlingame said it at the same time.
All right, living. Which brought her around full circle to her arms again.
They're asleep because I've been hanging on them all night. I'm still hanging on them. Getting the weight off is step one.
She tried to push herself backward and upward with her feet again, and felt a sudden weight of black panic when they at first also refused to move. She lost herself for a few moments then, and when she came back she was pistoning her legs rapidly up and down, pushing the coverlet, the sheets, and the mattress-pad down to the foot of the bed. She was gasping for breath like a bicycle-racer topping the last steep hill in a marathon race. Her butt, which had also gone to sleep, sang and zipped with wake-up needles.
Fear had gotten her fully awake, but it took the half-assed aerobics which accompanied her panic to kick her heart all the way up into passing gear. At last she began to feel tingles of sensation - bone-deep and as ominous as distant thunder - in her arms.
If nothing else works, toots, keep your mind on those last two or three sips of water. Keep reminding yourself that you're never going to get hold of that glass again unless your hands and arms are in good working order, let alone drink from it.
Jessie continued to push with her feet as the morning brightened. Sweat plastered her hair against her temples and streamed down her cheeks. She was aware - vaguely - that she was deepening her water-debt every moment she persisted in this strenuous activity, but she saw no choice.
Because there is none, toots - none at all.
Toots this and toots that, she thought distractedly. Would you please put a sock in it, you mouthy bitch?
At last her bottom began to slide up toward the head of the bed. Each time it moved, Jessie tensed her stomach muscles and did a mini sit-up. The angle made by her upper and lower body slowly began to approach ninety degrees. Her elbows began to bend, and as the drag of her weight began to leave her arms and shoulders, the tingles racing through her flesh increased. She didn't stop moving her legs when she was finally sitting up but continued to pedal, wanting to keep her heart-rate up.
A drop of stinging sweat ran into her left eye. She flicked it away with an impatient shake of her head and went on pedaling. The tingles continued to increase, darting upward and downward from her elbows, and about five minutes after she'd reached her current slumped position (she looked like a gawky teenager draped over a movie theater seat), the first cramp struck. It felt like a blow from the dull side of a meat-cleaver.
Jessie threw her head back, sending a fine mist of perspiration flying from her head and hair, and shrieked. As she was drawing breath to repeat the cry, the second cramp struck. This one was much worse.
<#FROWN:L21\>
Wilderness
YES, death stalked the city that night, stalked the city like a great water wolf. The river - sheer, ruffled, gray, brown, black, and khaki - took them into her inhospitable bosom. Why? Why did the river want them, and for what?
All her life Nell had believed that she would have a presentiment if a mishap should befall either of her children. Her bones would tell it. Her bloodstream would tell it. Every hair would stand on end. Often she had half imagined such a thing - indeed, on occasion, went with the delirium of it upon hearing of an accident in this street or that, on a motorway or a leafy lane - and had waited, and the wait had seemed both necessary and ludicrous. She knew the ropes. A policeman or rather two policemen, came and knocked on one's door. She had heard that somewhere. Yet, as the taxi-driver rattled on about an accident, young people, partying, she had no intimation of anything, just felt glad to be going home to sleep. It was a Saturday. Party night. A pleasure boat had collided with a barge on the Thames, and many were drowned or drowning. She felt a flash of dismay, a mockery of the sadness to come.
When a mother sees two policemen at her front door, she knows. She thought it was her younger son, Tristan, was certain that a truck had gone off the road in Turkey, where he and his friends were spending the summer doing relief work. It was Paddy. He was one of the crowd of young people on the pleasure boat and, as he was still missing, they had to inform her. Missing. Missing is not dead. When a mother knows, she does everything to unknow. She goes to her bedroom to dress. She discards the old stockings that she had been wearing in the daytime for a new pair. God knows why. She says that this is not true, this is a false alarm testing her last reservoir of strength. She puts on powder, hurriedly, then returns and, as on any normal occasion, offers brandy or tea. The policemen say it is better for them to get moving, to get back to the scene, since all the force is needed. She sits in a black van with them and slowly and solemnly recites, as her own chant, the words of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane: "O, Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from me." Missing is not dead. She says that aloud to the policemen and adds how providential the night is, since it is so still, since there is scarcely a wind. They recognize that undertow of hope and look at each other with eyes in which she believes there are recesses of non-hope. She cannot see their eyes but she can see them fidget. They have already been there; they have already seen people crawling out of the water, senseless, unable to grasp their where-abouts, asking, "What's happened? ... What's happened?" They have heard the screaming, the disbelief, the shouts of crazed, incensed people, and they are not in the business of doling out niceties. She has not seen these things yet. Now she does. Ambulances bursting from the hospital's steps, their lights whirling round and round, but no siren sounding. Ghost machines. Inside, commotion, delirium. People who had been inches from death asking, asking. Everyone asking; voices charging each other across the waiting room. Has Alex been found? "Found." The word both urgent and wan. A girlfriend has lost her boyfriend. She calls his name, shouts it. He does not materialize. She runs, the double glass doors almost swallowing her. A man has lost his wife. He stands, a sodden picture of despair, with a blanket slipping off, saying quietly, "My wife .... My beautiful wife." A younger man weeps for the woman he swam with. Where is she, where is she? He describes how they held hands - tight, tight - until in the end she slipped away from him, eluded his grasp. Was she dead? Was she still struggling?
Nell is sitting quietly, sitting by herself. She is afraid of these people. They pace, then are still, then give reign to some outburst. This night has dislodged their reserves of sanity. Nurses, who go about with forms and thermometers and blankets, are told to piss off. It has the insubstantiality of a dream but it is not a dream. It is a raw, raucous, unashamed confrontation with life or non-life. The names are shouted incessantly. Samantha and Sue and Paul and Jeff. No one says "Paddy", as if no one knew him but her. Outside, the sirens now screech with animal intonations. Inside, coffee, cups of coffee, a voice asking for someone to put another spoon of sugar in, sloshing. Paddy, where are you? She has been told to sit and wait. She will be informed the moment there is news. Rumors bob up the way she imagines, cannot stop herself from imagining, the faces appearing on the water. His face. His alone. A body has been found eight miles upriver at Hammersmith. A woman's. Not a man's. Not him. Should she go to Hammersmith? Did drowned bodies follow one another like shoals of fish? She must go somewhere. Paddy, where are you? She is told again to sit and wait. They know her name and her son's name. It is on a document. Many of the saved are at the hospital. They are weeping, claiming that they do not want to live if their comrades are dead. Their teeth are chattering, they shiver, their features slavered in black mud and ooze.
"Where's my mates? Where's my fucking mates?" a young man shouts as he enters the hospital. His head is gashed, and the blood streaming down his face has black rivulets in it. He is telling everyone how cold it is, how cold and how stupid. She runs from the building and down a narrow footpath to the riverbank, where people are milling and shouting around a posse of police. It is dark and deathlike, everything spectral. The police and the rescue workers are like shadows giving and taking orders, their voices terse. The river is calm but black, a black pit that everyone dreads. Calm, black swishings of water. Looking at it for the first time, looking at it steadily, she thinks it cannot be. He is not in there. He has swum ashore, he is somewhere, he is one of the dazed people in blankets, covered in mud. He is asking someone to telephone her. He is. he is. She hears the tide, its slip-slap against the lifeboats, and she thinks, you have not got him. The chains, however, which go clank-clank, tell a different story - a death knell. And the line comes, how could it not: "A current under sea picked his bones in whispers." A young policeman loses control, says how the hell does he know what one boat was doing crashing into another. Sirens fill the streets and she thinks that if Paddy is still in the water, which she now thinks he must be, those sirens will be a clarion to him, a reminder that everyone is on the alert, everything is being done.
"Oh, Paddy, we are coming to you, we are coming," she says, and, going over to an officer, she asks if there is any way they could light up the water more, give hope to those who were still struggling in it. For some reason he thinks she is a journalist and tells her to shut her trap. She screams back, screams that she is a mother.
"Why isn't the water lit, the way it's lit for a jubilee or a coronation?" she says, and he looks at her with a kind of murderousness and says that those who are still in there have had it by now. She lets out half a cry - a short, unearthly, broken cry. This shadow, this totem of authority, wishes them death. A senior officer tries to calm her, says that they are doing everything they possibly can, that any bodies still in the water will be found. "Found." There is that word again. She asks him if by any chance she can go to the morgue at Southwark in the police van, since others are going. He looks at her with the candor of a man who has to refuse, and says no, that it would be better for her to go back into the hospital and stay put.
IN the hospital, a group of young people is silently weeping, holding one another and rocking back and forth in grief, like children in a play-pen. A boy and two girls. They have lost their mate, their mate. The boy had jumped in the water to search and had to be hauled out. They rock back and forth, like women in labor, giving birth to their grief. Each time they smoke they give Nell a cigarette, too. Some time later one of them, a girl, looks up and screams. A man is coming toward them. She is afraid it is not true. It can't be true. She looks down, she covers her eyes and asks them, Jesus, to look up. It is him. It is Justin. He has been found. Or has he? Is he a spirit? He walks toward them, in his slather of wet clothes, with a strange dazedness. He is holding half a rubber life ring. They get up. They all embrace, four friends, lost for words, unable to speak. They don't believe it. A miracle. Then they do believe it. They cry. They kiss. He cannot speak. He cannot say how he swam ashore. He holds up the bit of black rubber, refuses to let it go. It saved him. It. Then one of them speaks, one of them says that they are going to get out of this hellhole and get in his little banger and drive somewhere and get booze and get fish and chips, and they are going to ring everyone they know and have ever known and give the party of their lives, a party that means welcome home, Justin, welcome home.
Nell shrinks away from them, and they know why. She is still one of the waiting ones. There is nothing to be said. They cannot swap with her. Were she the lucky one she would not swap, either. It is as primal as that.
What she must do is give Paddy strength, send messages to him, urge him, tell him to kick, to kick, not to give in. Her breathing quickens, and it is as if she, too, has dared the water. Then she pauses and says, "Turn over on your back, love, and float." She does this unendingly, because there is one thing that she cannot unknow: some are trapped in the sunken vessel, were caught in a downstairs suite - corpses side by side, or cleaving to furniture. The vessel cannot be brought up till daylight, when the toll will be taken. He is not among them. She is certain of that. He got out - crawled out and swam and is making his way, is holding on to a raft, is on a little bit of beach, waiting to be picked up. He is that seagull he loves to read about, who flew higher than all the other seagulls, up into the lonely altitudes; hearing herself say "seagull," she shrieks, glimpsing the maelstroms ahead.
WAITING. Another day. Parents. Relatives. Police. Waiting at the hospital for names to be called out, now for people to go into the morgue in back and identify their own. Bodies in glass cubicles under sheets - bloated, puffed, disfigured, all prey to the same lunatic fate.
The policeman lifts a sheet, and what she sees is not a face with features but something gray, prehistoric. A purple cowl hides the hair and the body. She does not know if it is a boy or a girl.
<#FROWN:L22\>
"She thinks it's bullshit," Jimmy told me. "Do you think it's bullshit, kid?"
I knew he was inviting me to contradict my sister; it made me feel like a younger brother instead of an eighth grade girl. I knew that if I agreed with him I might get to come along again. But that wasn't my reason for saying no. At that moment I believed him.
"The kid knows," Jimmy said, and I whispered: The kid. The kid. The kid.
"This danger thing," Jimmy told us, "is only about yourself. It would be criminal to take chances with somebody else's life. I would never go over the speed limit with you ladies in the car." I hunched my shoulders and burrowed into the fragrant back seat. I felt - and I think my sister felt - supremely taken care of.
My parents were often in the city with my father's doctors, occasionally staying over for tests, not returning till the next day. They told my sister to take care of me, though I didn't need taking care of.
Jimmy would drive over when he got through at Babylon Roofing and Siding. He loved his job and sometimes stopped to show us roofs he'd done. His plan was to have his own company and retire to Florida young and get a little house with grapefruit and mango trees in the yard. He said this to my sister. He wanted her to want it, too.
My sister said, "Mangoes in Florida? You're thinking about Puerto Rico."
One night Jimmy parked in front of a furniture store and told us to slouch down and keep our eye on the dark front window. My sister and I were alone for so long I began to get frightened.
A light flickered on inside the store, the flame of Jimmy's lighter, bright enough to see Jimmy smiling and waving, reclining in a lounger.
When Jimmy talked about testing himself, he said he did it sometimes, but I began to wonder if he thought about it always. Just sitting in a diner, waiting for his coffee, he'd take the pointiest knife he could find and dance it between his fingers. I wondered what our role in it was. I wondered if he and my sister were playing a game of chicken: all she had to do was cry "Stop!" and Jimmy would have won. Once he ate a cigarette filter. Once he jumped off a building.
One evening Jimmy drove me and my sister over to his apartment. He lived in a basement apartment of a brick private house. It struck me as extraordinary: people lived in basement apartments. But it wasn't a shock to my sister, who knew where everything was and confidently got two beers from Jimmy's refrigerator.
Jimmy turned on the six o'clock news and the three of us sat on his bed. There was the usual Vietnam report: helicopters, gunfire. A sequence showed American troops filing through the jungle. The camera moved in for a close-up of the soldiers' faces, faces that I recognize now as the faces of frightened boys but that I mistook then for cruel grown men, happy in what they were doing.
My sister said, "Wow. Any one of those suckers could just get blown off that trail." On her face was that combustible mix of sympathy and smoldering anger, and in her voice rage and contempt combined with admiration. I could tell Jimmy was jealous that she looked like that because of the soldiers, and he desperately wanted her to look that way for him. I knew, even if he didn't, that she already had, and that she looked like that if she saw a dog in a parked car, in the heat.
Jimmy had a high draft number but he went down and enlisted. He said he couldn't sit back and let other men do the dying, an argument I secretly thought was crazy and brave and terrific. Mother said it was ridiculous, no one had to die, every kid she counseled wound up with a psychiatric 1-Y. And when Jimmy died she seemed confirmed; he had proved her right.
On the night of the funeral, Mother told us how Jimmy died. The friend who'd accompanied his body home had given a little speech. He said often at night Jimmy sneaked out to where they weren't supposed to be; once a flare went off and they saw him freaking around in the jungle. He said they felt better knowing that crazy Kowalchuk was out there fucking around.
Mother said, "That's what he said at the service, 'Out there fucking around.'"
But I was too hurt to listen, I was feeling so stupid for having imagined that Jimmy's stunts were about my sister and me.
Mother said, "Of course I think it's terrible that the boy got killed. But I have to say I don't hate it that now the two of them can't get married."
After that it was just a matter of time till my sister met the white dog that Jimmy had sent from the other world to take her to Florida.
My sister didn't go to Florida, or anyway not yet. Eventually she recovered - recovered or stopped pretending. Every night after dinner Mother said, "She's eating well. She's improving." Talking to strange dogs in the yard was apparently not a problem. Father's problem was a real problem; my sister's would improve. I knew that Mother felt this way, and once more she was right.
One night Marcy telephoned, Mother called my sister, and my sister came out of her room. She took the phone and told Marcy, "Sure, great. See you. Bye."
"Marcy knows about a party", she said.
Mother said, "Wonderful, dear," though in the past there were always fights about going to parties with Marcy.
We all stayed up till my sister came home, though we all pretended to sleep. My window was over the front door and I watched her on the front step, struggling to unlock the door, holding something bulky, pressed against her belly. At last she disappeared inside. Something hit the floor with a thud. I heard my sister running. There was so much commotion we all felt justified rushing downstairs. Mother helped my father down, they came along rather quickly.
We found my sister in the kitchen. It was quiet and very dark. The refrigerator was open, not for food but for light. Bathed in its glow, my sister was rhythmically stroking a large iguana that stood poised, alert, its head slightly raised, on the butcher block by the stove.
In the equalizing darkness my father saw almost as well as we did."Jesus Christ," he said.
My sister said, "He was a little freaked. You can try turning the light on."
Only then did we notice that the lizard's foot was bandaged. My sister said, "This drunken jerk bit off one of his toes. He got all the guys at the party to bet that he wouldn't do it. I just waded in and took the poor thing and the guy just gave it up. The asshole couldn't have cared very much if he was going to bite its toes off."
"Watch your language," Mother said. "What a cruel thing to do! Is this the kind of teenager you're going to parties with?"
"Animals," my father said. After that there was a silence, during which all of us thought that once my father would have unwrapped the bandage and taken a look at the foot.
"His name's Reynaldo," my sister said.
"Sounds Puerto Rican," said Mother.
Once there would have been a fight about her keeping the iguana, but like some brilliant general, my sister had retreated and recouped and emerged from her bedroom, victorious and in control. At that moment I hated her for always getting her way, for always outlasting everyone and being so weird and dramatic and never letting you know for sure, what was real and what she was faking.
Reynaldo had the run of my sister's room, no one dared open the door. After school she'd lie belly down on her bed, cheek to cheek with Reynaldo. No one asked my sister what she and Reynaldo discussed. And in a way it was lucky that my father couldn't see that.
One night the phone rang. Mother covered the receiver and said, "Thank you, Lord. It's a boy."
It was a boy who had been at the party and seen my sister rescue. Reynaldo. His name was Greg, he was a college student, studying for a business degree.
After he and my sister went out a few times, Mother invited Greg to dinner. I ate roast beef and watched him charm everyone but me. He described my sister grabbing the iguana out of its torturer's hands. He said, "When I saw her do that, I thought, this is someone I want to know better." He and my parents talked about her like some distant mutual friend. I stared hard at my sister, wanting her to miss Jimmy, too, but she was playing with her food, I couldn't tell what she was thinking.
Greg had a widowed mother and two younger sisters; he'd gotten out of the draft by being their sole support. He said he wouldn't go anyway, he'd go to Canada first. No one mentioned Reynaldo, though we could hear him scrabbling jealously around my sister's room.
Reynaldo wasn't invited on their dates and neither, obviously, was I. I knew Greg didn't drive onto the ice or break into furniture stores. He took my sister to Godard movies and told us how much she liked them.
One Saturday my sister and Greg took Reynaldo out for a drive. And when they returned - I waited up - the iguana wasn't with them.
"Where's Reynaldo?" I asked.
"A really nice pet shop," she said. And then for the first time I understood that Jimmy was really dead.
Not long after that my father died. His doctors had made a mistake. It was not a disease of the retina but a tumor of the brain. You'd think they would have known that, checked for that right away, but he was a scientist, they saw themselves and didn't want to know. Before he died he disappeared, one piece at a time. My sister and I slowly turned away so as not to see what was missing.
Greg was very helpful throughout this terrible time. Six months after my father died, Greg and my sister got married. By then he'd graduated and got a marketing job with a potato chip company. Mother and I lived alone in the house - as we'd had, really, for some time. My father and sister had left so gradually that the door hardly swung shut behind them. Father's Buick sat in the garage, as it had since he'd lost his vision, and every time we saw it we thought about all that had happened.
My sister and Greg bought a house nearby; sometimes Mother and I went for dinner. Greg told us about his work and the interesting things he found out. In the Northeast they liked the burnt chips, the lumpy misshapen ones, but down South every chip had to be pale and thin and perfect.
"A racial thing, no doubt," I said but no one seemed to hear, though one of Mother's favorite subjects was race relations down South. I'd thought my sister might laugh or get angry, but she was a different person. A slower, solid, heavier person who was eating a lot of chips.
One afternoon the doorbell rang, and it was Jimmy Kowalchuk. It took me a while to recognize him; he didn't have his beard. For a second - just a second - I was afraid to open the door. He was otherwise unchanged except that he'd got even thinner, and looked even less Polish and even more Puerto Rican. He was wearing army fatigues. I was glad Mother wasn't home.
<#FROWN:L23\>
When the grisly bundle went rolling down the road, it turned into Texas' tragicomic case of
HELLO DOLLY, GOODBYE DAVID!
by Bill G. Cox
Special Investigator for
OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
The moon rode high and bright over Amarillo, Texas, on the Monday night of August 15, 1988. It was a perfect night for riding around and listening to music. The usual kinds of music filled the airways in this city of 156,000, from country and western to heavy metal to rock 'n' roll to golden oldies to easy listening. On a moonlit night made for love and romantic music, the tunes sent forth by a small radio station on the city's northeast side were the choice of some Amarillo listeners. Easy-listening instrumentals and vocals - nice to kiss by, if you were so inclined.
As it turned out, though, songs such as "Your Cheating Heart" and maybe even the real oldie, "Frankie and Johnny," would have been more fitting for the shocking events that started with a bang at that easy-listening radio station.
Love and hate - such a thin line between them. Sometimes emotions and circumstances combine to blow love all to hell and shove it over to the hate side of that narrow line.
What started in that easy-listening radio station came to public attention with a crashing crescendo on this Monday night when the city streets were bathed in moonlight.
A young woman was parked in front of a residence waiting for a friend to come out when she heard a loud clanking and clattering noise. Glancing behind her, she saw a speeding pickup pulling a wrapped object behind. The cumbersome bundle seemed to be lashed to a conveyance with wheels that jogged and bounced along the street like a large beach ball on tough waters. As the pickup flashed by, the startled woman got the vivid impression that the bouncing bundle was a human body!
Even as she wondered if she were imagining things, the woman's friend appeared at her car, exclaiming, "Did you see what I just saw?"
As the pair drove away from the curb, they saw the same pickup coming back toward them on the street. They only caught a glimpse of a dark figure in the pickup cab, but they noticed that the bundle was now gone from the trailing rig that had carried it.
A block further down the street, the two witnesses saw the blob lying in the middle of the road. They steered gingerly around it and pulled up to a house where lights were on to notify the police department. They had seen enough to confirm in their minds that the wrapped and tied bundle contained a humand body.
The police radio room received the call reporting a body in the street at 10:11 p.m.
A police unit driven by Patrolman Jim Burgess was dispatched to investigate the report. However, the patrol car was given the address from where the reporting call had come, and when Burgess arrived there, he saw nothing that looked like a body in the street.
At the same time, Patrolman Efrin Contreras, only a short distance away, was preparing to drive a prisoner to the city jail. The officer had arrested a woman on a charge of prostitution in an area frequented by hustlers. Strung along East Amarillo Boulevard are cheap motels, strip joints, bars and similar establishments. The area that surrounds the boulevard, which some cops refer to as "The Strip of Sin," really jumps on Saturday nights. On Mondays, the activity is slower, but police still happen on a paid-love transaction in progress even on the quiet nights.
Contreras had grilled and released the potential john, a motorist who the high-heeled lady had solicited on the street. The nervous man, relieved not to be in the clutches of the law, drove away. But a minute later, Contreras was surpised to see the man back again.
"It looks like someone has been hit by a car - there's a body in the middle of the street down there," he yelled, pointing in the direction from which he had come.
With the lady of the night still in tow, the uniformed officer drove to the spot two blocks away. When he got out of the car and looked closer at the trussed bundle, Contreras picked up his radio mike and notified the radio clerk of the discovery.
Patrolman Burgess heard the radio traffic and sped to the nearby location given by his fellow officer. The patrolmen observed what appeared to be a portion of a human arm visible from what looked like white sheets tied with different sizes of rope.
A strong and sickening smell of decomposed flesh was immediately apparent as the patrolmen made a cursory examination. The brief look was enough for Burgess to return to his police car and place a call to the Special Crimes Unit.
The Special Crimes Unit is a crack homicide squad peopled with specially assigned investigators from the Amarillo Police Department and the sheriff's departments of Potter and Randall Counties. Amarillo lies in both counties. The Special Crimes Unit was created to probe murders in Amarillo and the two-county area. Its record of solved crimes and its investigative techniques have inspired other police forces in the South-west to set up similar homicide units.
The Special Crimes roster has an assortment of personalities. Lieutenant Sandy Morris, the unit's assistant coordinator, directs the field investigations. A veteran homicide detective with more then 25 years' experience, he's a crusty individual who has seen the "old school" police procedures of hitting the sidewalks and tapping informants change with new laws and court decisions into the highly skilled forensic police techniques of today. The unit includes younger men and women who have come up through the ranks to their present jobs of investigators and ID and crime technicians.
It's a crew that gets a homicide probe off the ground with the efficiency of a scientific space launch. They felt lucky that the call to duty on this Monday night didn't come in the wee hours of the day, which happens to them all too often.
Accompanied by a detail of regular duty police officers at the crime scene, the Special Crimes Unit force included Lieutenant Jimmy Stevens, the crime scene coordinator who was administrator and overall unit supervisor at the time; Lieutenant Morris and Investigator David Thurman; and Investigator Greg Soltis, an ID and crime scene officer. Aided by one of the uniformed officers, Investigator Soltis took measurements and drew crime scene diagrams in addition to photographing the body and immediate vicinity.
Potter County Justice of the Peace Haven Dysart, acting as coroner, came to the scene to conduct a preliminary inquest.
As the lawmen examined the trussed heap in the street, they saw that the body appeared to be wrapped in curtains or drapes instead of a sheet as first believed. Underneath, they found that a brown plastic garbage sack covered the victim's head, and the feet were inside a black plastic bag. The stench hanging in the air was the result of the advanced decomposition of the body, which appeared to be male. Because of the body's condition, the investigators were uncertain of the dead man's race or how he had been killed. The body had been trussed with two different-sized ropes, the sleuths noted.
Questioning the man and woman who had phoned police after witnessing the hop-and-skip ride of the body behind the pickup, the detectives came up with little information.
The witnesses told officers they thought the pickup had been blue and white in color. They also thought that the driver had been wearing a cap similar to a baseball cap, but they had gotten only a glimpse of the driver.
Officers were assigned to go house to house in the residential area. The neighborhood canvass produced little more than what already had been learned.
Some witnesses who had been on their front porches and were drawn to the speeding pickup and its trailing load by the racket they made also mentioned the blue and white colors. Others who had seen the strange and noisy ensemble thought the pickup might have been another color.
Adding to the confusion, one or two witnesses thought the blue-and-white pickup was not the one that had carried the bizarre bundle, but one that had slowed so its driver could see what was left in the middle of the street after the load had been dislodged from another pickup. One witness contacted by the investigators thought he had seen two persons in the pickup pulling the bundle on wheels.
All of those who had viewed the unusual scene agreed that the pickup had been speeding along Northeast 10th Avenue, going at least 50 mph in a residential area limited to 30 mph. The mysterious driver had obviously been hellbent for somewhere when the towed body was suddenly dislodged by its bumpy, tumultuous ride over the pavement.
The investigators' search for clues along the trail of the fast-moving pickup revealed drag marks and debris at various points that confirmed the last ride of the unidentified body had been a rough one. The corpse had been separated from the pulling vehicle at the intersection of Northeast 10th Avenue and North Arthur Street. This was a short distance from the address to which Officer Burgess had been dispatched before the body's actual location was established.
As he looked over the crime scene and heard the stories of the witnesses, Lieutenant Morris formulated a theory on which he speculated to his colleagues. The veteran homicide sleuth wondered why the body had been dragged behind the pickup after being wrapped and trussed so compactly. He felt that this indicated the killer was a person of small stature and limited strength - perhaps even a woman - who had been unable to lift the bound package into the back of the pickup.
Whatever had been the case, the investigators, who had worked about every kind of homicide in the books, agreed on one thing: This had to be the most bungled - and weirdest - job of body disposal they had ever come across.
Presumably, after becoming aware that the body in back was no longer aboard, the killer had not bothered to retrace the route ro retrieve it for fear of being seen with the misplaced corpse.
Lieutenant Morris was of the opinion that the body might have been loaded somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Deciding to look for the start of the drag trail, which was visible sporadically along the street, the lieutenant got into his car, accompanied by Investigator Thurman, and drove slowly along the route, scanning the streets that intersected Northeast 10th.
Meanwhile, after the body had been released from the scene by the acting coroner, it was taken to a county building for thorough examination and photographing. Soltis was assigned as the ID man who would record on film the distasteful sorting out of the victim's remains as they were removed from the wrappings.
As the outside covering and plastic bags were peeled away, the investigators saw that the victim had been nude when encased in the crude shroud. The body was that of a well-built man with short reddish hair and mustache. On the right shoulder was a tattoo that could help in making the identification. The red, yellow, and black tattoo depicted a rearing unicorn.
A wound that appeared to be a bullet hole was evident in the victim's forehead, though it could have been the result of the body being dragged on the pavement, the officers thought. As the last covering was pulled away, a shell casing dropped to the floor.
The examination also revealed abrasions on the buttocks and the inside of the thighs, undoubtedly the result of friction during the body's extended drag over the rough pavement.
There was no clothing or anything else that might contribute to the dead man's identification. It looked as though he had been slain while naked or had been undressed after the killing to prevent identification, the investigators theorized.
<#FROWN:L24\>
Chapter 1
I LIKE SUNDAYS. Most Sundays, anyway.
Day of rest, day of relaxation. Stay-in-bed-and-read-or-watch-old-movies day. Putter day. Go-out-and-play day. Do-nothing-at-all day. Good old Sunday.
This one, in late June, had clear skies and warm breezes off the ocean and the bay- a pair of surprises, since too many June days in San Francisco are fog-shrouded and cold. Nature's air-conditioning, the locals like to say with pride; keeps the city nice and cool while surrounding communities swelter under the hot summer sun. Wouldn't have it any other way, they tell outsiders, lying through their teeth. If they really meant it, they would not take part, as plenty of them do, in the mass weekend exodus to those sweltering neighborhood communities. It is only on rare June days like this one that these none-too-true-blue San Franciscans stay put and take advantage of what they refer to as the city's 'good-weather attractions.'
So what was I going to do on this fine June Sunday? If Kerry were available, there were lots of possibilities, beginning with a couple of hours of lovemaking and proceeding to a picnic somewhere or maybe to the Giants-Cubs game at Candlestick. But Kerry wasn't available. One reason was that she had her mother to contend with, though maybe not for much longer. Cybil had been sharing Kerry's Diamond Heights apartment for nearly seven months now, the result of her inability to cope with the death of her husband, Ivan, and what remained of her life without him. Difficult and painful situation, made even worse by the fact that Cybil had taken an irrational dislike to me: I couldn't visit without provoking a crisis and could call only when I was certain Kerry was home. This had severely curtailed our love life, added an edge of tension to what had formerly been a pretty stress-free relationship. Recently, though, with the aid of a counseling group called Children of Grieving Parents, Kerry had succeeded in convincing her mother to move into a Marin County seniors complex. Cybil had agreed to make the move by the end of the month. But would she change her mind at the last minute? The whole thing was a tale well-calculated to keep you in suspense, right up to the last act.
The other reason Kerry wasn't available today was that she had work to do on one of her ad agency's major accounts. Kerry Wade, Bates and Carpenter's new Creative Director. The title had been bestowed on her just last week; and along with it and a $5000 annual increase in salary went 'greater responsibility,' which translated to longer hours and an increased workload. Not such an ideal promotion, if you asked me. But nobody had, and I was not about to volunteer anything that might dampen her euphoria. The one time we'd made love since had been terrific.
So. My options for the day were limited. Under normal circumstances I could have called Eberhardt and suggested that we go watch the Giants get it on with the Cubs. But things were not normal between Eb and me, hadn't been for the past two months - since Bobbie Jean had called off their planned wedding, for good reasons thanks to him, and the fight he and I had had as a result. That damned fight. School-boy stuff: I'd lost my head, stupidly, and punched him. He still hadn't forgiven me; it worried me that maybe he never would. We barely spoke in the office, and then only when business made it necessary. The few times I'd tried to talk him into having a beer together after work, he'd flatly refused.
No Kerry, no Eberhardt. Going to the ballgame by myself didn't appeal to me; neither did taking a drive or visiting one of those 'good-weather attractions' alone. Barney Rivera? On impulse I called his number, and got his answering machine. Out getting his ashes hauled somewhere, probably. Barney Rivera, God's gift to women who liked little fat guys with soulful eyes and a line of sugar-coated BS. Mentally I ran down the list of my other friends ... and a pretty short list it was. Devote your life to your profession, turn yourself into a workaholic, and this is what happens to you: short-listed as you approach sixty. The few others were married, had families. Had lives. Get a life, why didn't I?
Too old. Besides, I liked the one I had - most of the time.
Staying home was out. Too nice a day for that, and already felt restless. Open air was what I needed, sunshine on my shoulder, people around me, maybe some familiar faces. No blue Sunday for me ...
Aquatic Park, I thought.
Sure, that was the ticket. I hadn't been down there in a while, and I always enjoyed myself when I went. What better way to spend a quiet Sunday than getting back in touch with your ethnic heritage?
I went and picked up the car and drove to Aquatic Park, to watch the old men play bocce.
IN SAN FRANCISCO, in the last decade of the twentieth century, bocce is a dying sport.
Most of the city's older Italians, to whom bocce was more a religion than a sport, have died off. The once large and close-knit North Beach Italian community has been steadily losing its identity since the fifties - families moving to the suburbs, the expansion of Chinatown and the gobbling up of North Beach real estate by wealthy Chinese - and even though there has been a small, new wave of immigrants from Italy in recent years, they're mostly young and upscale. Young, upscale Italians don't play bocce much, if at all; their interests lie in soccer, in the American sports where money and fame and power have replaced a love of the game itself. The Di Massimo bocce courts at the North Beach Playground are mostly closed these days; so are the handful of other public courts left in the city, including the one in the Outer Mission, where I'd been raised. The Potrero district's Monte Cristo Club is still open on a regular basis, but it's private. About the only public courts where you can find a game every Saturday and Sunday are the ones at Aquatic Park.
Time was, all six of the Aquatic Park courts were packed from early morning to dusk and there were spectators and waiting players lined two and three deep at courtside and up along the fence on Van Ness. No more. Seldom, now, is more than one of the courts used. And the players get older, and sadder, and fewer each year.
There were maybe fifteen players and watchers on this Sunday, almost all of them older than my fifty-eight, loosely grouped around the two courts nearest the street. Those two are covered by a high pillar-supported roof so that contests can be held even in wet weather. Up until a year ago, the roof was so badly weather-worn that it was in danger of collapse. Just when it looked as though the courts would have to be shut down, the Italian Consul General stepped in and hosted a benefit soccer match that raised enough money for the necessary repairs. Viva il console.
Under the roof are wooden benches; I parked myself on one of these; midway along. The only other seated spectator was Pietro Lombardi, in a patch of sunlight at the far end, and this surprised me. Even though Pietro was in his seventies, he was one of the best and spriest of the regulars, and also one of the most social. To see him sitting alone, shoulders slumped and head bowed, was puzzling.
Pining away for the old days, maybe, I thought - as I had just been doing. And a phrase popped into my head, a line from Dante that one of my uncles had been fond of quoting when I was a kid: Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria. The bitterest of woes is to remember old happy days.
Pietro and his woes didn't occupy my attention for long. The game in progress was animated and voluble, as only a game of bocce played by elderly 'paesanos can be, and I was soon caught up in the spirit of it.
Bocce is simple - deceptively simple. You play it on a long, narrow packed-earth pit with low wooden sides. A wooden marker ball the size of a walnut is rolled to one end; the players stand at the opposite end and in turn roll eight larger, heavier balls, grapefruit-size, in the direction of the marker, the object being to see who can put his bocce ball closest to it. One of the required skills is slow-rolling the ball, usually in a curving trajectory, so that it kisses the marker and then lies up against it - the perfect shot - or else stops an inch or two away. The other required skill is knocking an opponent's ball away from any such close lie without disturbing the marker. The best players, like Pietro Lombardi, can do this two out of three times on the fly - no mean feat from a distance of fifty feet. They can also do it by caroming the ball off the pit walls with topspin or reverse spin, after the fashion of pool shooters.
Nobody paid much attention to me until after the game in progress had been decided. Then I was acknowledged with hand gestures and a few words - the tolerant acceptance accorded to known spectators and occasional players. Unknowns got no greeting at all. These men still clung to the old ways, and one of the old ways was clannishness.
Only one of the group, Dominick Marra, came over to where I was sitting, And that was because he had something on his mind. He was in his mid-seventies, white-haired, white-mustached; a bantamweight in baggy trousers held up by galluses. He and Pietro Lombardi had been close friends for most of their lives. Born in the same town - Agropoli, a village on the Gulf of Salerno not far from Naples; moved to San Francisco with their families a year apart, in the late twenties; married cousins, raised large families, were widowed at almost the same time a few years ago. The kind of friendship that is virtually a blood tie. Dominick had been a baker; Pietro had owned a North Beach trattoria that now belonged to one of his daughters.
What Dominick had on his mind was Pietro. "You see how he's sit over there, hah? He's got trouble - la miseria"
"What kind of trouble?"
"His granddaughter, Gianna Fornessi."
"Something happen to her?"
"She's maybe go to jail," Dominick said.
"What for?"
"Stealing money."
"I'm sorry to hear it. How much money?"
"Two thousand dollars."
"Who did she steal it from?"
"Che?"
"Whose money did she steal?"
Dominick gave me a disgusted look. "She don't steal it. Why you think Pietro, he's got la miseria, hah?"
I knew what was coming, now; I should have known it the instant Dominick started confiding in me about Pietro's problem. I said, "You want me to help him and his granddaughter."
"Sure. You're a detective."
"A busy detective."
"You got no time for old man and young girl? Compaesani?"
I sighed, but not so he could hear me do it. "All right, I'll talk to Pietro. See if he want my help, if there's anything I can do."
"Sure he wants your help," Dominick said. "He just don't know it yet."
We went to where Pietro sat alone in the sun. He was taller than Dominick, heavier, balder. And he had a fondness for Toscanas, those little twisted black Italian cigars; one protruded now from a corner of his mouth. He didn't want to talk at first, but Dominick launched into a monologue in Italian that changed his mind and put a glimmer of hope in his sad eyes. Even though I've lost a lot of the language over the years, I can understand enough to follow most conversations.