tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7588232657697056942011-09-12T08:26:15.413-07:00VAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749765720728829275noreply@blogger.comBlogger81100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758823265769705694.post-35444735265396032792009-08-10T08:57:00.003-07:002009-08-10T09:01:48.239-07:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>VELOCITY</div><div><br /></div><div>Dean Koontz, © 2005</div><div><br /></div><div>This book is dedicated to Donna and Steve Dunio,</div><div>Vito and Lynn Cerra, Ross and Rosemary Cerra.</div><div>I’ll never figure out why Gerda said yes to me.</div><div>But now your family has a crazy wing.</div><div><br /></div><div>A man can be destroyed but not</div><div>defeated.</div><div>—Ernest Hemingway,</div><div><br /></div><div>The Old Man and the Sea</div><div>And now you live dispersed on ribbon roads,</div><div>And no man knows or cares who is his neighbour</div><div>Unless his neighbour makes too much disturbance,</div><div>But all dash to and fro in motorcars,</div><div>Familiar with the roads and settled nowhere.</div><div>—T.S. Eliot,</div><div>Choruses from “The Rock”</div><div>6</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>PART 1</div><div>THE CHOICE IS YOURS</div><div>Chapter 1</div><div>With draft beer and a smile, Ned Pearsall raised a toast to his deceased</div><div>neighbor, Henry Friddle, whose death greatly pleased him.</div><div>Henry had been killed by a garden gnome. He had fallen off the roof of his</div><div>two-story house, onto that cheerful-looking figure. The gnome was made of</div><div>concrete. Henry wasn’t.</div><div>A broken neck, a cracked skull: Henry perished on impact.</div><div>This death-by-gnome had occurred four years previously. Ned Pearsall still</div><div>toasted Henry’s passing at least once a week.</div><div>Now, from a stool near the curve of the polished mahogany bar, an out-oftowner,</div><div>the only other customer, expressed curiosity at the enduring nature of</div><div>Ned’s animosity.</div><div>“How bad a neighbor could the poor guy have been that you’re still so</div><div>juiced about him?”</div><div>Ordinarily, Ned might have ignored the question. He had even less use for</div><div>tourists than he did for pretzels.</div><div>The tavern offered free bowls of pretzels because they were cheap. Ned</div><div>preferred to sustain his thirst with well-salted peanuts.</div><div>To keep Ned tipping, Billy Wiles, tending bar, occasionally gave him a</div><div>bag of Planters.</div><div>Most of the time Ned had to pay for his nuts. This rankled him either</div><div>because he could not grasp the economic realities of tavern operation or</div><div>because he enjoyed being rankled, probably the latter.</div><div>Although he had a head reminiscent of a squash ball and the heavy</div><div>rounded shoulders of a sumo wrestler, Ned was an athletic man only if you</div><div>7</div><div>thought barroom jabber and grudge-holding qualified as sports. In those events,</div><div>he was an Olympian.</div><div>Regarding the late Henry Friddle, Ned could be as talkative with outsiders</div><div>as with lifelong residents of Vineyard Hills. When, as now, the only other</div><div>customer was a stranger, Ned found silence even less congenial than</div><div>conversation with a “foreign devil.”</div><div>Billy himself had never been much of a talker, never one of those barkeeps</div><div>who considered the bar a stage. He was a listener.</div><div>To the out-of-towner, Ned declared, “Henry Friddle was a pig.”</div><div>The stranger had hair as black as coal dust with traces of ash at the</div><div>temples, gray eyes bright with dry amusement, and a softly resonant voice.</div><div>“That’s a strong word—pig.”</div><div>“You know what the pervert was doing on his roof? He was trying to piss</div><div>on my dining-room windows.”</div><div>Wiping the bar, Billy Wiles didn’t even glance at the tourist. He’d heard</div><div>this story so often that he knew all the reactions to it.</div><div>“Friddle, the pig, figured the altitude would give his stream more</div><div>distance,” Ned explained.</div><div>The stranger said, “What was he—an aeronautical engineer?”</div><div>“He was a college professor. He taught contemporary literature.”</div><div>“Maybe reading that stuff drove him to suicide,” the tourist said, which</div><div>made him more interesting than Billy had first thought.</div><div>“No, no,” Ned said impatiently. “The fall was accidental.”</div><div>“Was he drunk?”</div><div>“Why would you think he was drunk?” Ned wondered.</div><div>The stranger shrugged. “He climbed on a roof to urinate on your</div><div>windows.”</div><div>“He was a sick man,” Ned explained, plinking one finger against his empty</div><div>glass to indicate the desire for another round.</div><div>Drawing Budweiser from the tap, Billy said, “Henry Friddle was</div><div>consumed by vengeance.”</div><div>After silent communion with his brew, the tourist asked Ned Pearsall,</div><div>“Vengeance? So you urinated on Friddle’s windows first?”</div><div>8</div><div>“It wasn’t the same thing at all,” Ned warned in a rough tone that advised</div><div>the outsider to avoid being judgmental.</div><div>“Ned didn’t do it from his roof,” Billy said.</div><div>“That’s right. I walked up to his house, like a man, stood on his lawn, and</div><div>aimed at his dining-room windows.”</div><div>“Henry and his wife were having dinner at the time,” Billy said.</div><div>Before the tourist might express revulsion at the timing of this assault, Ned</div><div>said, “They were eating quail, for God’s sake.”</div><div>“You showered their windows because they were eating quail?”</div><div>Ned sputtered with exasperation. “No, of course not. Do I look insane to</div><div>you?” He rolled his eyes at Billy.</div><div>Billy raised his eyebrows as though to say What do you expect of a</div><div>tourist?</div><div>“I’m just trying to convey how pretentious they were,” Ned clarified,</div><div>“always eating quail or snails, or Swiss chard.”</div><div>“Phony bastards,” the tourist said with such a light seasoning of mockery</div><div>that Ned Pearsall didn’t detect it, although Billy did.</div><div>“Exactly,” Ned confirmed. “Henry Friddle drove a Jaguar, and his wife</div><div>drove a car—you won’t believe this—a car made in Sweden.”</div><div>“Detroit was too common for them,” said the tourist.</div><div>“Exactly. How much of a snob do you have to be to bring a car all the way</div><div>from Sweden?”</div><div>The tourist said, “I’ll wager they were wine connoisseurs.”</div><div>“Big time! Did you know them or something?”</div><div>“I just know the type. They had a lot of books.”</div><div>“You’ve got ‘em nailed,” Ned declared. “They’d sit on the front porch,</div><div>sniffing their wine, reading books.”</div><div>“Right out in public. Imagine that. But if you didn’t pee on their diningroom</div><div>windows because they were snobs, why did you?”</div><div>“A thousand reasons,” Ned assured him. “The incident of the skunk. The</div><div>incident of the lawn fertilizer. The dead petunias.”</div><div>“And the garden gnome,” Billy added as he rinsed glasses in the bar sink.</div><div>“The garden gnome was the last straw,” Ned agreed.</div><div>9</div><div>“I can understand being driven to aggressive urination by pink plastic</div><div>flamingos,” said the tourist, “but, frankly, not by a gnome.”</div><div>Ned scowled, remembering the affront. “Ariadne gave it my face.”</div><div>“Ariadne who?”</div><div>“Henry Friddle’s wife. You ever heard a more pretentious name?”</div><div>“Well, the Friddle part brings it down to earth.”</div><div>“She was an art professor at the same college. She sculpted the gnome,</div><div>created the mold, poured the concrete, painted it herself.”</div><div>“Having a sculpture modeled after you can be an honor.”</div><div>The beer foam on Ned’s upper lip gave him a rabid appearance as he</div><div>protested: “It was a gnome, pal. A drunken gnome. The nose was as red as an</div><div>apple. It was carrying a beer bottle in each hand.”</div><div>“And its fly was unzipped,” Billy added.</div><div>“Thanks so much for reminding me,” Ned grumbled. “Worse, hanging out</div><div>of its pants was the head and neck of a dead goose.”</div><div>“How creative,” said the tourist.</div><div>“At first I didn’t know what the hell that meant—”</div><div>“Symbolism. Metaphor.”</div><div>“Yeah, yeah. I figured it out. Everybody who walked past their place saw</div><div>it, and got a laugh at my expense.”</div><div>“Wouldn’t need to see the gnome for that,” said the tourist.</div><div>Misunderstanding, Ned agreed: “Right. Just hearing about it, people were</div><div>laughing. So I busted up the gnome with a sledgehammer.”</div><div>“And they sued you.”</div><div>“Worse. They set out another gnome. Figuring I’d bust up the first,</div><div>Ariadne had cast and painted a second.”</div><div>“I thought life was mellow here in the wine country.”</div><div>“Then they tell me,” Ned continued, “if I bust up the second one, they’ll</div><div>put a third on the lawn, plus they’ll manufacture a bunch and sell ‘em at cost to</div><div>anyone who wants a Ned Pearsall gnome.”</div><div>“Sounds like an empty threat,” said the tourist. “Would there really be</div><div>people who’d want such a thing?”</div><div>“Dozens,” Billy assured him.</div><div>10</div><div>“This town’s become a mean place since the pate-and-brie crowd started</div><div>moving in from San Francisco,” Ned said sullenly.</div><div>“So when you didn’t dare take a sledgehammer to the second gnome, you</div><div>were left with no choice but to pee on their windows.”</div><div>“Exactly. But I didn’t just go off half-cocked. I thought about the situation</div><div>for a week. Then I hosed them.”</div><div>“After which, Henry Friddle climbed on his roof with a full bladder,</div><div>looking for justice.”</div><div>“Yeah. But he waited till I had a birthday dinner for my mom.”</div><div>“Unforgivable,” Billy judged.</div><div>“Does the Mafia attack innocent members of a man’s family?” Ned asked</div><div>indignantly.</div><div>Although the question had been rhetorical, Billy played for his tip: “No.</div><div>The Mafia’s got class.”</div><div>“Which is a word these professor types can’t even spell,” Ned said. “Mom</div><div>was seventy-six. She could have had a heart attack.”</div><div>“So,” the tourist said, “while trying to urinate on your dining room</div><div>windows, Friddle fell off his roof and broke his neck on the Ned Pearsall</div><div>gnome. Pretty ironic.”</div><div>“I don’t know ironic,” Ned replied. “But it sure was sweet.”</div><div>“Tell him what your mom said,” Billy urged.</div><div>Following a sip of beer, Ned obliged: “My mom told me, ‘Honey, praise</div><div>the Lord, this proves there’s a God.’”</div><div>After taking a moment to absorb those words, the tourist said, “She sounds</div><div>like quite a religious woman.”</div><div>“She wasn’t always. But at seventy-two, she caught pneumonia.”</div><div>“It’s sure convenient to have God at a time like that.”</div><div>“She figured if God existed, maybe He’d save her. If He didn’t exist, she</div><div>wouldn’t be out nothing but some time wasted on prayer.”</div><div>“Time,” the tourist advised, “is our most precious possession.”</div><div>“True,” Ned agreed. “But Mom wouldn’t have wasted much because</div><div>mostly she could pray while she watched TV.”</div><div>“What an inspiring story,” said the tourist, and ordered a beer.</div><div>11</div><div>Billy opened a pretentious bottle of Heineken, provided a fresh chilled</div><div>glass, and whispered, “This one’s on the house.”</div><div>“That’s nice of you. Thanks. I’d been thinking you’re quiet and softspoken</div><div>for a bartender, but now maybe I understand why.”</div><div>From his lonely outpost farther along the bar, Ned Pearsall raised his glass</div><div>in a toast. “To Ariadne. May she rest in peace.”</div><div>Although it might have been against his will, the tourist was engaged</div><div>again. Of Ned, he asked, “Not another gnome tragedy?”</div><div>“Cancer. Two years after Henry fell off the roof. I sure wish it hadn’t</div><div>happened.”</div><div>Pouring the fresh Heineken down the side of his tilted glass, the stranger</div><div>said, “Death has a way of putting our petty squabbles in perspective.”</div><div>“I miss her,” Ned said. “She had the most spectacular rack, and she didn’t</div><div>always wear a bra.”</div><div>The tourist twitched.</div><div>“She’d be working in the yard,” Ned remembered almost dreamily, “or</div><div>walking the dog, and that fine pair would be bouncing and swaying so sweet</div><div>you couldn’t catch your breath.”</div><div>The tourist checked his face in the back-bar mirror, perhaps to see if he</div><div>looked as appalled as he felt.</div><div>“Billy,” Ned asked, “didn’t she have the finest set of mamas you could</div><div>hope to see?”</div><div>“She did,” Billy agreed.</div><div>Ned slid off his stool, shambled toward the men’s room, paused at the</div><div>tourist. “Even when cancer withered her, those mamas didn’t shrink. The</div><div>leaner she got, the bigger they were in proportion. Almost to the end, she</div><div>looked hot. What a waste, huh, Billy?”</div><div>“What a waste,” Billy echoed as Ned continued to the men’s room.</div><div>After a shared silence, the tourist said, “You’re an interesting guy, Billy</div><div>Barkeep.”</div><div>“Me? I’ve never hosed anyone’s windows.”</div><div>“You’re like a sponge, I think. You take everything in.”</div><div>Billy picked up a dishcloth and polished some pilsner glasses that had</div><div>previously been washed and dried.</div><div>12</div><div>“But then you’re a stone too,” the tourist said, “because if you’re</div><div>squeezed, you give nothing back.”</div><div>Billy continued polishing the glasses.</div><div>The gray eyes, bright with amusement, brightened further. “You’re a man</div><div>with a philosophy, which is unusual these days, when most people don’t know</div><div>who they are or what they believe, or why.”</div><div>This, too, was a style of barroom jabber with which Billy was familiar,</div><div>though he didn’t hear it often. Compared to Ned Pearsall’s rants, such boozy</div><div>observations could seem erudite; but it was all just beer-based psychoanalysis.</div><div>He was disappointed. Briefly, the tourist had seemed different from the</div><div>usual two-cheeked heaters who warmed the barstool vinyl.</div><div>Smiling, shaking his head, Billy said, “Philosophy. You give me too much</div><div>credit.”</div><div>The tourist sipped his Heineken.</div><div>Although Billy had not intended to say more, he heard himself continue:</div><div>“Stay low, stay quiet, keep it simple, don’t expect much, enjoy what you have.”</div><div>The stranger smiled. “Be self-sufficient, don’t get involved, let the world</div><div>go to Hell if it wants.”</div><div>“Maybe,” Billy conceded.</div><div>“Admittedly, it’s not Plato,” said the tourist, “but it is a philosophy.”</div><div>“You have one of your own?” Billy asked.</div><div>“Right now, I believe that my life will be better and more meaningful if I</div><div>can just avoid any further conversation with Ned.”</div><div>“That’s not a philosophy,” Billy told him. “That’s a fact.”</div><div>At ten minutes past four, Ivy Elgin came to work. She was a waitress as</div><div>good as any and an object of desire without equal.</div><div>Billy liked her but didn’t long for her. His lack of lust made him unique</div><div>among the men who worked or drank in the tavern.</div><div>Ivy had mahogany hair, limpid eyes the color of brandy, and the body for</div><div>which Hugh Hefner had spent his life, searching.</div><div>Although twenty-four, she seemed genuinely unaware that she was the</div><div>essential male fantasy in the flesh. She was never seductive. At times she could</div><div>be flirtatious, but only in a winsome way.</div><div>13</div><div>Her beauty and choirgirl wholesomeness were a combination so erotic that</div><div>her smile alone could melt the average man’s earwax.</div><div>“Hi, Billy,” Ivy said, coming directly to the bar. “I saw a dead possum</div><div>along Old Mill Road, about a quarter mile from Kornell Lane.”</div><div>“Naturally dead or road kill?” he asked.</div><div>“Fully road kill.”</div><div>“What do you think it means?”</div><div>“Nothing specific yet,” she said, handing her purse to him so he could</div><div>store it behind the bar. “It’s the first dead thing I’ve seen in a week, so it</div><div>depends on what other bodies show up, if any.”</div><div>Ivy believed that she was a haruspex. Haruspices, a class of priests in</div><div>ancient Rome, divined the future from the entrails of animals killed in</div><div>sacrifices.</div><div>They had been respected, even revered, by other Romans, but most likely</div><div>they had not received a lot of party invitations.</div><div>Ivy wasn’t morbid. Haruspicy did not occupy the center of her life. She</div><div>seldom talked to customers about it.</div><div>Neither did she have the stomach to stir through entrails. For a haruspex,</div><div>she was squeamish.</div><div>Instead, she found meaning in the species of the cadaver, in the</div><div>circumstances of its discovery, in its position related to the points of the</div><div>compass, and in other arcane aspects of its condition.</div><div>Her predictions seldom if ever came true, but Ivy persisted.</div><div>“Whatever it turns out to mean,” she told Billy as she picked up her order</div><div>pad and a pencil, “it’s a bad sign. A dead possum never indicates good</div><div>fortune.”</div><div>“I’ve noticed that myself.”</div><div>“Especially not when its nose is pointing north and its tail is pointing east.”</div><div>Thirsty men trailed through the door soon after Ivy, as if she were a mirage</div><div>of an oasis that they had been pursuing all day. Only a few sat at the bar; the</div><div>others kept her bustling table to table.</div><div>Although the tavern’s middle-class clientele were not high rollers, Ivy’s</div><div>income from tips exceeded what she might have earned had she attained a</div><div>doctoral degree in economics.</div><div>14</div><div>An hour later, at five o’clock, Shirley Trueblood, the second evening</div><div>waitress, came on duty. Fifty-six, stout, wearing jasmine perfume, Shirley had</div><div>her own following. Certain men in barrooms always wanted mothering. Some</div><div>women, too.</div><div>The day-shift short-order cook, Ben Vernon, went home. The evening</div><div>cook, Ramon Padillo, came aboard. The tavern offered only bar food:</div><div>cheeseburgers, fries, Buffalo wings, quesadillas, nachos…</div><div>Ramon had noticed that on the nights Ivy Elgin worked, the spicy dishes</div><div>sold in greater numbers than when she wasn’t waitressing. Guys ordered more</div><div>things in tomatillo sauce, went through a lot of little bottles of Tabasco, and</div><div>asked for sliced jalapenos on their burgers.</div><div>“I think,” Ramon once told Billy, “they’re unconsciously packing heat into</div><div>their gonads to be ready if she comes on to them.”</div><div>“No one in this joint has a chance at Ivy,” Billy assured him.</div><div>“You never know,” Ramon had said coyly.</div><div>“Don’t tell me you’re packing in the peppers, too.”</div><div>“So many I have killer heartburn some nights,” Ramon had said. “But I’m</div><div>ready.”</div><div>With Ramon came the evening bartender, Steve Zillis, whose shift</div><div>overlapped Billy’s by an hour. At twenty-four, he was ten years younger than</div><div>Billy but twenty years less mature.</div><div>For Steve, the height of sophisticated humor was any limerick sufficiently</div><div>obscene to cause grown men to blush.</div><div>He could tie knots in a cherry stem with just his tongue, load his right</div><div>nostril with peanuts and fire them accurately into a target glass, and blow</div><div>cigarette smoke out of his right ear.</div><div>As usual, Steve vaulted over the end gate in the bar instead of pushing</div><div>through it. “How’re they hangin’, Kemosabe?”</div><div>“One hour to go,” Billy said, “and I get my life back.”</div><div>“This is life,” Steve protested. “The center of the action.”</div><div>The tragedy of Steve Zillis was that he meant what he said. To him, this</div><div>common tavern was a glamorous cabaret.</div><div>After tying on an apron, he snatched three olives from a bowl, juggled</div><div>them with dazzling speed, and then caught them one at a time in his mouth.</div><div>15</div><div>When two drunks at the bar clapped loudly, Steve basked in their applause</div><div>as if he were the star tenor at the Metropolitan Opera and had earned the</div><div>adulation of a refined and knowledgeable audience.</div><div>In spite of the affliction of Steve Zillis’s company, this final hour of</div><div>Billy’s shift passed quickly. The tavern was busy enough to keep two</div><div>bartenders occupied as the late-afternoon tipplers delayed going home and the</div><div>evening drinkers arrived.</div><div>As much as he ever could, Billy liked the place during this transitional</div><div>time. The customers were at peak coherency and happier than they would be</div><div>later, when alcohol washed them toward melancholy.</div><div>Because the windows faced east and the sun lay west, softest daylight</div><div>painted the panes. The ceiling fixtures layered a coppery glow over the burntred</div><div>mahogany paneling and booths.</div><div>The fragrant air was savory with the scents of wood flooring pickled in</div><div>stale beer, candle wax, cheeseburgers, fried onion rings.</div><div>Billy didn’t like the place enough, however, to linger past the end of his</div><div>shift. He left promptly at seven.</div><div>If he’d been Steve Zillis, he would have made a production of his exit.</div><div>Instead, he departed as quietly as a ghost dematerializing from its haunt.</div><div>Outside, less than two hours of summer daylight remained. The sky was an</div><div>electric Maxfield Parrish blue in the east, a paler blue in the west, where the</div><div>sun still bleached it.</div><div>As he approached his Ford Explorer, he noticed a rectangle of white paper</div><div>under the driver’s-side windshield wiper.</div><div>Behind the steering wheel, with his door still open, he unfolded the paper,</div><div>expecting to find a handbill of some kind, advertising a car wash or a maid</div><div>service. He discovered a neatly typed message:</div><div>If you don’t take this note to the police and get them</div><div>involved, I will kill a lovely blond schoolteacher somewhere</div><div>in Napa County.</div><div>If you do take this note to the police, I will instead kill an</div><div>elderly woman active in charity work.</div><div>You have six hours to decide. The choice is yours.</div><div>16</div><div>Billy didn’t at that instant feel the world tilt under him, but it did. The</div><div>plunge had not yet begun, but it would. Soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Chapter 2</div><div>Mickey Mouse took a bullet in the throat.</div><div>The 9-mm pistol cracked three more times in rapid succession, shredding</div><div>Donald Duck’s face.</div><div>Lanny Olsen, the shooter, lived at the end of a fissured blacktop lane,</div><div>against a stony hillside where grapes would never grow. He had no view of the</div><div>fabled Napa Valley.</div><div>As compensation for his unfashionable address, the property was shaded</div><div>by beautiful plum trees and towering elms, brightened by wild azaleas. And it</div><div>was private.</div><div>The nearest neighbor lived at such a distance that Lanny could have</div><div>partied 24/7 without disturbing anyone. This offered no benefit to Lanny</div><div>because he usually went to bed at nine-thirty; his idea of a party was a case of</div><div>beer, a bag of chips, and a poker game.</div><div>The location of his property, however, was conducive to target shooting.</div><div>He was the most practiced shot in the sheriff’s department.</div><div>As a boy, he’d wanted to be a cartoonist. He had talent. The Disneyperfect</div><div>portraits of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, fixed to the hay-bale</div><div>backstop, were Lanny’s work.</div><div>Ejecting the spent magazine from his pistol, Lanny said, “You should have</div><div>been here yesterday. I head-shot twelve Road Runners in a row, not a wasted</div><div>round.”</div><div>Billy said, “Wile E. Coyote would’ve been thrilled. You ever shoot at</div><div>ordinary targets?”</div><div>“What would be the fun in that?”</div><div>“You ever shoot the Simpsons?”</div><div>“Homer, Bart—all of them but Marge,” Lanny said. “Never Marge.”</div><div>17</div><div>Lanny might have gone to art school if his domineering father, Ansel, had</div><div>not been determined that his son would follow him into law enforcement as</div><div>Ansel himself had followed his father.</div><div>Pearl, Lanny’s mother, had been as supportive as her illness allowed.</div><div>When Lanny was sixteen, Pearl had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s</div><div>lymphoma.</div><div>Radiation therapy and drugs sapped her. Even in periods when the</div><div>lymphoma was controlled, she did not fully regain her strength.</div><div>Concerned that his father would be a useless nurse, Lanny never went</div><div>away to art school. He remained at home, took up a career in law enforcement,</div><div>and looked after his mother.</div><div>Unexpectedly, Ansel was first to die. He stopped a motorist for speeding,</div><div>and the motorist stopped him with a .38 fired pointblank.</div><div>Having contracted lymphoma at an atypically young age, Pearl lived with</div><div>it for a surprisingly long time. She had died ten years previously, when Lanny</div><div>was thirty-six.</div><div>He’d still been young enough for a career switch and art school. Inertia,</div><div>however, proved stronger than the desire for a new life.</div><div>He inherited the house, a handsome Victorian with elaborate millwork and</div><div>an encircling veranda, which he maintained in pristine condition. With a career</div><div>that was a job but not a passion, and with no family of his own, he had plenty</div><div>of spare time for the house.</div><div>As Lanny shoved a fresh magazine in the pistol, Billy took the typewritten</div><div>message from a pocket. “What do you make of this?”</div><div>Lanny read the two paragraphs while, in the lull of gunfire, blackbirds</div><div>returned to the high bowers of nearby elms.</div><div>The message evoked neither a frown nor a smile from Lanny, though Billy</div><div>had expected one or the other. “Where’d you get this?”</div><div>“Somebody left it under my windshield wiper.”</div><div>“Where were you parked?”</div><div>“At the tavern.”</div><div>“An envelope?”</div><div>“No.”</div><div>“You see anyone watching you? I mean, when you took it out from under</div><div>the wiper and read it.”</div><div>18</div><div>“Nobody.”</div><div>“What do you make of it?”</div><div>“That was my question to you,” Billy reminded him.</div><div>“A prank. A sick joke.”</div><div>Staring at the ominous lines of type, Billy said, “That was my first</div><div>reaction, but then…”</div><div>Lanny stepped sideways, aligning himself with new hay bales faced with</div><div>full-figure drawings of Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny. “But then you ask</div><div>yourself What if… ?”</div><div>“Don’t you?”</div><div>“Sure. Every cop does, all the time, otherwise he ends up dead sooner than</div><div>he should. Or shoots when he shouldn’t.”</div><div>Not long ago, Lanny had wounded a belligerent drunk who he thought had</div><div>been armed. Instead of a gun, the guy had a cell phone.</div><div>“But you can’t keep what-ifing yourself forever,” he continued.</div><div>“You’ve got to go with instinct. And your instinct is the same as mine. It’s</div><div>a prank. Besides, you’ve got a hunch who did it.”</div><div>“Steve Zillis,” said Billy.</div><div>“Bingo.”</div><div>Lanny assumed an isosceles shooting stance, right leg quartered back for</div><div>balance, left knee flexed, two hands on the pistol. He took a deep breath and</div><div>popped Elmer five times as a shrapnel of blackbirds exploded from the elms</div><div>and tore into the sky.</div><div>Counting four mortal hits and one wound, Billy said, “The thing is… this</div><div>doesn’t seem like something Steve would do—or could.”</div><div>“Why not?”</div><div>“He’s a guy who carries a small rubber bladder in his pocket so he can</div><div>make a loud farting sound when he thinks that might be funny.”</div><div>“Meaning?”</div><div>Billy folded the typewritten message and tucked it in his shirt pocket.</div><div>“This seems too complex for Steve, too… subtle.”</div><div>“Young Steve is about as subtle as the green-apple nasties,” Lanny agreed.</div><div>Resuming his stance, he spent the second half of the magazine on Bugs,</div><div>scoring five mortal hits.</div><div>19</div><div>“What if it’s real?” Billy asked.</div><div>“It’s not.”</div><div>“But what if it is?”</div><div>“Homicidal lunatics only play games like that in movies. In real life,</div><div>killers just kill. Power is what it’s about for them, the power and sometimes</div><div>violent sex—not teasing you with puzzles and riddles.”</div><div>Ejected shell casings littered the grass. The westering sun polished the</div><div>tubes of brass to a bloody gold.</div><div>Aware that he hadn’t quelled Billy’s doubt, Lanny continued: “Even if it</div><div>were real—and it’s not—what is there to act upon in that note?”</div><div>“Blond schoolteachers, elderly women.”</div><div>“Somewhere in Napa County.”</div><div>“Yeah.”</div><div>“Napa County isn’t San Francisco,” Lanny said, “but it’s not unpopulated</div><div>barrens, either. Lots of people in lots of towns. The sheriff’s department plus</div><div>every police force in the county together don’t have enough men to cover all</div><div>those bases.”</div><div>“You don’t need to cover them all. He qualifies his targets—a lovely blond</div><div>schoolteacher.”</div><div>“That’s a judgment,” Lanny objected. “Some blond schoolteacher you find</div><div>lovely might be a hag to me.”</div><div>“I didn’t realize you had such high standards in women.”</div><div>Lanny smiled. “I’m picky.”</div><div>“Anyway there’s also the elderly woman active in charity work.”</div><div>Jamming a third magazine in the pistol, Lanny said, “A lot of elderly</div><div>women are active in charities. They come from a generation that cared about</div><div>their neighbors.”</div><div>“So you aren’t going to do anything?”</div><div>“What do you want me to do?”</div><div>Billy had no suggestion, only an observation: “It seems like we ought to do</div><div>something.”</div><div>“By nature, police are reactive, not proactive.”</div><div>“So he has to murder somebody first?”</div><div>20</div><div>“He isn’t going to murder anyone.”</div><div>“He says he will,” Billy protested.</div><div>“It’s a prank. Steve Zillis has finally graduated from the squirting-flowersand-</div><div>plastic-vomit school of humor.”</div><div>Billy nodded. “You’re probably right.”</div><div>“I’m for sure right.” Indicating the remaining colorful figures fixed to the</div><div>triple-thick wall of hay bales, Lanny said, “Now before twilight spoils my aim,</div><div>I want to kill the cast of Shrek.”</div><div>“I thought they were good movies.”</div><div>“I’m not a critic,” Lanny said impatiently, “just a guy having some fun and</div><div>sharpening his work skills.”</div><div>“Okay, all right, I’m out of here. See you Friday for poker.”</div><div>“Bring something,” Lanny said.</div><div>“Like what?”</div><div>“Jose’s bringing his pork-and-rice casserole. Leroy’s bringing five kinds of</div><div>salsa and lots of corn chips. Why don’t you make your tamale pie?”</div><div>As Lanny spoke, Billy winced. “We sound like a group of old maids</div><div>planning a quilting party.”</div><div>“We’re pathetic,” Lanny said, “but we’re not dead yet.”</div><div>“How would we know?”</div><div>“If I were dead and in Hell,” Lanny said, “they wouldn’t let me have the</div><div>pleasure of drawing cartoons. And this sure isn’t Heaven.”</div><div>By the time Billy reached his Explorer in the driveway, Lanny Olsen had</div><div>begun to blast away at Shrek, Princess Fiona, Donkey, and their friends.</div><div>The eastern sky was sapphire. In the western vault, the blue had begun to</div><div>wear off, revealing gold beneath, and the hint of red gesso under the gilt.</div><div>Standing by his SUV in the lengthening shadows, Billy watched for a</div><div>moment as Lanny honed his marksmanship and, for the thousandth time, tried</div><div>to kill off his unfulfilled dream of being a cartoonist.</div><div>21</div><div>Chapter 3</div><div>An enchanted princess, recumbent in a castle tower, dreaming the years</div><div>away until awakened by a kiss, could not have been lovelier than Barbara</div><div>Mandel abed at the Whispering Pines.</div><div>In the caress of lamplight, her golden hair spilled across the pillow, as</div><div>lustrous as bullion poured from a smelter’s cauldron.</div><div>Standing at her bedside, Billy Wiles had never seen a bisque doll with a</div><div>complexion as pale or as flawless as Barbara’s. Her skin appeared translucent,</div><div>as though the light penetrated the surface and then brightened her face from</div><div>within.</div><div>If he were to lift aside the thin blanket and sheet, he would expose an</div><div>indignity not visited on enchanted princesses. An enteral-nutrition tube had</div><div>been inserted surgically into her stomach.</div><div>The doctor had ordered a slow continuous feeding. The drip pump purred</div><div>softly as it supplied a perpetual dinner.</div><div>She had been in a coma for almost four years.</div><div>Hers was not the most severe of comas. Sometimes she yawned, sighed,</div><div>moved her right hand to her face, her throat, her breast.</div><div>Occasionally she spoke, though never more than a few cryptic words, not</div><div>to anyone in the room but to some phantom of the mind.</div><div>Even when she spoke or moved her hand, she remained unaware of</div><div>everything around her. She was unconscious, unresponsive to external</div><div>stimulation.</div><div>At the moment she lay quiet, brow as smooth as milk in a pail, eyes</div><div>unmoving behind their lids, lips slightly parted. No ghost breathed with less</div><div>sound.</div><div>From a jacket pocket, Billy took a small wire-bound notebook. Clipped to</div><div>it was a half-size ballpoint pen. He put them on the nightstand.</div><div>22</div><div>The small room was simply furnished: one hospital bed, one nightstand,</div><div>one chair. Long ago Billy had added a barstool that allowed him to sit high</div><div>enough to watch over Barbara.</div><div>Whispering Pines Convalescent Home provided good care but an austere</div><div>environment. Half the patients were convalescing; the other half were merely</div><div>being warehoused.</div><div>Perched on the stool beside the bed, he told her about his day. He began</div><div>with a description of the sunrise and ended with Lanny’s shooting gallery of</div><div>cartoon celebrities.</div><div>Although she had never responded to anything he’d said, Billy suspected</div><div>that in her deep redoubt, Barbara could hear him. He needed to believe that his</div><div>presence, his voice, his affection comforted her.</div><div>When he had no more to say, he continued to gaze at her. He did not</div><div>always see her as she was now. He saw her as she’d once been—vivid,</div><div>vivacious—and as she might be today if fate had been kinder.</div><div>After a while he extracted the folded message from his shirt pocket and</div><div>read it again.</div><div>He had just finished when Barbara spoke in murmurs from which meaning</div><div>melted almost faster than the ear could hear: “I want to know what it says…”</div><div>Electrified, he rose from the stool. He leaned over the bed rail to stare</div><div>more closely at her.</div><div>Never before had anything she’d said, in her coma, seemed to relate to</div><div>anything that he said or did while visiting. “Barbara?”</div><div>She remained still, eyes closed, lips parted, apparently no more alive than</div><div>the object of mourning on a catafalque.</div><div>“Can you hear me?”</div><div>With trembling fingertips, he touched her face. She did not respond.</div><div>He had already told her what the strange message said, but now he read it</div><div>to her just in case her murmured words had referred to it.</div><div>When he finished, she did not react. He spoke her name without effect.</div><div>Sitting on the stool once more, he plucked the little notebook from the</div><div>nightstand. With the small pen, he recorded her seven words and the date that</div><div>she had spoken them.</div><div>23</div><div>He had a notebook for each year of her unnatural sleep. Although each</div><div>contained only a hundred three-by-four-inch pages, none had been filled, as she</div><div>did not speak on every—or even most—visits.</div><div>I want to know what it says</div><div>After dating that unusually complete statement, he flipped pages, looking</div><div>back through the notebook, reading not the dates but just some of her words.</div><div>LAMBS COULD NOT FORGIVE BEEF-FACED BOYS MY INFANT</div><div>TONGUE THE AUTHORITY OF HIS TOMBSTONE PAPA, POTATOES,</div><div>POULTRY, PRUNES, PRISM SEASON OF DARKNESS IT SWELLS</div><div>FORWARD ONE GREAT HEAVE ALL FLASHES AWAY TWENTYTHREE,</div><div>TWENTY-THREE</div><div>In her words, Billy could find neither coherence nor a clue to any.</div><div>From time to time through the weeks, the months, she smiled faintly.</div><div>Twice in his experience she had laughed softly.</div><div>On other occasions, however, her whispered words disturbed him,</div><div>sometimes chilled him. TORN, BRUISED, PANTING, BLEEDING GORE</div><div>AND FIRE HATCHETS, KNIVES, BAYONETS RED IN THEIR EYES,</div><div>THEIR FRENZIED EYES</div><div>These dismaying utterances were not delivered in a tone of distress. They</div><div>came in the same uninflected murmur with which she spoke less troubling</div><div>words.</div><div>Nevertheless, they concerned Billy. He worried that at the bottom of her</div><div>coma, she occupied a dark and fearsome place, that she felt trapped and</div><div>threatened, and alone.</div><div>Now her brow furrowed and she spoke again, “The sea…”</div><div>When he wrote this down, she gave him more: “What it is…”</div><div>The stillness in the room grew more profound, as if countless fathoms of</div><div>thickening atmosphere pressed all currents from the air, so that her soft voice</div><div>carried to Billy.</div><div>To her lips, her right hand rose as though to feel the texture of her words.</div><div>“What it is that it keeps on saying.”</div><div>This was the most coherent she had been, in coma, and seldom had she</div><div>said as much in a single visit.</div><div>“Barbara?”</div><div>“I want to know what it says… the sea.”</div><div>24</div><div>She lowered her hand to her breast. The furrows faded from her brow. Her</div><div>eyes, which as she spoke had roved beneath their lids, grew fixed once more.</div><div>Pen poised over paper, Billy waited, but Barbara matched the silence of</div><div>the room. And the silence deepened, and the stillness, until he felt that he must</div><div>go or meet a fate similar to that of a prehistoric fly preserved in amber.</div><div>She would lie in this hush for hours or for days, or forever.</div><div>He kissed her but not on the mouth. That would feel like a violation. Her</div><div>cheek was soft and cool against his lips.</div><div>Three years, ten months, four days, she had been in this coma, into which</div><div>she had fallen only a month after accepting an engagement ring from Billy.</div><div>25</div><div>Chapter 4</div><div>Billy did not have the isolation that Lanny enjoyed, but he lived on an acre</div><div>shrouded by alders and deodar cedars, along a lane with few residences.</div><div>He didn’t know his neighbors. He might not have known them even if they</div><div>had lived closer. He was grateful for their disinterest.</div><div>The original owner of the house and the architect had evidently negotiated</div><div>each other into a hybrid structure, half bungalow, half upscale cabin. The lines</div><div>were those of a bungalow. The cedar siding, silvered by the weather, belonged</div><div>on a cabin, as did the front porch with rough-hewn posts supporting the roof.</div><div>Unlike most bipolar houses, this one appeared cozy. Diamond-pane,</div><div>beveled-glass windows—pure bungalow—looked bejeweled when the lights</div><div>were on. In daylight the leaping-deer weather vane on the roof turned with lazy</div><div>grace even in turbulent scrambles of wind.</div><div>The detached garage, which also contained his woodworking shop, stood</div><div>behind the house.</div><div>After Billy parked the Explorer and closed the big door behind it, as he</div><div>walked across the backyard toward the house, an owl hooted from its perch on</div><div>the ridge line of the garage roof.</div><div>No other owls answered. But Billy thought he heard mice squeak, and he</div><div>could almost feel them shivering in the shrubbery, yearning for the tall grass</div><div>beyond the yard.</div><div>His mind felt swampy, his thoughts muddy. He paused and took a deep</div><div>breath, savoring air redolent of the fragrant bark and needles of the deodars.</div><div>The astringent scent cleared his head.</div><div>Clarity proved undesirable. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but now he</div><div>wanted a beer and a shot.</div><div>26</div><div>The stars looked hard. They were bright, too, in the cloudless sky, but the</div><div>feeling he got from them was hardness.</div><div>Neither the back steps nor the floorboards of the porch creaked. He had</div><div>plenty of time to keep the place in good, tight condition.</div><div>After gutting the kitchen, he himself had built the cabinets. They were</div><div>cherry wood with a dark stain.</div><div>He had laid the tile floor: black-granite squares. The granite countertops</div><div>matched the floor.</div><div>Clean and simple. He had intended to do the whole house in that style, but</div><div>then he had lost his way.</div><div>He poured a cold bottle of Guinness stout into a mug, spiked it with</div><div>bourbon. When he did drink, he wanted punch in both the texture and the taste.</div><div>He was making a pastrami sandwich when the phone rang. “Hello?”</div><div>The caller did not respond even when Billy said hello again.</div><div>Ordinarily, he would have thought the line was dead. Not this evening.</div><div>Listening, he fished the typewritten message from his pocket. He unfolded</div><div>it and smoothed it flat on the black-granite counter.</div><div>Hollow as a bell, but a bell without a clapper, the open line carried no fizz</div><div>of static. Billy couldn’t hear the caller inhale or exhale, as if the guy were dead,</div><div>and done with breathing.</div><div>Whether prankster or killer, the man’s purpose was to taunt, intimidate.</div><div>Billy didn’t give him the satisfaction of a third hello.</div><div>They listened to each other’s silence, as if something could be learned</div><div>from nothing.</div><div>After perhaps a minute, Billy began to wonder if he might be imagining a</div><div>presence on the far end of the line.</div><div>If he was in fact ear-to-ear with the author of the note, hanging up first</div><div>would be a mistake. His disconnection would be taken as a sign of fear or at</div><div>least of weakness.</div><div>Life had taught him patience. Besides, his self-image included the</div><div>possibility that he could be fatuous, so he didn’t worry about looking foolish.</div><div>He waited.</div><div>When the caller hung up, the distinct sound of the disconnect proved that</div><div>he had been there, and then the dial tone.</div><div>27</div><div>Before continuing to make his sandwich, Billy walked the four rooms and</div><div>bath. He lowered the pleated shades over all the windows.</div><div>At the dinette table in the kitchen, he ate the sandwich and two dill pickles.</div><div>He drank a second stout, this time without the added bourbon.</div><div>He had no TV. The entertainment shows bored him, and he didn’t need the</div><div>news.</div><div>His thoughts were his only company at dinner. He did not linger over the</div><div>pastrami sandwich.</div><div>Books lined one wall of the living room from floor to ceiling. For most of</div><div>his life, Billy had been a voracious reader.</div><div>He had lost interest in reading three years, ten months, and four days</div><div>previously. A mutual love of books, of fiction in all genres, had brought him</div><div>and Barbara together.</div><div>On one shelf stood a set of Dickens in matched bindings, which Barbara</div><div>had given him for Christmas. She’d had a passion for Dickens.</div><div>These days, he needed to keep busy. Just sitting in a chair with a book</div><div>made him restless. He felt vulnerable somehow.</div><div>Besides, some books contained disturbing ideas. They started you thinking</div><div>about things you wanted to forget, and though your thoughts became</div><div>intolerable, you could not put them to rest.</div><div>The coffered ceiling of the living room was a consequence of his need to</div><div>remain busy. Every coffer was trimmed with dentil molding. The center of</div><div>each featured a cluster of acanthus leaves hand-carved from white oak, stained</div><div>to match the surrounding mahogany.</div><div>The style of this ceiling suited neither a cabin nor a bungalow. He didn’t</div><div>care. The project had kept him occupied for months.</div><div>In his study, the coffered ceiling was even more ornate than the ceiling in</div><div>the living room.</div><div>He did not go to the desk, where the unused computer mocked him.</div><div>Instead, he sat at a worktable arrayed with his carving tools.</div><div>Here also were stacks of white-oak blocks. They had a sweet wood smell.</div><div>The blocks were raw material for the ornamentation’s that would decorate the</div><div>bedroom ceiling, which was currently bare plaster.</div><div>On the table stood a CD player and two small speakers. The disc deck was</div><div>loaded with zydeco music. He switched it on.</div><div>28</div><div>He carved until his hands ached and his vision blurred. Then he turned off</div><div>the music and went to bed.</div><div>Lying on his back in the dark, staring at a ceiling that he could not see, he</div><div>waited for his eyes to fall shut. He waited. He heard something on the roof.</div><div>Something scratching at the cedar-shake shingles. The owl, no doubt. The owl</div><div>did not hoot. Perhaps it was a raccoon. Or something. He glanced at the digital</div><div>clock on the nightstand. Twenty minutes past midnight. You have six hours to</div><div>decide. The choice is yours. Everything would be all right in the morning.</div><div>Everything always was. Well, not all right, but good enough to encourage</div><div>perseverance. I want to know what it says, the sea. What it is that it keeps on</div><div>saying. A few times, he closed his eyes, but that was no good. They had to fall</div><div>shut on their own for sleep to follow. He looked at the clock as it changed from</div><div>12:59 to 1:00. The note had been under the windshield wiper when he had</div><div>come out of the tavern at seven o’clock. Six hours had passed. Someone had</div><div>been murdered. Or not. Surely not. Below the scratching talons of the owl, if it</div><div>was an owl, he slept.</div><div>29</div><div>Chapter 5</div><div>The tavern had no name. Or, rather, its function was its name. The sign at</div><div>the top of the pole, as you turned from the state highway into the elm-encircled</div><div>parking lot, said only TAVERN.</div><div>Jackie O’Hara owned the place. Fat, freckled, kind, he was to everyone a</div><div>friend or honorary uncle.</div><div>He had no desire to see his name on the sign.</div><div>As a boy, Jackie had wanted to be a priest. He wanted to help people. He</div><div>wanted to lead them to God.</div><div>Time had taught him that he might not be able to master his appetites.</div><div>While still young, he had arrived at the conclusion that he would be a bad</div><div>priest, which hadn’t been the nature of his dream.</div><div>He found self-respect in running a clean and friendly taproom, but it</div><div>seemed to him that simple satisfaction in his accomplishments would sour into</div><div>vanity if he named the tavern after himself.</div><div>In Billy Wiles’s opinion, Jackie would have made a fine priest. Every</div><div>human being has appetites difficult to control, but far fewer have humility,</div><div>gentleness, and an awareness of their weaknesses.</div><div>Vineyard Hills Tavern. Shady Elm Tavern. Candlelight Tavern. Wayside</div><div>Tavern.</div><div>Patrons regularly offered names for the place. Jackie found their</div><div>suggestions to be either awkward or inappropriate, or twee.</div><div>When Billy arrived at 10:45 Tuesday morning, fifteen minutes before the</div><div>tavern opened, the only cars in the lot were Jackie’s and Ben Vernon’s. Ben</div><div>was the day cook.</div><div>30</div><div>Standing beside his Explorer, he studied the low serried hills in the</div><div>distance, on the far side of the highway. They were dark brown where scalped</div><div>by earthmovers, pale brown where the wild grass had been faded from green by</div><div>the arid summer heat.</div><div>Peerless Properties, an international corporation, was building a worldclass</div><div>resort, to be called Vineland, on nine hundred acres. In addition to a hotel</div><div>with golf course, three pools, tennis club, and other amenities, the project</div><div>included 190 multimillion-dollar getaway homes for sale to those who took</div><div>their leisure seriously.</div><div>Foundations had been poured in early spring. Walls were rising.</div><div>Much closer than the palatial structures on the higher hills, less than a</div><div>hundred feet from the highway, a dramatic mural neared completion in a</div><div>meadow. Seventy feet high, 150 feet long, three-dimensional, it was of wood,</div><div>painted gray with black shadowing.</div><div>In the Art Deco tradition, the mural presented a stylized image of powerful</div><div>machinery, including the drive wheels and connecting rods of a locomotive.</div><div>There also were huge gears, strange armatures, and arcane mechanical forms</div><div>that had nothing to do with a train.</div><div>A giant, stylized figure of a man in work clothes was featured in the</div><div>section that suggested a locomotive. Body angled left to right as if leaning into</div><div>a stiff wind, he appeared to be pushing one of the enormous drive wheels, as if</div><div>caught up in the machine and pressing forward with as much panic as</div><div>determination, as though if he rested for an instant he would slip out of sync</div><div>and be torn to pieces.</div><div>None of the animated mural’s moving parts was yet operational;</div><div>nevertheless, it fostered a convincing illusion of movement, speed.</div><div>On commission, a famous artist with a single name—Valis—had designed</div><div>the thing and had built it with a crew of sixteen.</div><div>The mural was meant to symbolize the hectic pace of modern life, the</div><div>harried individual overwhelmed by the forces of society.</div><div>On the day when the resort opened for business, Valis himself would set</div><div>the thing afire and burn it to the ground to symbolize the freedom from the mad</div><div>pace of life that the new resort represented.</div><div>Most locals in Vineyard Hills and the surrounding territory mocked the</div><div>mural, and when they called it art, they pronounced the word with quotation</div><div>marks.</div><div>31</div><div>Billy rather liked the hulking thing, but burning it down didn’t make sense</div><div>to him.</div><div>The same artist had once fixed twenty thousand helium-filled red balloons</div><div>to a bridge in Australia, so it appeared to be supported by them. With a remote</div><div>control, he popped all twenty thousand at once.</div><div>In that case, Billy didn’t understand either the “art” or the point of popping</div><div>it.</div><div>Although not a critic, he felt this mural was either low art or high</div><div>craftsmanship. Burning it made no more sense to him than would a museum</div><div>tossing Rembrandt’s paintings on a bonfire.</div><div>So many things about contemporary society dismayed him that he</div><div>wouldn’t lose sleep over this small issue. But on the night of burning, he</div><div>wouldn’t come to watch the fire, either.</div><div>He went into the tavern.</div><div>The air carried such a rich scent that it almost seemed to have flavor. Ben</div><div>Vernon was cooking a pot of chili.</div><div>Behind the bar, Jackie O’Hara conducted an inventory of the liquor</div><div>supply. “Billy, did you see that special on Channel Six last night?”</div><div>“No.”</div><div>“You didn’t see that special about UFO’s, alien abduction?”</div><div>“I was carving to zydeco.”</div><div>“This guy says he was taken up to a mother ship orbiting the earth.”</div><div>“What’s new about that? You hear that stuff all the time.”</div><div>“He says he was given a proctological exam by a bunch of space aliens.”</div><div>Billy pushed through the bar gate. “That’s what they all say.”</div><div>“I know. You’re right. But I don’t get it.” Jackie frowned. “Why would a</div><div>superior alien race, a thousand times more intelligent than we are, come</div><div>trillions of miles across the universe just to look up our butts? What are they—</div><div>perverts?”</div><div>“They never looked up mine,” Billy assured him. “And I doubt they</div><div>looked up this guy’s, either.”</div><div>“He’s got a lot of credibility. He’s a book author. I mean, even before this</div><div>book, he published a bunch of others.”</div><div>32</div><div>Taking an apron from a drawer, tying it on, Billy said, “Just publishing a</div><div>book doesn’t give anyone credibility. Hitler published books.”</div><div>“He did?” Jackie asked.</div><div>“Yeah.”</div><div>“The Hitler?”</div><div>“Well, it wasn’t Bob Hitler.”</div><div>“You’re jerking my chain.”</div><div>“Look it up.”</div><div>“What did he write—like spy stories or something?”</div><div>“Something,” Billy said.</div><div>“This guy wrote science fiction.”</div><div>“Surprise.”</div><div>“Science fiction,” Jackie emphasized. “The program was really</div><div>disturbing.” Picking up a small white dish from the work bar, he made a sound</div><div>of impatience and disgust. “What—am I gonna have to start docking Steve for</div><div>condiments?”</div><div>In the dish were fifteen to twenty maraschino-cherry stems. Each had been</div><div>tied in a knot.</div><div>“The customers find him amusing,” Billy said.</div><div>“Because they’re half blitzed. Anyway, he pretends to be a funny type of</div><div>guy, but he’s not.”</div><div>“Everyone has his own idea of what’s funny.”</div><div>“No, I mean, he pretends to be lighthearted, happy-go-lucky, but he’s not.”</div><div>“That’s the only way I’ve ever seen him,” Billy said.</div><div>“Ask Celia Reynolds.”</div><div>“Who’s she?”</div><div>“Lives next door to Steve.”</div><div>“Neighbors can have grudges,” Billy suggested. “Can’t always believe</div><div>what they say.”</div><div>“Celia says he has rages in the backyard.”</div><div>“What’s that mean—rages?”</div><div>“He goes like nuts, she says. He chops up stuff.”</div><div>33</div><div>“What stuff?”</div><div>“Like a dining-room chair.”</div><div>“Whose?”</div><div>“His. He chopped it until there wasn’t anything but splinters.”</div><div>“Why?”</div><div>“He’s cursing and angry when he’s at it. He seems to be working off</div><div>anger.”</div><div>“On a chair.”</div><div>“Yeah. And he does watermelons with an ax.”</div><div>“Maybe he likes watermelon,” Billy said.</div><div>“He doesn’t eat them. He just chops and chops till nothing’s left but</div><div>mush.”</div><div>“Cursing all the time.”</div><div>“That’s right. Cursing, grunting, snarling like an animal. Whole</div><div>watermelons. A couple of times he’s done dummies.”</div><div>“What dummies?”</div><div>“You know, like those store-window women.”</div><div>“Mannequins?”</div><div>“Yeah. He goes at them with an ax and a sledgehammer.”</div><div>“Where would he get mannequins?”</div><div>“Beats me.”</div><div>“This doesn’t sound right.”</div><div>“Talk to Celia. She’ll tell you.”</div><div>“Has she asked Steve why he does it?”</div><div>“No. She’s afraid to.”</div><div>“You believe her?”</div><div>“Celia isn’t a liar.”</div><div>“You think Steve’s dangerous?” Billy asked.</div><div>“Probably not, but who knows.”</div><div>“Maybe you should fire him.”</div><div>34</div><div>Jackie raised his eyebrows. “And then he turns out to be one of those guys</div><div>you see on TV news? He comes in here with an ax?”</div><div>“Anyway,” Billy said, “it doesn’t sound right. You don’t really believe it</div><div>yourself.”</div><div>“Yeah, I do. Celia goes to Mass three mornings a week.”</div><div>“Jackie, you joke around with Steve. You’re relaxed with him.”</div><div>“I’m always a little watchful.”</div><div>“I never noticed it.”</div><div>“Well, I am. But I don’t want to be unfair to him.”</div><div>“Unfair?”</div><div>“He’s a good bartender, does his job.” A shamefaced expression overcame</div><div>Jackie O’Hara. His plump cheeks reddened. “I shouldn’t have been talking</div><div>about him like this. It was just all those cherry stems. That ticked me off a</div><div>little.”</div><div>“Twenty cherries,” Billy said. “What can they cost?”</div><div>“It’s not about the money. It’s that trick with his tongue—it’s semiobscene.”</div><div>“I never heard anyone complain about it. A lot of the women customers</div><div>particularly like to watch him do it.”</div><div>“And the gays,” Jackie said. “I don’t want this being a singles bar, either</div><div>gay or straight. I want this to be a family bar.”</div><div>“Is there such a thing as a family bar?”</div><div>“Absolutely.” Jackie looked hurt. In spite of its generic name, the tavern</div><div>wasn’t a dive. “We offer kid portions of French fries and onion rings, don’t</div><div>we?”</div><div>Before Billy could reply, the first customer of the day came through the</div><div>door. It was 11:04. The guy wanted brunch: a Bloody Mary with a celery stick.</div><div>Jackie and Billy tended bar together through the lunchtime traffic, and</div><div>Jackie served food to the tables as Ben plated it from the grill.</div><div>They were busier than usual because Tuesday was chili day, but they still</div><div>didn’t need a first-shift waitress. A third of the customers had lunch in a glass,</div><div>and another third were satisfied with peanuts or with sausages from the brine</div><div>jar on the bar, or with free pretzels.</div><div>35</div><div>Mixing drinks and pouring beers, Billy Wiles was troubled by a persistent</div><div>image in his mind’s eye: Steve Zillis chopping a mannequin to pieces,</div><div>chopping, chopping.</div><div>As his shift wore on, and as no one brought word of a gunshot</div><div>schoolteacher or a bludgeoned elderly philanthropist, Billy’s nerves quieted. In</div><div>sleepy Vineyard Hills, in peaceful Napa Valley, news of a brutal murder would</div><div>travel fast. The note must have been a prank.</div><div>After a slow afternoon, Ivy Elgin arrived for work at four o’clock, and at</div><div>her heels thirsty men followed in such a state that they would have wagged</div><div>their tails if they’d had them.</div><div>“Anything dead today?” Billy asked her, and found himself wincing at the</div><div>question.</div><div>“A praying mantis on my back porch, right at my doorstep,” Ivy said.</div><div>“What do you think that means?”</div><div>“What prays has died.”</div><div>“I don’t follow.”</div><div>“I’m still trying to figure it.”</div><div>Shirley Trueblood arrived at five o’clock, matronly in a pale-yellow</div><div>uniform with white lapels and cuffs.</div><div>After her came Ramon Padillo, who sniffed the aroma of chili and</div><div>grumbled, “Needs a pinch of cumin.”</div><div>When Steve Zillis breezed in at six, smelling of a verbena-scented</div><div>aftershave and wintermint mouthwash, he said, “How’re they hangin’,</div><div>Kemosabe?”</div><div>“Did you call me last night?” Billy asked.</div><div>“Who, me? Why would I?”</div><div>“I don’t know. I got a call, a bad connection, but I thought maybe it was</div><div>you.”</div><div>“Did you call me back?”</div><div>“No. I could hardly hear the voice. I just had a hunch it might be you.”</div><div>Selecting three plump olives from the condiment tray, Steve said,</div><div>“Anyway, I was out last night with a friend.”</div><div>“You get off work at two o’clock in the morning and then you go out?”</div><div>36</div><div>Steve grinned and winked. “There was a moon, and I’m a dog.” He</div><div>pronounced it dawg.</div><div>“If I got off at two A.M., I’d be straight to bed.”</div><div>“No offense, pilgrim, but you don’t exactly ring the bell on the zing</div><div>meter.”</div><div>“What’s that mean?”</div><div>Steve shrugged, then began to juggle the slippery olives with impressive</div><div>dexterity. “People wonder why a good-lookin’ guy like you lives like an old</div><div>maid.”</div><div>Surveying the customers, Billy said, “What people?”</div><div>“Lots of people.” Steve caught the first olive in his mouth, the second, the</div><div>third, and chewed vigorously to applause from the barstool gallery.</div><div>During the last hour of his shift, Billy was markedly more observant of</div><div>Steve Zillis than usual. Yet he saw nothing suspicious.</div><div>Either the guy wasn’t the prankster or he was immeasurably more cunning</div><div>and deceitful than he appeared to be.</div><div>Well, it didn’t matter. No one had been murdered. The note had been a</div><div>joke; and sooner or later the punch line would be delivered.</div><div>As Billy was leaving the tavern at seven o’clock, Ivy Elgin came to him,</div><div>restrained excitement in her brandy-colored eyes. “Somebody’s going to die in</div><div>a church.”</div><div>“How do you figure?”</div><div>“The mantis. What prays has died.”</div><div>“Which church?” he asked.</div><div>“We’ll have to wait and see.”</div><div>“Maybe it won’t be in church. Maybe it’s just that a local minister or a</div><div>priest is going to die.”</div><div>Her intoxicating gaze held his. “I didn’t think of that. You might be right.</div><div>But how does the possum fit in?”</div><div>“I don’t have a clue. Ivy. I don’t have a talent for haruspicy, like you do.”</div><div>“I know, but you’re nice. You’re always interested, and you never make</div><div>fun of me.”</div><div>Although he worked with Ivy five days a week, the impact of her</div><div>extraordinary beauty and sexuality could make him forget, at times, that she</div><div>37</div><div>was in some ways more girl than woman, sweet and guileless, virtuous even if</div><div>not pure.</div><div>Billy said, “I’ll think about the possum. Maybe there’s a little bit of a seer</div><div>in me that I don’t know about.”</div><div>Her smile could knock you off balance. “Thanks, Billy. Sometimes this</div><div>gift… it’s a burden. I could use a little help with it.”</div><div>Outside, the summer-evening air was lemon yellow with oblique sunshine,</div><div>and the eastward-crawling shadows of the elms were one shade of purple short</div><div>of black.</div><div>As he approached his Ford Explorer, he saw a note under the windshield</div><div>wiper.</div><div>Chapter 6</div><div>Although neither a dead blonde nor an elderly cadaver had been reported,</div><div>Billy halted short of the Explorer, hesitant to proceed, reluctant to read this</div><div>second message.</div><div>He wanted nothing more than to sit with Barbara for a while and then to go</div><div>home. He didn’t see her seven times a week, but he visited more days than not.</div><div>His stops at Whispering Pines were one of the blocks with which the</div><div>foundation of his simple life had been built. He looked forward to them as he</div><div>looked forward to quitting-time and carving.</div><div>He was not a stupid man, however, and not even merely smart. He knew</div><div>that his life of seclusion might easily deteriorate into one of solitude.</div><div>A fine line separates the weary recluse from the fearful hermit. Finer still</div><div>is the line between hermit and bitter misanthrope.</div><div>Slipping the note from under the wiper, crumpling it in his fist, and tossing</div><div>it aside unread would surely constitute the crossing of the first of those lines.</div><div>And perhaps there would be no going back.</div><div>He did not have much of what he wanted in life. But by nature he was</div><div>prudent enough to recognize that if he threw away the note, he would also be</div><div>38</div><div>throwing away everything that now sustained him. His life would be not</div><div>merely different but worse.</div><div>In his trance of decision, he had not heard the patrol car enter the lot. As he</div><div>plucked the note off the windshield, he was surprised by Lanny Olsen’s sudden</div><div>appearance at his side, in uniform.</div><div>“Another one,” Lanny declared, as though he had been expecting the</div><div>second note.</div><div>His voice had a broken edge. His face was lined with dread. His eyes were</div><div>windows to a haunted place.</div><div>Billy’s fate was to live in a time that denied the existence of abominations,</div><div>that gave the lesser name horror to every abomination, that redefined every</div><div>horror as a crime, every crime as an offense, every offense as a mere</div><div>annoyance. Nevertheless, abhorrence rose in him before he knew exactly what</div><div>had brought Lanny Olsen here.</div><div>“Billy. Dear sweet Jesus, Billy.”</div><div>“What?”</div><div>“I’m sweating. Look at me sweating.”</div><div>“What—Whatisit?”</div><div>“I can’t stop sweating. It’s not that hot.”</div><div>Suddenly Billy felt greasy. He wiped one hand across his face and looked</div><div>at the palm, expecting filth. To the eye, it appeared to be clean.</div><div>“I need a beer,” Lanny said. “Two beers. I need to sit down. I need to</div><div>think.”</div><div>“Look at me.”</div><div>Lanny wouldn’t meet his eyes. His attention was fixed on the note in</div><div>Billy’s hand.</div><div>That paper remained folded, but something unfolded in Billy’s gut,</div><div>blossomed like a lubricious flower, oily and many-petaled. Nausea born of</div><div>intuition.</div><div>The right question wasn’t what. The right question was who, and Billy</div><div>asked it.</div><div>Lanny licked his lips. “Giselle Winslow.”</div><div>“I don’t know her.”</div><div>“Neither do I.”</div><div>39</div><div>“Where?”</div><div>“She taught English down in Napa.”</div><div>“Blond?”</div><div>“Yeah.”</div><div>“And lovely,” Billy guessed.</div><div>“She once was. Somebody beat her nearly to death. She was messed up</div><div>really bad by someone who knew how to draw it out, how to make it last.”</div><div>“Nearly to death.”</div><div>“He finished by strangling her with a pair of her pantyhose.”</div><div>Billy’s legs felt weak. He leaned against the Explorer. He could not speak.</div><div>“Her sister found her just two hours ago.”</div><div>Lanny’s gaze remained fixed on the folded sheet of paper in Billy’s hand.</div><div>“The sheriff’s department doesn’t have jurisdiction down there,” Lanny</div><div>continued. “So it’s in the lap of the Napa police. That’s something, anyway.</div><div>That gives me breathing space.”</div><div>Billy found his voice, but it was rough and not as he usually sounded to</div><div>himself. “The note said he’d kill a schoolteacher if I didn’t go to the police, but</div><div>I went to you.”</div><div>“He said he’d kill her if you didn’t go to the police and get them</div><div>involved.”</div><div>“But I went to you, I tried. I mean, for God’s sake, I tried, didn’t I?”</div><div>Lanny met his eyes at last. “You came to me informally. You didn’t</div><div>actually go to the police. You went to a friend who happened to be a cop.”</div><div>“But I went to you.” Billy protested, and cringed at the denial in his voice,</div><div>at the self-justification.</div><div>Nausea crawled the walls of his stomach, but he clenched his teeth and</div><div>strove for control.</div><div>“Nothing smelled real about it,” Lanny said.</div><div>“About what?”</div><div>“The first note. It was a joke. It was a lame joke. There isn’t a cop alive</div><div>with the instinct to smell anything real in it.”</div><div>“Was she married?” Billy asked.</div><div>40</div><div>A Toyota drove into the lot and parked seventy or eighty feet from the</div><div>Explorer.</div><div>In silence they watched the driver get out of the car and go into the tavern.</div><div>At such a distance, their conversation couldn’t have been overheard.</div><div>Nevertheless, they were circumspect.</div><div>Country music drifted out of the tavern while the door was open. On the</div><div>jukebox, Alan Jackson was singing about heartbreak.</div><div>“Was she married?” Billy asked again.</div><div>“Who?”</div><div>“The woman. The schoolteacher. Giselle Winslow.”</div><div>“I don’t think so, no. At least there’s no husband in the picture at the</div><div>moment. Let me see the note.”</div><div>Withholding the folded paper, Billy said, “Did she have any children?”</div><div>“What does it matter?”</div><div>“It matters,” Billy said.</div><div>He realized that his empty hand had tightened into a fist. This was a friend</div><div>standing before him, such as he allowed himself friends. Yet he relaxed his fist</div><div>only with effort.</div><div>“It matters to me, Lanny.”</div><div>“Kids? I don’t know. Probably not. From what I heard, she must have</div><div>lived alone.”</div><div>Two bursts of traffic passed on the state highway: paradiddles of engines,</div><div>the soft percussion of displaced air.</div><div>In the ensuing quiet, Lanny said plaintively, “Listen, Billy, potentially, I’m</div><div>in trouble here.”</div><div>“Potentially?” He found humor in that choice of words, but not the kind to</div><div>make him laugh.</div><div>“No one else in the department would have taken that damn note seriously.</div><div>But they’ll say I should have.”</div><div>“Maybe I should have,” Billy said.</div><div>Agitated, Lanny disagreed: “That’s hindsight. Bullshit. Don’t talk like that.</div><div>We need a mutual defense.”</div><div>“Defense against what?”</div><div>“Whatever. Billy, listen, I don’t have a perfect ten card.”</div><div>41</div><div>“What’s a ten card?”</div><div>“My force record card, my performance file. I’ve gotten a couple negative</div><div>reports.”</div><div>“What’d you do?”</div><div>Lanny’s eyes squinted when he took offense. “Damn it, I’m not a crooked</div><div>cop.”</div><div>“I didn’t say you were.”</div><div>“I’m forty-six, never taken a dime of dirty money, and I never will.”</div><div>“All right. Okay.”</div><div>“I didn’t do anything.”</div><div>Lanny’s pique might have been pretense; he couldn’t sustain it. Or perhaps</div><div>some grim mind’s-eye image scared him, for his pinched eyes widened. He</div><div>chewed on his lower lip as if gnawing on a disturbing thought that he wanted to</div><div>bite up, spit out, and never again consider. Although he glanced at his</div><div>wristwatch, Billy waited.</div><div>“What’s true enough,” Lanny said, “is I’m sometimes a lazy cop. Out of</div><div>boredom, you know. And maybe because… I never really wanted this life.”</div><div>“You don’t owe me any explanations,” Billy assured him.</div><div>“I know. But the thing is… whether I wanted this life or not, it’s what I’ve</div><div>got now. It’s all I have. I want a chance to keep it. I gotta read that new note,</div><div>Billy. Please give me the note.”</div><div>Sympathetic but unwilling to yield the paper, which was now damp with</div><div>his own perspiration, Billy unfolded and read it. If you don’t go to the police</div><div>and get them involved, I will kill an unmarried man who won’t much be</div><div>missed by the world. If you do go to the police, I will kill a young mother of</div><div>two. You have five hours to decide. The choice is yours.</div><div>On the first reading, Billy comprehended every terrible detail of the note,</div><div>yet he read it again. Then he relinquished it.</div><div>Anxiety, the rust of life, corroded Lanny Olsen’s face as he scanned the</div><div>lines. “This is one sick son of a bitch.”</div><div>“I’ve got to go down to Napa.”</div><div>“Why?”</div><div>“To give both these notes to the police.”</div><div>42</div><div>“Wait, wait, wait,” Lanny said. “You don’t know that the second victim’s</div><div>going to be in Napa. Could be in St. Helena or Rutherford—”</div><div>“Or in Angwin,” Billy interrupted, “or Calistoga.”</div><div>Eager to press the point, Lanny said, “Or Yountville or Circle Oaks, or</div><div>Oakville. You don’t know where. You don’t know anything.”</div><div>“I know some things,” Billy said. “I know what’s right.”</div><div>Blinking at the note, flicking sweat off his eyelashes, Lanny said, “Real</div><div>killers don’t play these games.”</div><div>“This one does.”</div><div>Folding the note and tucking it in the breast pocket of his uniform shirt,</div><div>Lanny pleaded, “Let me think a minute.”</div><div>Immediately retrieving the paper from Lanny’s pocket, Billy said, “Think</div><div>all you want. I’m driving down to Napa.”</div><div>“Oh, man, this is bad. This is wrong. Don’t be stupid.”</div><div>“It’s the end of his game if I won’t play it.”</div><div>“So you’re just going to kill a young mother of two. Just like that, are</div><div>you?”</div><div>“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”</div><div>“Then I’ll say it again. You’re going to kill a young mother of two.”</div><div>Billy shook his head. “I’m not killing anyone.”</div><div>“ ‘The choice is yours,’” Lanny quoted. “Are you going to choose to make</div><div>two orphans?”</div><div>What Billy saw now in his friend’s face, in his eyes, was not anything that</div><div>he had seen before across a poker table or anywhere else. He seemed to be</div><div>confronted by a stranger.</div><div>“The choice is yours,” Lanny repeated.</div><div>Billy didn’t want a falling-out between them. He lived on the more</div><div>companionable side of the line between recluse and hermit, and he did not want</div><div>to find himself straddling that divide.</div><div>Perhaps sensing his friend’s concern, Lanny took a softer tack: “All I’m</div><div>asking is throw me a line. I’m in quicksand here.”</div><div>“For God’s sake, Lanny.”</div><div>“I know. It sucks. There’s no way it doesn’t.”</div><div>43</div><div>“Don’t try to manipulate me like that again. Don’t hammer me.”</div><div>“I won’t. I’m sorry. It’s just, the sheriff’s a hardass. You know he is. With</div><div>my ten card, this is all he needs to take my badge, and I’m still six years short</div><div>of a full pension.”</div><div>As long as he met Lanny’s eyes and saw the desperation in them, and saw</div><div>something worse than desperation that he didn’t want to name, he couldn’t</div><div>compromise with him. He had to look away and pretend to be speaking to the</div><div>Lanny he’d known before this encounter.</div><div>“What are you asking me to do?”</div><div>Reading capitulation in the question, Lanny spoke in a still more</div><div>conciliatory voice. “You won’t regret this, Billy. It’s going to be all right.”</div><div>“I didn’t say I’d do whatever you want. I just need to know what it is.”</div><div>“I understand. I appreciate it. You’re a true friend. All I’m asking is an</div><div>hour, one hour to think.”</div><div>Shifting his gaze from the tavern to the cracked blacktop at his feet, Billy</div><div>said, “There’s not much time. With the first message, it was six hours. Now it’s</div><div>five.”</div><div>“I’m only asking for one. One hour.”</div><div>“He must know I get off work at seven, so that’s probably when the clock</div><div>starts ticking. Midnight. Then before dawn he kills one or the other, and by</div><div>action or inaction, I’ve made a choice. He’ll do what he’ll do, but I don’t want</div><div>to think I decided it for him.”</div><div>“One hour,” Lanny promised, “and then I’ll go to Sheriff Palmer. I just</div><div>have to figure the approach, the angle that’ll save my ass.”</div><div>A familiar shriek, but seldom heard in this territory, raised Billy’s attention</div><div>from the blacktop to the sky.</div><div>White on sapphire, three sea gulls kited against the eastern heavens. They</div><div>rarely ventured this far north from San Pablo Bay.</div><div>“Billy, I need those notes for Sheriff Palmer.”</div><div>Watching the sea gulls, Billy said, “I’d rather keep them.”</div><div>“The notes are evidence,” Lanny said plaintively. “That bastard Palmer</div><div>will rip me a new one if I don’t take custody of the evidence and protect it.”</div><div>As the summer evening waned toward the darkness that always drove gulls</div><div>to seaside roosts, these birds were so out of place that they seemed to be an</div><div>44</div><div>omen. Their piercing, cold cries brought a creeping chill to the nape of Billy’s</div><div>neck.</div><div>He said, “I only have the note I just found.”</div><div>“Where’s the first one?” Lanny asked.</div><div>“I left it in my kitchen, by the phone.”</div><div>Billy considered going into the tavern to ask Ivy Elgin the meaning of the</div><div>birds.</div><div>“All right. Okay,” Lanny said. “Just give me the one you’ve got. Palmer’s</div><div>gonna want to come talk to you. We can get the first note then.”</div><div>The problem was, Ivy claimed to be able to read portents only in the</div><div>details of dead things.</div><div>When Billy hesitated, Lanny grew insistent: “For God’s sake, look at me.</div><div>What is it with the birds?”</div><div>“I don’t know,” Billy replied.</div><div>“You don’t know what?”</div><div>“I don’t know what it is with the birds.” Reluctantly, Billy fished the note</div><div>from his pocket and gave it to Lanny. “One hour.”</div><div>“That’s all I need. I’ll call you.”</div><div>As Lanny turned away, Billy put a hand on his shoulder, halting him.</div><div>“What do you mean you’ll call? You said you’d bring Palmer.”</div><div>“I’ll call you first, as soon as I’ve figured out how to tweak the story to</div><div>give myself cover.”</div><div>“ ‘Tweak,’” Billy said, loathing the word.</div><div>Falling silent, the circling sea gulls wheeled away toward the westering</div><div>sun.</div><div>“When I call,” Lanny said, “I’ll tell you what I’m gonna tell Palmer, so</div><div>we’ll be on the same page. Then I’ll go to him.”</div><div>Billy wished that he had never surrendered the note. But it was evidence,</div><div>and logic dictated that Lanny should have it.</div><div>“Where are you going to be in an hour—at Whispering Pines?”</div><div>Billy shook his head. “I’m stopping there, but only for fifteen minutes.</div><div>Then I’m going home. Call me at my place. But there’s one more thing.”</div><div>Impatiently, Lanny said, “Midnight, Billy. Remember?”</div><div>45</div><div>“How does this psycho know what choice I make? How did he know I</div><div>went to you and not to the police? How will he know what I do in the next four</div><div>and a half hours?”</div><div>No answer but a frown occurred to Lanny.</div><div>“Unless,” Billy said, “he’s watching me.”</div><div>Surveying the vehicles in the parking lot, the tavern, and the arc of</div><div>embracing elms, Lanny said, “Everything was going so smooth.”</div><div>“Was it?”</div><div>“Like a river. Now this rock.”</div><div>“Always a rock.”</div><div>“That’s true enough,” Lanny said, and walked away toward his patrol car.</div><div>Mother Olsen’s only child appeared defeated, slump-shouldered and</div><div>baggyassed.</div><div>Billy wanted to ask if everything was all right between them, but that was</div><div>too direct. He couldn’t think of another way to phrase the question.</div><div>Then he heard himself say, “Something I’ve never told you and should</div><div>have.”</div><div>Lanny stopped, looked back, regarding him warily.</div><div>“All those years your mom was sick and you looked after her, gave up</div><div>what you wanted… that took more of the right stuff than cop work does.”</div><div>As though embarrassed, Lanny looked at the trees again and said almost as</div><div>if discomfited, “Thanks, Billy.” He seemed genuinely touched to hear his</div><div>sacrifice acknowledged.</div><div>Then as if a perverse sense of shame compelled him to discount, if not</div><div>mock, his virtue, Lanny added, “But all of that doesn’t leave me with a</div><div>pension.”</div><div>Billy watched him get in the car and drive away.</div><div>In a silence of vanished sea gulls, the breathless day waned, while the hills</div><div>and the meadows and the trees gradually drew more shadows over themselves.</div><div>On the farther side of the highway, the forty-foot wooden man strove to</div><div>save himself from the great grinding wheels of industry or brutal ideology, or</div><div>modern art.</div><div>46</div><div>Chapter 7</div><div>Barbara’s face against the dimpled background of the pillow was Billy’s</div><div>despair and his hope, his loss and his expectation.</div><div>She was an anchor in two senses, the first beneficial. The sight of her held</div><div>Billy fast and stable whatever the currents of a day.</div><div>Less mercifully, every memory of her from the time when she had been</div><div>not just in the quick of life, but also vivacious, was a link of chain enwrapping</div><div>him. If she sank from coma into full oblivion, the chain would pull taut, and he</div><div>would sink with her into the darkest waters.</div><div>He came here not only to keep her company in the hope that she would</div><div>recognize his presence even in her internal prison, but also to be taught how to</div><div>care and not to care, how to sit still, and perhaps to find elusive peace.</div><div>This evening, peace was more elusive than usual.</div><div>His attention shifted often from her face to his watch, and to the window</div><div>beyond which the acid-yellow day soured slowly toward a bitter twilight.</div><div>47</div><div>He held his little notebook. He paged through it, reading the mysterious</div><div>words that she had spoken.</div><div>When he found a sequence that particularly intrigued him, he read it aloud:</div><div>“—soft black drizzle—”</div><div>“—death of the sun—”</div><div>“—the scarecrow of a suit—”</div><div>“—livers of fat geese—”</div><div>“—narrow street, high houses—”</div><div>“—a cistern to hold the fog—”</div><div>“—strange forms… ghostly motion—”</div><div>“—clear-sounding bells—”</div><div>His hope was that, hearing her enigmatic coma-talk read back to her, she</div><div>would be spurred to speak, perhaps to expand upon those utterances and make</div><div>more sense of them…</div><div>On other nights his performance had sometimes drawn a reply from her.</div><div>But never did she clarify what previously she had said. Instead she delivered a</div><div>new and different sequence of equally inscrutable words.</div><div>This evening she responded with silence, and occasionally with a sigh</div><div>uncolored by emotion, as if she were a machine that breathed in a shallow</div><div>rhythm with louder exhalations caused by random power surges.</div><div>After reading aloud two sequences, Billy returned the notebook to his</div><div>pocket.</div><div>Agitated, he had read her words with too much force, too much haste. At</div><div>one point he’d heard himself and thought he sounded angry, which would do</div><div>Barbara no good.</div><div>He paced the room. The window drew him.</div><div>Whispering Pines stood adjacent to a gently sloping vineyard.</div><div>Beyond the window lay regimented vines with emerald-green leaves that</div><div>would be crimson come autumn, with small hard grapes still many weeks from</div><div>maturity.</div><div>The work lanes between the vine rows were mottled black with the</div><div>shadows of the day’s last hour, purple with grape pomace that had been spread</div><div>as fertilizer.</div><div>48</div><div>Seventy or eighty feet from the window, a man alone stood in one of those</div><div>lanes. He had no tools with him and did not appear to be at work.</div><div>If he was a grower or a vintner out for a walk, he must not be in a hurry.</div><div>He stood in one place, feet planted wide apart, hands in his trouser pockets.</div><div>He seemed to be studying the convalescent home.</div><div>From this distance and in this light, no details of the man’s appearance</div><div>could be discerned. He stood in the lane between vines with his back to the</div><div>declining sun, which revealed him only as a silhouette.</div><div>Listening to running feet on hollow stairs, which was in fact the thunder of</div><div>his heart, Billy warned himself against paranoia. Whatever trouble might come,</div><div>he would need calm nerves and a clear mind to cope.</div><div>He turned away from the window. He went to the bed.</div><div>Barbara’s eyes moved under her lids. The specialists said this indicated a</div><div>dream state.</div><div>Considering that any coma was a far deeper sleep than mere sleep itself,</div><div>Billy wondered if hers were more intense than ordinary dreams—full of</div><div>fevered action, crashing with a thunderstorm of sound, drenched in color.</div><div>He worried that her dreams were nightmares, vivid and perpetual.</div><div>When he kissed her forehead, she murmured, “The wind is in the east”</div><div>He waited, but she said no more, though her eyes darted and rolled from</div><div>phantom to phantom under her closed lids.</div><div>Because those words contained no menace and because no sense of peril</div><div>darkened her voice, he chose to believe that her current dream, at least, must be</div><div>benign.</div><div>Although he didn’t want it, he took from the nightstand a square creamcolored</div><div>envelope on which his name had been written in flowing script. He</div><div>tucked it in a pocket, unread, for he knew that it had been left by Barbara’s</div><div>doctor, Jordan Ferrier.</div><div>When medical issues of substance needed to be discussed, the physician</div><div>always used the telephone. He resorted to written messages only when he had</div><div>turned from medicine to the devil’s work.</div><div>At the window again, Billy discovered that the watcher in the vineyard had</div><div>gone.</div><div>Moments later, when he left Whispering Pines, he half expected to find a</div><div>third note on his windshield. He was spared that discovery.</div><div>49</div><div>Most likely the man among the vines had been an ordinary man engaged in</div><div>honest business. Nothing more. Nothing less.</div><div>Billy drove directly home, parked in the detached garage, climbed the</div><div>back-porch steps, and found his kitchen door unlocked, ajar.</div><div>Chapter 8</div><div>Billy had not been threatened in either of the notes. The danger</div><div>confronting him was not to life and limb. He would have preferred physical</div><div>peril to the moral jeopardy that he faced.</div><div>Nevertheless, when he found the back door of the house ajar, he</div><div>considered waiting in the yard until Lanny arrived with Sheriff Palmer.</div><div>That option occupied his consideration only for a moment. He didn’t care</div><div>if Lanny and Palmer thought he was gutless, but he didn’t want to think it of</div><div>himself.</div><div>He went inside. No one waited in the kitchen.</div><div>The draining daylight drizzled down the windows more than it penetrated</div><div>them. Warily, he turned on lights as he went through the house.</div><div>He found no intruder in any room or closet. Curiously, he saw no signs of</div><div>intrusion, either.</div><div>50</div><div>By the time that he returned to the kitchen, he had begun to wonder if he</div><div>might have failed to close and lock the door when he had left the house earlier</div><div>in the day.</div><div>That possibility had to be discounted when he found the spare key on a</div><div>kitchen counter, near the phone. It should have been taped to the bottom of one</div><div>of twenty cans of wood stain and varnish stored on a shelf in the garage.</div><div>Billy had last used the spare key five or six months previously. He could</div><div>not possibly have been under surveillance that long.</div><div>Suspecting the existence of a key, the killer must have intuited that the</div><div>garage was the most likely place in which it would have been hidden.</div><div>Billy’s professionally equipped woodworking shop occupied two-thirds of</div><div>that space, presenting numerous drawers and cabinets and shelves where such a</div><div>small item could have been hidden. The search for it might have taken hours.</div><div>If the killer, after visiting the house, intended to announce his intrusion by</div><div>leaving the spare key in the kitchen, logic argued that he would have saved</div><div>himself the time and trouble of the search. Instead, why wouldn’t he have</div><div>broken one of the four panes of glass in the back door?</div><div>As Billy puzzled over this conundrum, he suddenly realized that the key</div><div>lay at the very spot on the black-granite counter where he had left the first</div><div>typewritten message from the killer. It was gone.</div><div>Turning in a full circle, he saw the note neither on the floor nor on another</div><div>counter. He pulled open the nearest drawers, but it was not in this one or in this</div><div>one, or in this one…</div><div>Abruptly he realized that Giselle Winslow’s killer had not been here, after</div><div>all. The intruder had been Lanny Olsen.</div><div>Lanny knew where the spare key was kept. When he had asked for the first</div><div>note, as evidence, Billy had told him that it was here, in the kitchen.</div><div>Lanny had also asked where to find him in an hour, whether he would be</div><div>going directly home or to Whispering Pines.</div><div>A sense of deep misgiving overcame Billy, a general uneasiness and doubt</div><div>that began to curdle his trust.</div><div>If Lanny had all along intended to come here and collect the note as</div><div>essential evidence, not later with Sheriff Palmer but right away, he should have</div><div>said so. His deception suggested that he was not in a mood to serve and protect</div><div>the public, or even to back up a friend, but was focused first on saving his own</div><div>skin.</div><div>51</div><div>Billy didn’t want to believe such a thing. He sought excuses for Lanny.</div><div>Maybe after driving away from the tavern in his patrol car, he had decided</div><div>that, after all, he must have both of the notes before he approached Sheriff</div><div>Palmer. And maybe he didn’t want to make a call to Whispering Pines because</div><div>he knew how important those visits were to Billy.</div><div>In that case, however, he would have written a brief explanation to leave in</div><div>place of the killer’s note when he took it.</div><div>Unless… If his intention was to destroy both notes instead of going to</div><div>Palmer, and later to claim that Billy had never come to him prior to the</div><div>Winslow murder, such a replacement note would have been evidence to refute</div><div>him.</div><div>Always, Lanny Olsen had seemed to be a good man, not free of faults, but</div><div>basically good and fair and decent. He’d sacrificed his dreams to stand by his</div><div>ailing mother for so many years.</div><div>Billy dropped the spare key in his pants pocket. He did not intend to tape it</div><div>again to the bottom of the can in the workshop.</div><div>He wondered just how many bad reports were on Lanny’s ten card, exactly</div><div>how lazy he had been.</div><div>In retrospect, Billy heard markedly greater desperation in his friend’s</div><div>voice than he had heard at the time: I never really wanted this life… but the</div><div>thing is… whether I wanted it or not, it’s what I’ve got now. It’s all I have. I</div><div>want a chance to keep it.</div><div>Even most good men had a breaking point. Lanny might have been closer</div><div>to his than Billy could have known.</div><div>The wall clock showed 8:09.</div><div>In less than four hours, regardless of the choice that Billy made, someone</div><div>would die. He wanted this responsibility off his shoulders.</div><div>Lanny was supposed to call him by 8:30.</div><div>Billy had no intention of waiting. He snatched the handset from the wall</div><div>phone and keyed in Lanny’s personal cell-phone number.</div><div>After five rings, he was switched to voice mail. He said, “This is Billy. I’m</div><div>at home. What the hell? What’ve you done? Call me now.”</div><div>Instinct told him not to attempt to reach Lanny through the sheriffsdepartment</div><div>dispatcher. He would be leaving a trail that might have</div><div>consequences he could not foresee.</div><div>52</div><div>His friend’s betrayal, if that’s what it was, had reduced Billy to the</div><div>cautious calculations of a guilty man, although he had done nothing wrong.</div><div>A transient sting of mingled pain and anger would have been</div><div>understandable. Instead, resentment swelled in him so thick, so quick, that his</div><div>chest grew tight and he had difficulty swallowing.</div><div>Destroying the notes and lying about them might spare Lanny dismissal</div><div>from the force, but Billy’s situation would be made worse. Lacking evidence,</div><div>he would find it more difficult to convince the authorities that his story was</div><div>true and that it might shed light on the killer’s psychology.</div><div>If he approached them now, he risked looking like a publicity seeker or</div><div>like a bartender who sampled too much of his wares. Or like a suspect.</div><div>Riveted by that thought, he stood very still for a minute, exploring it.</div><div>Suspect.</div><div>His mouth had gone dry. His tongue cleaved to his palate.</div><div>He went to the kitchen sink and drew a glass of cold water from the tap. At</div><div>first he could barely choke down a mouthful, but then he drained the glass in</div><div>three long swallows.</div><div>Too cold, drunk too fast, the water wrung a brief sharp pain from his chest,</div><div>and washed nausea through his gut. He put the glass on the drainboard. He</div><div>leaned over the sink until the queasiness passed.</div><div>He splashed his greasy face with cold water, washed his hands in hot.</div><div>He paced the kitchen. He sat briefly at the table, then paced some more.</div><div>At 8:30, he stood by the telephone, staring at it, although he had every</div><div>reason to believe that it would not ring.</div><div>At 8:40, he used his cell phone to call Lanny’s cellular number, leaving the</div><div>house phone open. He got voice mail again.</div><div>The kitchen was too warm. He felt stifled.</div><div>At 8:45, Billy stepped outside, onto the back porch. He needed fresh air.</div><div>With the door wide open behind him, he could hear the telephone if it</div><div>rang.</div><div>Indigo in the east, the sky overhead and to the west trembled faintly with</div><div>the iridescent vibrations of an orange-and-green sunset.</div><div>The encircling woods bristled dark, growing darker. If a hostile observer</div><div>had taken up position in that timber, crouching in ferns and philodendrons,</div><div>none but a sharp-nosed dog could have known that he was out there.</div><div>53</div><div>A hundred toads, all unseen, had begun to sing in the descending gloom,</div><div>but in the kitchen, past the open door, all was silent.</div><div>Perhaps Lanny just needed a little more time to find a way to tweak the</div><div>truth.</div><div>Surely he cared about more than himself. He could not have been reduced</div><div>so totally, so quickly, to the most base self-interest.</div><div>He was still a cop, lazy or not, desperate or not. Sooner than later he would</div><div>realize that he couldn’t live with himself if, by obstructing the investigation, he</div><div>contributed to more deaths.</div><div>The ink-spill in the east soon saturated the sky overhead, while in the west,</div><div>all was fire and blood.</div><div>Chapter 9</div><div>At 9:00, Billy left the back porch and went inside. He closed the door and</div><div>locked it.</div><div>In just three hours, a fate would be decided, a death ordained, and if the</div><div>killer followed a pattern, someone would be murdered before dawn.</div><div>The key to the SUV lay on the dinette table. Billy picked it up.</div><div>He considered setting out in search of Lanny Olsen. What he had thought</div><div>was resentment, earlier, had been mere exasperation. Now he knew real</div><div>resentment, a dark and bitter brooding. He badly wanted confrontation.</div><div>Preserve me from the enemy who has something to gain, and from the friend</div><div>who has something to lose.</div><div>Lanny had been on day shift. He was off duty now.</div><div>Most likely he would be holed up at home. If he was not at home, there</div><div>were only a handful of restaurants, bars, and friends’ houses where he might be</div><div>found.</div><div>A sense of responsibility and a strange despairing kind of hope held Billy</div><div>prisoner in his kitchen, by his telephone. He no longer expected Lanny to call;</div><div>but the killer might.</div><div>54</div><div>The mute listener on the line the previous night had been Giselle</div><div>Winslow’s murderer. Billy had no proof, but no doubt, either.</div><div>Maybe he would call this evening, too. If Billy could speak to him,</div><div>something might be accomplished, something learned.</div><div>Billy was under no illusion that such a monster could be charmed into</div><div>chattiness. Neither could a homicidal sociopath be debated, nor persuaded by</div><div>reason to spare a life.</div><div>Hearing the man speak a few words, however, might prove valuable.</div><div>Ethnicity, region of origin, education, approximate age, and more could be</div><div>inferred from a voice.</div><div>With luck, the killer might also unwittingly reveal some salient fact about</div><div>himself. One clue, one small bud of information that blossomed under</div><div>determined analysis, could provide Billy with something credible to take to the</div><div>police.</div><div>Confronting Lanny Olsen might be emotionally satisfying, but it would not</div><div>get Billy out of the box in which the killer had put him.</div><div>He hung the key to the SUV on a pegboard.</div><div>The previous evening, in a nervous moment, he had lowered the shades at</div><div>all the windows. This morning, before breakfast, he had raised those in the</div><div>kitchen. Now he lowered them again.</div><div>He stood in the center of the kitchen.</div><div>He glanced at the phone.</div><div>Intending to sit at the table, he put his right hand on the back of a chair, but</div><div>he didn’t move it.</div><div>He just stood there, studying the polished black-granite floor at his feet.</div><div>He kept an immaculate house. The granite was glossy, spotless.</div><div>The blackness under his feet appeared to have no substance, as if he were</div><div>standing on air, high in the night itself, with five miles of atmosphere yawning</div><div>below, wingless.</div><div>He pulled the chair out from the table. He sat. Less than a minute passed</div><div>before he got to his feet.</div><div>Under these circumstances, Billy Wiles had no idea how to act, what to do.</div><div>The simple task of passing time defeated him, although he had not been doing</div><div>much else for years.</div><div>55</div><div>Because he hadn’t eaten dinner, he went to the refrigerator. He had no</div><div>appetite. Nothing on those cold shelves appealed to him.</div><div>He glanced at the SUV key dangling on the pegboard.</div><div>He went to the phone and stood staring at it.</div><div>He sat at the table. Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.</div><div>After a while, he went to the study, where he spent so many evenings</div><div>carving architectural ornaments at a corner worktable.</div><div>He collected several tools and a chunk of white oak from which he had</div><div>only half finished carving a cluster of acanthus leaves. He returned with them</div><div>to the kitchen.</div><div>The study had a telephone, but Billy preferred the kitchen this evening.</div><div>The study also had a comfortable couch, and he worried that he would be</div><div>tempted to lie down, that he would fall asleep and not be awakened by the</div><div>killer’s call, or by anything, ever.</div><div>Whether or not this concern was realistic, he settled at the dinette table</div><div>with the wood and the tools.</div><div>Without a carver’s vise, he could work only on the finer details of the</div><div>leaves, which was engraving work akin to scrimshaw. The blade scraped a</div><div>hollow sound from the oak, as if this were bone, not wood.</div><div>At ten minutes past ten o’clock, less than two hours before the deadline, he</div><div>abruptly decided that he would go to the sheriff.</div><div>His house was not in any township; the sheriff had jurisdiction here. The</div><div>tavern lay in Vineyard Hills, but the town was too small to have its own police</div><div>force; Sheriff Palmer was the law there, too.</div><div>Billy snared the key from the pegboard, opened the door, stepped onto the</div><div>back porch—and halted. If you do go to the police, I will kill a young mother</div><div>of two.</div><div>He didn’t want to choose. He didn’t want anyone to die.</div><div>In all of Napa County, there might be dozens of young mothers with two</div><div>children. Maybe a hundred, two hundred, maybe more.</div><div>Even with five hours, they couldn’t have identified and alerted all the</div><div>possible targets. They would have to use the media to warn the public. That</div><div>might take days.</div><div>Now, with less than two hours, nothing substantive would be done. They</div><div>might spend longer than that just questioning Billy.</div><div>56</div><div>The young mother, obviously preselected by the killer, would be</div><div>murdered.</div><div>What if the children awakened? As witnesses, they might be eliminated.</div><div>The madman had not promised to kill only the mother.</div><div>On damp night air, a musky smell wafted from the rich layers of mast on</div><div>the woodland floor and drifted from the trees to the porch.</div><div>Billy returned to the kitchen and closed the door.</div><div>Later, whittling leaf details, he pricked a thumb. He didn’t get a Band-Aid.</div><div>The puncture was small; it should close quickly.</div><div>When he nicked a knuckle, he remained too intensely involved with the</div><div>carving to bother attending to it. He worked faster, and didn’t notice when he</div><div>sustained a third tiny cut.</div><div>To an observer, had there been one, it might have seemed as though Billy</div><div>wanted to bleed.</div><div>Because his hands remained busy, the wounds kept weeping. The wood</div><div>soaked up the blood.</div><div>In time, he realized that the oak had completely discolored. He dropped the</div><div>carving and put aside the blade.</div><div>He sat for a while, staring at his hands, breathing hard for no reason. In</div><div>time, the bleeding stopped, and it didn’t start up again when he washed his</div><div>hands at the sink.</div><div>At 11:45, after patting his hands dry on a dishtowel, he got a cold</div><div>Guinness and drank it from the bottle. He finished it too fast.</div><div>Five minutes after the first beer, he opened a second. He poured it in a</div><div>glass to encourage himself to sip it and make it last.</div><div>He stood with the Guinness in front of the wall clock.</div><div>Eleven-fifty. Countdown.</div><div>As much as Billy wanted to lie to himself, he couldn’t be fooled. He had</div><div>made a choice, all right. The choice is yours. Even inaction is a choice.</div><div>The mother who had two children—she wouldn’t die tonight. If the</div><div>homicidal freak kept his end of the bargain, the mother would sleep the night</div><div>and see the dawn.</div><div>Billy was part of it now. He could deny, he could run, he could leave his</div><div>window shades down for the rest of his life and cross the line from recluse to</div><div>hermit, but he could not escape the fundamental fact that he was part of it.</div><div>57</div><div>The killer had offered him a partnership. He had wanted no part of it. But</div><div>now it turned out to be like one of those business deals, one of those aggressive</div><div>stock offers, that writers in the financial pages called a hostile takeover.</div><div>He finished the second Guinness as midnight arrived. He wanted a third.</div><div>And a fourth.</div><div>He told himself he needed to keep a clear head. He asked himself why, and</div><div>he had no credible answer.</div><div>His part of the business was done for the night. He had made the choice.</div><div>The freak would do the deed.</div><div>Nothing more would happen tonight, except that without the beer, Billy</div><div>wouldn’t be able to sleep. He might find himself carving again.</div><div>His hands ached. Not from his three insignificant wounds. From having</div><div>clutched the tools too tightly. From having held the chunk of oak in a death</div><div>grip.</div><div>Without sleep, he wouldn’t be ready for the day ahead. With morning</div><div>would come news of another corpse. He would learn whom he had chosen for</div><div>death.</div><div>Billy put his glass in the sink. He didn’t need a glass anymore because he</div><div>didn’t care about making the beer last. Each bottle was a punch, and he wanted</div><div>nothing more than to knock himself out.</div><div>He took a third beer to the living room and sat in his recliner. He drank in</div><div>the dark.</div><div>Emotional fatigue can be as debilitating as physical exhaustion. All</div><div>strength had fled him.</div><div>At 1:44, the telephone woke him. He flew up from the chair as if from a</div><div>catapult. The empty beer bottle rolled across the floor.</div><div>Hoping to hear Lanny, he snared the handset from the kitchen phone on</div><div>the fourth ring. “Hello” earned no reply.</div><div>The listener. The freak.</div><div>Billy knew from experience that a strategy of silence would get him</div><div>nowhere. “What do you want from me? Why me?”</div><div>The caller did not respond.</div><div>“I’m not going to play your game,” Billy said, but that was lame because</div><div>they both knew that he had already been co-opted.</div><div>58</div><div>He would have been pleased if the killer had replied with even a soft laugh</div><div>of derision, but he got nothing.</div><div>“You’re sick, you’re twisted.” When that didn’t inspire a response, Billy</div><div>added, “You’re human debris.”</div><div>He thought he sounded weak and ineffective, and for the times in which he</div><div>lived, the insults were far from inflammatory. Some heavy-metal rock band</div><div>probably called itself Sick and Twisted, and surely another was named Human</div><div>Debris.</div><div>The freak would not be baited. He disconnected.</div><div>Billy hung up and realized that his hands were trembling. His palms were</div><div>damp, too, and he blotted them on his shirt.</div><div>He was struck by a thought that should have but hadn’t occurred to him</div><div>when the killer had called the previous night. He returned to the phone, picked</div><div>up the handset, listened to the dial tone for a moment, and then keyed in * 69,</div><div>instigating an automatic callback.</div><div>At the farther end of the line, the phone rang, rang, rang, but nobody</div><div>answered it.</div><div>The number in the digital display on Billy’s phone, however, was familiar</div><div>to him. It was Lanny’s.</div><div>59</div><div>Chapter 10</div><div>Graceful in starlight with oaks, the church stood along the main highway, a</div><div>quarter of a mile from the turnoff to Lanny Olsen’s house.</div><div>Billy drove to the southwest corner of the parking lot. Under the cloaking</div><div>gloom of a massive California live oak, he doused the headlights and switched</div><div>off the engine.</div><div>Picturesque chalk-white stucco walls with decorative buttresses rose to</div><div>burnt-orange tile roofs. In a belfry niche stood a statue of the Holy Mother with</div><div>her arms open to welcome suffering humanity.</div><div>Here, every baptized baby would seem to be a potential saint. Here, every</div><div>marriage would appear to have the promise of lifelong happiness regardless of</div><div>the natures of the bride and groom.</div><div>Billy had a gun, of course.</div><div>Although it was an old weapon, not one of recent purchase, it remained in</div><div>working order. He had cleaned and stored it properly.</div><div>Packed away with the revolver had been a box of .38 cartridges. They</div><div>showed no signs of corrosion.</div><div>When he had taken the weapon from its storage case, it felt heavier than he</div><div>remembered. Now as he picked it off the passenger’s seat, it still felt heavy.</div><div>60</div><div>This particular Smith and Wesson tipped the scale at only thirty-six</div><div>ounces, but maybe the extra weight that he felt was its history.</div><div>He got out of the Explorer and locked the doors.</div><div>A lone car passed on the highway. The sidewash of the headlights reached</div><div>no closer than thirty yards from Billy.</div><div>The rectory lay on the farther side of the church. Even if the priest was an</div><div>insomniac, he would not have heard the SUV.</div><div>Billy walked farther under the oak, out from its canopy, into a meadow.</div><div>Wild grass rose to his knees.</div><div>In the spring, cascades of poppies had spilled down this sloped field, as</div><div>orange-red as a lava flow. They were dead now, and gone.</div><div>He halted to let his eyes grow accustomed to the moonless dark.</div><div>Motionless, he listened. The air was still. No traffic moved on the distant</div><div>highway. His presence had silenced the cicadas and the toads. He could almost</div><div>hear the stars.</div><div>Confident of his dark-adapted vision though of nothing else, he set out</div><div>across the gently rising meadow, angling toward the fissured and potholed</div><div>blacktop lane that led to Lanny Olsen’s place.</div><div>He worried about rattlesnakes. On summer nights as warm as this, they</div><div>hunted field mice and younger rabbits. Unbitten, he reached the lane and turned</div><div>uphill, passing two houses, both dark and silent.</div><div>At the second house, a dog ran loose in the fenced yard. It did not bark, but</div><div>raced back and forth along the high pickets, whimpering for Billy’s attention.</div><div>Lanny’s place lay a third of a mile past the house with the dog. At every</div><div>window, light of one quality or another fired the glass or gilded the curtains.</div><div>In the yard, Billy crouched beside a plum tree. He could see the west face</div><div>of the house, which was the front, and the north flank.</div><div>The possibility existed that this entire thing had in fact been a hoax and</div><div>that Lanny was the hoaxer.</div><div>Billy did not know for a fact that a blond schoolteacher had been murdered</div><div>in the city of Napa. He had taken Lanny’s word for it.</div><div>He had not seen a report of the homicide in the newspaper. The killing</div><div>supposedly had been discovered too late in the day to make the most recent</div><div>edition. Besides, he rarely read a newspaper.</div><div>61</div><div>Likewise, he never watched TV. Occasionally he listened for weather</div><div>reports on the radio, while driving, but mostly he relied on a CD player loaded</div><div>with zydeco or Western swing.</div><div>A cartoonist might be expected also to be a prankster. The funny streak in</div><div>Lanny had been repressed for so long, however, that it was less of a streak than</div><div>a thread. He made reasonably good company, but he wasn’t a load of laughs.</div><div>Billy didn’t intend to wager his life—or a nickel—that Lanny Olsen had</div><div>hoaxed him.</div><div>He remembered how sweaty and anxious and distressed his friend had</div><div>been in the tavern parking lot, the previous evening. In Lanny, what you saw</div><div>was what he was. If he’d wanted to be an actor instead of a cartoonist, and if</div><div>his mother had never gotten cancer, he would still have wound up as a cop with</div><div>a problematic ten card.</div><div>After studying the place, certain that no one was watching from a window,</div><div>Billy crossed the lawn, passed the front porch, and had a look at the south flank</div><div>of the house. There, too, every window glowed softly.</div><div>He circled to the rear, staying at a distance, and saw that the back door</div><div>stood open. A wedge of light lay like a carpet on the dark porch floor,</div><div>welcoming visitors across the kitchen threshold.</div><div>An invitation this bold seemed to suggest a trap.</div><div>Billy expected to find Lanny Olsen dead inside. If you don’t go to the</div><div>police and get them involved, I will kill an unmarried man who won’t much be</div><div>missed by the world.</div><div>Lanny’s funeral would not be attended by thousands of mourners, perhaps</div><div>not even by as many as a hundred, though some would miss him. Not the</div><div>world, but some.</div><div>When Billy had made his choice to spare the mother of two, he had not</div><div>realized that he had doomed Lanny.</div><div>If he had known, perhaps he would have made a different choice.</div><div>Choosing the death of a friend would be harder than dropping the dime on a</div><div>nameless stranger. Even if the stranger was a mother of two.</div><div>He didn’t want to think about that.</div><div>Toward the end of the backyard stood the stump of a diseased oak that had</div><div>been cut down long ago. Four feet across, two feet high.</div><div>62</div><div>On the east side of the stump was a hole worn by weather and rot. In the</div><div>hole had been tucked a One Zip plastic bag. The bag contained a spare house</div><div>key.</div><div>After retrieving the key, Billy circled cautiously to the front of the house.</div><div>He returned to the concealment of the plum tree.</div><div>No one had turned off any lights. No face could be seen at any window;</div><div>and none of the curtains moved suspiciously.</div><div>A part of him wanted to phone 911, get help here fast, and spill the story.</div><div>He suspected that would be a reckless move.</div><div>He didn’t understand the rules of this bizarre game and could not know</div><div>how the killer denned winning. Perhaps the freak would find it amusing to</div><div>frame an innocent bartender for both murders.</div><div>Billy had survived being a suspect once. The experience reshaped him.</div><div>Profoundly.</div><div>He would resist being reshaped again. He had lost too much of himself the</div><div>first time.</div><div>He left the cover of the plum tree. He quietly climbed the front-porch steps</div><div>and went directly to the door.</div><div>The key worked. The hardware didn’t rattle, the hinges didn’t squeak, and</div><div>the door opened silently.</div><div>63</div><div>Chapter 11</div><div>This Victorian house had a Victorian foyer with a dark wood floor. A</div><div>wood-paneled hall led toward the back of the house, and a staircase offered the</div><div>upstairs.</div><div>On one wall had been taped an eight-by-ten sheet of paper on which had</div><div>been drawn a hand. It looked like Mickey Mouse’s hand: a plump thumb, three</div><div>fingers, and a wrist roll suggestive of a glove.</div><div>Two fingers were folded back against the palm. The thumb and forefinger</div><div>formed a cocked gun that pointed to the stairs.</div><div>Billy got the message, all right, but he chose to ignore it for the time being.</div><div>He left the front door open in case he needed to make a quick exit.</div><div>Holding the revolver with the muzzle pointed at the ceiling, he stepped</div><div>through an archway to the left of the foyer. The living room looked as it had</div><div>when Mrs. Olsen had been alive, ten years ago. Lanny didn’t use it much.</div><div>The same was true of the dining room. Lanny ate most of his meals in the</div><div>kitchen or in the den while watching TV.</div><div>64</div><div>In the hallway, taped to the wall, another cartoon hand pointed toward the</div><div>foyer and the stairs, opposite from the direction in which he was proceeding.</div><div>Although the TV was dark in the den, flames fluttered in the gas-log</div><div>fireplace, and in a bed of faux ashes, false embers glowed as if real.</div><div>On the kitchen table stood a bottle of Bacardi, a double-liter plastic jug of</div><div>Coca-Cola, and an ice bucket. On a plate beside the Coke gleamed a small</div><div>knife with a serrated blade and a lime from which a few slices had been carved.</div><div>Beside the plate stood a tall, sweating glass half full of a dark concoction.</div><div>In the glass floated a slice of lime and a few thin slivers of melting ice.</div><div>After stealing the killer’s first note from Billy’s kitchen and destroying it</div><div>with the second to save his job and his hope of a pension, Lanny had tried to</div><div>drown his guilt with a series of rum and Cokes.</div><div>If the jug of Coca-Cola and the bottle of Bacardi had been full when he sat</div><div>down to the task, he had made considerable progress toward a state of</div><div>drunkenness sufficient to shroud memory and numb the conscience until</div><div>morning.</div><div>The pantry door was closed. Although Billy doubted that the freak lurked</div><div>in there among the canned goods, he wouldn’t feel comfortable turning his</div><div>back on it until he investigated.</div><div>With his right arm tucked close to his side and the revolver aimed in front</div><div>of him, he turned the knob fast and pulled the door with his left hand. No one</div><div>waited in the pantry.</div><div>From a kitchen drawer, Billy removed a clean dishtowel. After wiping the</div><div>metal drawer-pull and the knob on the pantry door, he tucked one end of the</div><div>cloth under his belt and let it hang from his side in the manner of a bar rag.</div><div>On a counter near the cooktop lay Lanny’s wallet, car keys, pocket change,</div><div>and cell phone. Here, too, was his 9-mm service pistol with the Wilson Combat</div><div>holster in which he carried it.</div><div>Billy picked up the cell phone, switched it on, and summoned voice mail.</div><div>The only message in storage was the one that he himself had left for Lanny</div><div>earlier in the evening. This is Billy. I’m at home. What the hell? What’ve you</div><div>done? Call me now.</div><div>After listening to his own voice, he deleted the message.</div><div>Maybe that was a mistake, but he didn’t see any way that it could prove his</div><div>innocence. On the contrary, it would establish that he had expected to see</div><div>Lanny during the evening just past and that he had been angry with him.</div><div>65</div><div>Which would make him a suspect.</div><div>He had brooded about the voice mail during the drive to the church</div><div>parking lot and during the walk through the meadow. Deleting it seemed the</div><div>wisest course if he found what he expected to find on the second floor.</div><div>He switched off the cell phone and used the dishtowel to wipe it clean of</div><div>prints. He returned it to the counter where he had found it.</div><div>If someone had been watching right then, he would have figured Billy for</div><div>a calm, cool piece of work. In truth, he was half sick with dread and anxiety.</div><div>An observer might also have thought that Billy, judging by his meticulous</div><div>attention to detail, had covered up crimes before. That wasn’t the case, but</div><div>brutal experience had sharpened his imagination and had taught him the</div><div>dangers of circumstantial evidence.</div><div>An hour previously, at 1:44, the killer had rung Billy from this house. The</div><div>phone company would have a record of that brief call.</div><div>Perhaps the police would think it proved Billy couldn’t have been here at</div><div>the time of the murder.</div><div>More likely, they would suspect that Billy himself had placed the call to an</div><div>accomplice at his house for the misguided purpose of trying to establish his</div><div>presence elsewhere at the time of the murder.</div><div>Cops always suspected the worst of everyone. Their experience had taught</div><div>them to do so.</div><div>At the moment, he couldn’t think of anything to be done about the phonecompany</div><div>records. He put it out of his mind.</div><div>More urgent matters required his attention. Like finding the corpse, if one</div><div>existed.</div><div>He didn’t think he should waste time searching for the killer’s two notes. If</div><div>they were still intact, he would most likely have found them on the table at</div><div>which Lanny had been drinking or on the counter with his wallet, pocket</div><div>change, and cell phone.</div><div>The flames in the den fireplace, on this warm summer night, led to a</div><div>logical conclusion about the notes.</div><div>Taped to the side of a kitchen cabinet was a cartoon hand that pointed to</div><div>the swinging door and the downstairs hallway.</div><div>At last Billy was willing to take direction, but a shrinking, anxious fear</div><div>immobilized him.</div><div>66</div><div>Possession of a firearm and the will to use it did not give him sufficient</div><div>courage to proceed at once. He did not expect to encounter the freak. In some</div><div>ways the killer would have been less intimidating than what he did expect to</div><div>find.</div><div>The bottle of rum tempted him. He had felt no effect from the three bottles</div><div>of Guinness. His heart had been thundering for most of an hour, his</div><div>metabolism racing.</div><div>For a man who was not much of a drinker, he’d recently had to remind</div><div>himself of that fact often enough to suggest that a potential rummy lived inside</div><div>him, yearning to be free.</div><div>The courage to proceed came from a fear of failing to proceed and from an</div><div>acute awareness of the consequences of surrendering this hand of cards to the</div><div>freak.</div><div>He left the kitchen and followed the hall to the foyer. At least the stairs</div><div>were not dark; there was light here below, at the landing, and at the top.</div><div>Ascending, he did not bother calling Lanny’s name. He knew that he</div><div>would receive no answer, and he doubted that he could have found his voice</div><div>anyway.</div><div>Chapter 12</div><div>Opening off the upper hallway were three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a</div><div>closet. Four of those five doors were closed.</div><div>On both sides of the entrance to the master bedroom were cartoon hands</div><div>pointing to that open door.</div><div>Reluctant to be herded, thinking of animals driven up a ramp at a</div><div>slaughterhouse, Billy left the master bedroom for last. He first checked the hall</div><div>bath. Then the closet and the two other bedrooms, in one of which Lanny kept</div><div>a drawing table.</div><div>Using the dishtowel, he wiped all the doorknobs after he touched them.</div><div>With only the one space remaining to be searched, he stood in the hall,</div><div>listening. No pin dropped.</div><div>67</div><div>Something had stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t swallow it. He couldn’t</div><div>swallow it because it was no more real than the sliver of ice sliding down the</div><div>small of his back.</div><div>He entered the master bedroom, where two lamps glowed.</div><div>The rose-patterned wallpaper chosen by Lanny’s mother had not been</div><div>removed after she died and not even, a few years later, after Lanny moved out</div><div>of his old room into this one. Age had darkened the background to a pleasing</div><div>shade reminiscent of a light tea stain. The bedspread had been one of Pearl</div><div>Olsen’s favorites: rose in color overall, with embroidered flowers along the</div><div>borders. Often during Mrs. Olsen’s illness, following chemotherapy sessions,</div><div>and after her debilitating radiation treatments, Billy had sat with her in this</div><div>room. Sometimes he just talked to her or watched her sleep. Often he read to</div><div>her. She had liked swashbuckling adventure stories. Stories set during the Raj</div><div>in India. Stories with geishas and samurai and Chinese warlords and Caribbean</div><div>pirates. Pearl was gone, and now so was Lanny. Dressed in his uniform, he sat</div><div>in an armchair, legs propped on a footstool, but he was gone just the same. He</div><div>had been shot in the forehead. Billy didn’t want to see this. He dreaded having</div><div>this image in his memory. He wanted to leave. Running, however, was not an</div><div>option. It never had been, neither twenty years ago nor now, nor any time</div><div>between. If he ran, he would be chased down and destroyed. The hunt was on,</div><div>and for reasons he didn’t understand, he was the ultimate game. Speed of flight</div><div>would not save him. Speed never saved the fox. To escape the hounds and the</div><div>hunters, the fox needed cunning and a taste for risk. Billy didn’t feel like a fox.</div><div>He felt like a rabbit, but he would not run like one. The lack of blood on</div><div>Lanny’s face, the lack of leakage from the wound suggested two things: that</div><div>death had been instantaneous and that the back of his skull had been blown out.</div><div>No bloodstains or brain matter soiled the wallpaper behind the chair.</div><div>Lanny had not been drilled as he sat there, had not been shot anywhere in this</div><div>room.</div><div>As Billy had not found blood elsewhere in the house, he assumed that the</div><div>killing occurred outside.</div><div>Perhaps Lanny had gotten up from the kitchen table, from his rum and</div><div>Coke, half drunk or drunk, needing fresh air, and had stepped outside. Maybe</div><div>he realized that his aim wouldn’t be neat enough for the bathroom and</div><div>therefore went into the backyard to relieve himself.</div><div>The freak must have used a plastic tarp or something to move the corpse</div><div>through the house without making a mess.</div><div>68</div><div>Even if the killer was strong, getting the dead man from the backyard to</div><div>the master bedroom, considering the stairs, would have been a hard job. Hard</div><div>and seemingly unnecessary.</div><div>To have done it, however, he must have had a reason that was important to</div><div>him.</div><div>Lanny’s eyes were open. Both bulged slightly in their sockets. The left one</div><div>was askew, as if he’d had a cast eye in life.</div><div>Pressure. For the instant during which the bullet had transited the brain,</div><div>pressure inside the skull soared before being relieved.</div><div>A book-club novel lay in Lanny’s lap, a smaller and more cheaply</div><div>produced volume than the handsome edition of the same title that had been</div><div>available in bookstores. At least two hundred similar books were shelved at</div><div>one end of the bedroom.</div><div>Billy could see the title, the author’s name, and the jacket illustration. The</div><div>story was about a search for treasure and true love in the South Pacific.</div><div>A long time ago, he had read this novel to Pearl Olsen. She had liked it,</div><div>but then she had liked them all.</div><div>Lanny’s slack right hand rested on the book. He appeared to have marked</div><div>his place with a photograph, a small portion of which protruded from the</div><div>pages.</div><div>The psychopath had arranged all of this. The tableau satisfied him and had</div><div>emotional meaning to him, or it was a message—a riddle, a taunt.</div><div>Before disturbing the scene, Billy studied it. Nothing about it seemed</div><div>compelling or clever, nothing that might have excited the murderer enough to</div><div>motivate him to put forth such effort in its creation.</div><div>Billy mourned Lanny; but with a greater passion, he hated that Lanny had</div><div>been afforded no dignity even in death. The freak dragged him around and</div><div>staged him as if he were a mannequin, a doll, as if he had existed only for the</div><div>creep’s amusement and manipulation.</div><div>Lanny had betrayed Billy; but that didn’t matter anymore. On the edge of</div><div>the Dark, on the brink of the Void, few offenses were worth remembering. The</div><div>only things worth recalling were the moments of friendship and laughter.</div><div>If they had been at odds on Lanny’s last day, they were on the same team</div><div>now, with the same and singular adversary.</div><div>Billy thought he heard a noise in the hall.</div><div>69</div><div>Without hesitation, holding the revolver in both hands, he left the master</div><div>bedroom, clearing the doorway fast, sweeping the .38 left to right, seeking a</div><div>target. No one.</div><div>The bathroom, closet, and other bedroom doors were closed, as he had left</div><div>them.</div><div>He didn’t feel a pressing need to search those rooms again. He might have</div><div>heard nothing but an ordinary settling noise as the old house protested the</div><div>weight of time, but it almost certainly had not been the sound of a door opening</div><div>or closing.</div><div>He blotted the damp palm of his left hand on his shirt, switched the gun to</div><div>it, blotted his right hand, returned the gun to it, and went to the head of the</div><div>stairs.</div><div>From the lower floor, from the porch beyond the open front door, came</div><div>nothing but a summer-night silence, a dead-of-night hush.</div><div>Chapter 13</div><div>As he stood at the head of the stairs, listening, pain had begun to throb in</div><div>Billy’s temples. He realized that his teeth were clenched tighter than the jaws</div><div>of a vise. He tried to relax and breathe through his mouth. He rolled his head</div><div>from side to side, working the stiffening muscles of his neck. Stress could be</div><div>beneficial if you used it to stay focused and alert. Fear could paralyze, but also</div><div>sharpen the survival instinct. He returned to the master bedroom. Approaching</div><div>the door, he suddenly thought body and book would be gone. But Lanny still</div><div>sat in the armchair. From a tissue box on one of the nightstands, Billy plucked</div><div>two Kleenex. Using them as an impromptu glove, he moved the dead man’s</div><div>hand off the book. Leaving the book on the cadaver’s lap, he opened it to the</div><div>place that had been marked by the photograph. He expected sentences or</div><div>paragraphs to have been highlighted in some fashion: a further message. But</div><div>70</div><div>the text was pristine. Still using the Kleenex, he picked up the photo, a</div><div>snapshot.</div><div>She was young and blond and pretty. Nothing in the picture gave a clue to</div><div>her profession, but Billy knew that she had been a teacher.</div><div>Her killer must have found this snapshot in her house, down in Napa.</div><div>Before or after finding it, he brutally beat the beauty out of her.</div><div>No doubt the freak had left the photograph in the book to confirm for the</div><div>authorities that the two murders had been the work of the same man. He was</div><div>bragging. He wanted the credit that he had earned. The only wisdom we can</div><div>hope to acquire is the wisdom of humility…</div><div>The freak hadn’t learned that lesson. Perhaps his failure to learn it would</div><div>lead to his fall.</div><div>If it was possible to feel genuinely heartbroken over the fate of a stranger,</div><div>the photo of this young woman would have done the job had Billy stared at it</div><div>too long. He returned it to the book and closed it in the yellowing pages.</div><div>After putting the dead man’s hand atop the book, as it had been, he</div><div>wadded the two Kleenex in his fist. He went into the bathroom that was part of</div><div>the master suite, pushed the plunger with the Kleenex, and then dropped them</div><div>into the whirling water in the toilet bowl.</div><div>In the bedroom, he stood beside the armchair, not sure what he should do.</div><div>Lanny did not deserve to be left here alone without benefit of prayer or</div><div>justice. If not a close friend, he had nevertheless been a friend. Besides, he was</div><div>Pearl Olsen’s son, and that ought to count for a lot.</div><div>Yet to phone the sheriff’s department, even anonymously, and report the</div><div>crime might be a mistake. They would want an explanation for the call that had</div><div>been placed from this house to Billy’s place soon after the murder; and he still</div><div>had not decided what to tell them.</div><div>Other issues, things he didn’t know about, might point the finger of</div><div>suspicion at him. Circumstantial evidence.</div><div>Perhaps the ultimate intention of the killer was to frame Billy for these</div><div>murders and for others.</div><div>Undeniably, the freak saw this as a game. The rules, if any, were known</div><div>only to him.</div><div>Likewise, the definition of victory was known only to him. Ginning the</div><div>pot, capturing the king, scoring the final touchdown might mean, in this case,</div><div>71</div><div>sending Billy to prison for life not for any rational reason, not so the freak</div><div>himself could escape justice, but for the sheer fun of it.</div><div>Considering that he could not even discern the shape of the playing field,</div><div>Billy didn’t relish being interrogated by Sheriff John palmer.</div><div>He needed time to think. A few hours at least. Until dawn. “I’m sorry,” he</div><div>told Lanny.</div><div>He switched off one of the bedside lamps and then the other. If the house</div><div>glowed like a centenarian’s birthday cake through the night, someone might</div><div>notice. And wonder. Everyone knew Lanny Olsen was an early-to-bed guy.</div><div>The house stood at the highest and loneliest point of the deadend lane.</div><div>Virtually no one drove up here unless they were coming to see Lanny, and no</div><div>one was likely to visit during the next eight or ten hours.</div><div>Midnight had turned Tuesday to Wednesday. Wednesday and Thursday</div><div>were Lanny’s days off. No one would miss him at work until Friday.</div><div>Nevertheless, one by one, Billy returned to the other upstairs rooms and</div><div>switched off those lights as well.</div><div>He doused the hall lights and went down the stairs, uneasy about all the</div><div>darkness at his back.</div><div>In the kitchen, he closed the door to the porch and locked it.</div><div>He intended to take Lanny’s spare key with him.</div><div>As he went forward once more through the first floor, he turned off all the</div><div>lights, including the ceramic gas-fueled logs in the den fireplace, using the</div><div>barrel of the handgun to flip the switches.</div><div>Standing on the front porch, he locked that door as well, and wiped the</div><div>knob.</div><div>He felt watched as he descended the steps. He surveyed the lawn, the trees,</div><div>glanced back at the house.</div><div>All the windows were black, and the night was black, and Billy walked</div><div>away from that closed darkness into an open darkness under an India-ink sky in</div><div>which stars seemed to float, seemed to tremble.</div><div>72</div><div>Chapter 14</div><div>He walked briskly downhill along the shoulder of the lane, ready to take</div><div>cover in the roadside brush if headlights appeared.</div><div>Frequently, he glanced back. As far as he could tell, no one followed him.</div><div>Moonless, the night favored a stalker. It should have favored Billy, too, but</div><div>he felt exposed by the stars.</div><div>At the house with the chest-high fence, the half-seen dog once more raced</div><div>back and forth along the pickets, beseeching Billy with a whimper. It sounded</div><div>desperate.</div><div>He sympathized with the animal and understood its condition. His plight,</div><div>however, and his need to plan left him no time to stop and console the beast.</div><div>73</div><div>Besides, every expression of desired friendship has potential bite. Every</div><div>smile reveals the teeth.</div><div>So he continued down the lane, and glanced behind, and held tight to the</div><div>revolver, and then turned left into the meadow where he waded through the</div><div>grass in a fear of snakes.</div><div>One question pressed upon him more urgently than others: Was the killer</div><div>someone he knew or a stranger?</div><div>If the freak had been in Billy’s life well prior to the first note, a secret</div><div>sociopath who could no longer keep his homicidal urges bottled up, identifying</div><div>him might be difficult but possible. Analysis of relationships and a search of</div><div>memory with an eye for anomaly might unearth clues. Deductive reasoning and</div><div>imagination would likely paint a face, spell out a twisted motive.</div><div>In the event that the freak was a stranger who selected Billy at random for</div><div>torment and eventual destruction, detective work would be more difficult.</div><div>Imagining a face never seen and sounding for a motive in a vacuum would not</div><div>prove easy.</div><div>Not long ago in the history of the world, routine daily violence—excluding</div><div>the ravages of nations at war—had been largely personal in nature. Grudges,</div><div>slights to honor, adultery, disputes over money triggered the murderous</div><div>impulse.</div><div>In the modern world, more in the postmodern, most of all in the postpostmodern,</div><div>much violence had become impersonal. Terrorists, street gangs,</div><div>lone sociopaths, sociopaths in groups and pledged to a Utopian vision killed</div><div>people they did not know, against whom they had no realistic complaint, for</div><div>the purpose of attracting attention, making a statement, intimidation, or even</div><div>just for the thrill of it.</div><div>The freak, whether known or unknown to Billy, was a daunting adversary.</div><div>Judging by all evidence, he was bold but not reckless, psychopathic but selfcontrolled,</div><div>clever, ingenious, cunning, with a baroque and Machiavellian mind.</div><div>By contrast, Billy Wiles made his way in the world as plainly and directly</div><div>as he could. His mind was not baroque. His desires were not complex. He only</div><div>hoped to live, and lived on guarded hope.</div><div>Hurrying through tall pale grass that lashed against his legs and seemed to</div><div>pass conspiratorial whispers blade to blade, he felt that he had more in common</div><div>with a field mouse than with a sharp-beaked owl.</div><div>74</div><div>The great spreading oak tree loomed. As Billy passed under it, unseen</div><div>presences stirred in the boughs overhead, testing pinions, but no wings took</div><div>flight.</div><div>Beyond the Ford Explorer, the church looked like an ice carving made of</div><div>water with a trace of phosphorus.</div><div>Approaching, he unlocked the SUV with the remote key, and was</div><div>acknowledged by two electronic chirps and a double flash of the parking lights.</div><div>He got in, closed the door, and locked up again. He dropped the revolver</div><div>on the passenger’s seat.</div><div>When he attempted to insert the key in the ignition, something foiled him.</div><div>A folded piece of paper had been fixed to the steering column with a short</div><div>length of tape.</div><div>A note.</div><div>The third note.</div><div>The killer must have been stationed along the highway, observing the</div><div>turnoff to Lanny Olsen’s place, to see if Billy would take the bait. He must</div><div>have noticed the Explorer pull into this parking lot.</div><div>The vehicle had been locked. The freak could have gotten into it only by</div><div>breaking a window; but none was broken. The car alarm had not been</div><div>triggered.</div><div>Thus far, every moment of this waking nightmare had felt keenly real, as</div><div>veritable as fire to a testing hand. But the discovery of this third note seemed to</div><div>thrust Billy through a membrane from the true world into one of fantasy.</div><div>With a dreamlike dread, Billy peeled the note off the steering column. He</div><div>unfolded it.</div><div>The interior lights, activated automatically when he boarded the SUV,</div><div>were still on, for he had so recently shut and locked the door. The message—a</div><div>question—was clearly visible and succinct. A re you prepared for your first</div><div>wound?</div><div>75</div><div>Chapter 15</div><div>Are you prepared for your first wound?</div><div>As though an Einsteinian switch had thrown time into slomo, the note</div><div>slipped out of his fingers and seemed to float, float like a feather into his lap.</div><div>The light went out.</div><div>In a trance of terror, reaching with his right hand for the revolver on the</div><div>passenger’s seat, Billy turned slowly to the right as well, intending to look over</div><div>his shoulder and into the dark backseat.</div><div>76</div><div>There would seem to be too little room back there for a man to have</div><div>hidden; however, Billy had gotten into the Explorer hastily, heedlessly.</div><div>He groped for the elusive gun, his fingertips brushed the checked grip of</div><div>the weapon—and the window in the driver’s door imploded.</div><div>As safety glass collapsed in a prickly mass across his chest and thighs, the</div><div>revolver slipped out of his grasping fingers and tumbled onto the floor.</div><div>Even as the glass was falling, before Billy could turn to face the assault,</div><div>the freak reached into the SUV and seized a handful of his hair, at the crown of</div><div>his head, twisted it and palled hard.</div><div>Trapped by the steering wheel and the console, pulled ruthlessly by the</div><div>hair, unable to scramble into the passenger’s seat and search for the gun, he</div><div>clawed at the hand that held him, but ineffectively because a leather glove</div><div>protected it.</div><div>The freak was strong, vicious, relentless.</div><div>Billy’s hair should already have come out by the roots. The pain was</div><div>excruciating. His vision blurred.</div><div>The killer wanted to pull him headfirst and backward through the brokenout</div><div>window.</div><div>The back of Billy’s skull rapped hard against the window sill. Another</div><div>solid rap snapped his teeth together and knocked a hoarse cry from him.</div><div>He clutched at the steering wheel with his left hand, at the headrest on the</div><div>driver’s seat with his right, resisting. The hair would come out in a great</div><div>handful. The hair would come out, and he would be free.</div><div>But the hair didn’t, and he wasn’t, and he thought of the horn. If he blew</div><div>the horn, pounded the horn, help would come, and the freak would run.</div><div>At once he realized that only the priest in the rectory would hear, and if the</div><div>priest came, the killer wouldn’t flee. No, he would shoot the priest in the face</div><div>just as he had shot Lanny.</div><div>Maybe ten seconds had elapsed since the window had shattered, and the</div><div>back of Billy’s head was being drawn inexorably across the window sill.</div><div>The pain had quickly grown so intense that the roots of his hair seemed to</div><div>extend through the flesh of his face—for his face hurt as well, stung as if flame</div><div>had seared it—and seemed to extend also into his shoulders and arms, for as</div><div>the tenacious roots came free, so did the strength in those muscles.</div><div>The nape of his neck chilled on contact with the window sill. Crumbles of</div><div>gummy safety glass jagged his skin.</div><div>77</div><div>His head was being bent backward now. How quickly his exposed throat</div><div>could be slit, how easily his spine might be snapped.</div><div>He let go of the steering wheel. He reached behind his back, fumbling for</div><div>the door handle.</div><div>If he could open the door and thrust with sufficient force, he might</div><div>unbalance his assailant, knock him down, and either break his grip or lose the</div><div>hair at last.</div><div>To reach the handle—slippery in his sweaty fingers—he had to twist his</div><div>arm behind himself so torturously and bend his hand at such a severe angle that</div><div>he didn’t have the range of movement to work the lever action.</div><div>As if sensing Billy’s intent, the freak leaned all his weight against the</div><div>door.</div><div>Billy’s head was largely out of the car now, and a face suddenly appeared</div><div>above him, upside-down to his face. A countenance without features. A hooded</div><div>phantom.</div><div>He blinked to clear his vision.</div><div>Not a hood. A dark ski mask.</div><div>Even in this poor light, Billy could see the fevered gaze that glistered from</div><div>the eyeholes.</div><div>Something sprayed the lower half of his face, from the nose down. Wet,</div><div>cold, pungent yet sweet, a medicinal reek.</div><div>He gasped in shock, then tried to hold his breath, but the single gasp had</div><div>undone him. Astringent fumes burned in his nostrils. His mouth flooded with</div><div>saliva.</div><div>The masked face seemed to lower toward his, like a dark moon coming</div><div>down, the cratered eyes.</div><div>78</div><div>Chapter 16</div><div>The sedative wore off. Like a winch line turning on a drum, pain gradually</div><div>hoisted Billy from unconsciousness.</div><div>His mouth tasted as if he’d drunk waffle syrup and chased it with bleach.</div><div>Sweet and bitter. Life itself.</div><div>For a while he didn’t know where he was. Initially he did not care. Raised</div><div>from a sea of torpor, he felt saturated with unnatural sleep and yearned to</div><div>return to it.</div><div>Eventually the unrelenting pain forced him to care, to keep his eyes open,</div><div>to analyze sensation and to orient himself. He was lying on his back on a hard</div><div>surface—the church parking lot.</div><div>79</div><div>He could smell the faint scents of tar, oil, gasoline. The vague nutty, musty</div><div>fragrance of the oak tree spreading overhead in the darkness. His own sour</div><div>perspiration.</div><div>Licking his lips, he tasted blood.</div><div>When he wiped his face, Billy found it slick with a viscous substance that</div><div>was most likely a mixture of sweat and blood. In the dark, he could not see</div><div>what had been transferred to his hand.</div><div>The pain was mostly in his scalp. He first assumed that it was a lingering</div><div>effect of having had his hair nearly pulled out.</div><div>A slow pulsing ache, punctuated by a series of sharper pangs, radiated</div><div>across his head, not from the crown, however, where his hair had been severely</div><div>tested, but from his brow.</div><div>When he raised one hand and hesitantly explored the source, he found</div><div>something stiff and wiry bristling from his forehead, an inch below the hairline.</div><div>Although his touch was gentle, it triggered a spasm of sharper pain that made</div><div>him cry out. Are you prepared for your first wound?</div><div>He left the exploration of the injury for later, until he could see the</div><div>damage.</div><div>The wound would not be mortal. The freak had not intended to kill him,</div><div>only to hurt him, perhaps to scar him.</div><div>Billy’s grudging respect for his adversary had grown to the point that he</div><div>did not expect the man to make mistakes, at least not major ones.</div><div>Billy sat up. Pain swelled across his brow, and again when he got to his</div><div>feet.</div><div>He stood swaying, surveying the parking lot. His assailant was gone.</div><div>High in the night, a cluster of moving stars, the running lights of a jet,</div><div>growled westward. On this route, it was probably a military transport headed</div><div>for a war zone. Another war zone different from the one down here.</div><div>He opened the driver’s door of the Explorer.</div><div>Crumbled safety glass littered the seat. He plucked a Kleenex box from the</div><div>console and used it to scrape the prickly debris off the upholstery.</div><div>He searched for the note that had been taped over the ignition. Evidently</div><div>the killer had taken it.</div><div>He found the dropped key under the brake pedal. From the floor in front of</div><div>the passenger’s seat, he retrieved the revolver.</div><div>80</div><div>He had been allowed to keep the gun for the game ahead. The freak didn’t</div><div>fear it.</div><div>The substance with which Billy had been sprayed—chloroform or some</div><div>other anesthetic—had a lingering effect. When he bent over, he grew dizzy.</div><div>Behind the wheel, with the door closed, with the engine running, he</div><div>worried that he might not be fit to drive.</div><div>He turned on the air conditioner, angled two vents at his face.</div><div>As he assessed his transient dizziness, the interior lights went off</div><div>automatically. Billy turned them on once more.</div><div>He tilted the rearview mirror to inspect his face. He looked like a painted</div><div>devil: dark red, but the teeth bright; dark red, and the whites of the eyes</div><div>unnaturally white.</div><div>When he adjusted the mirror again, he saw at once the source of his pain.</div><div>Seeing did not immediately mean believing. He preferred to think that the</div><div>residual dizziness from the anesthetic might be accompanied by hallucination.</div><div>He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He strove to clear the</div><div>image in the mirror from his mind, and hoped that when he looked again he</div><div>would not see the same.</div><div>Nothing had changed. Across his forehead, an inch below the hairline,</div><div>three large fishhooks pierced his flesh.</div><div>The point and the barb of each hook protruded from the skin. The shank</div><div>also protruded. The bend of each hook lay under the thin meat of his brow.</div><div>He shuddered and looked away from the mirror.</div><div>There are days of doubt, more often lonely nights, when even the devout</div><div>wonder if they are heirs to a greater kingdom than this earth and if they will</div><div>know mercy—or if instead they are only animals like any other, with no</div><div>inheritance except the wind and the dark.</div><div>This was such a night for Billy. He had known others like it. Always the</div><div>doubt had receded. He told himself that it would recede again, though this time</div><div>it was colder and seemed certain to leave a higher water mark.</div><div>The freak had at first seemed to be a player to whom murder was a sport.</div><div>The fishhooks in the forehead, however, had not been intended as merely a</div><div>game move; and this was no game.</div><div>To the freak, these killings were something more than murder, but the</div><div>something more was not a form of chess or the equivalent of poker. Homicide</div><div>81</div><div>had symbolic meaning for him, and he pursued it with a purpose more serious</div><div>than amusement. He had some mysterious goal beyond the killing itself, an aim</div><div>for which he sought completion. Game was the wrong word, Billy needed to</div><div>find the right one. Until he knew the correct word, he would never understand</div><div>the killer, and would not find him.</div><div>With Kleenex, he gently swabbed the clotted blood from his eyebrows,</div><div>wiped most of it off his lids and lashes.</div><div>The sight of the fishhooks had clarified his mind. He wasn’t dizzy</div><div>anymore.</div><div>His wounds needed attention. He switched on the headlights and drove out</div><div>of the church parking lot.</div><div>Whatever ultimate goal the freak might have, whatever symbolism he</div><div>intended with the fishhooks, he must also have hoped to send Billy to a doctor.</div><div>The physician would require an explanation of the hooks, and any response</div><div>Billy made would complicate his predicament.</div><div>If he told the truth, he would tie himself to the murders of Giselle Winslow</div><div>and Lanny Olsen. He would be the primary suspect.</div><div>Without the three notes, he could offer no evidence that the freak existed.</div><div>The authorities would not regard the hooks as credible evidence, for they</div><div>would wonder if this was a case of self-mutilation. A self-inflicted wound was</div><div>a ploy that murderers sometimes used to cast themselves as victims and thereby</div><div>to deflect suspicion.</div><div>He knew the cynicism with which some cops would look upon his</div><div>dramatic, bizarre, but superficial wounds. He knew it precisely.</div><div>Furthermore, Billy was a fresh-water angler. He fished for trout and bass.</div><div>These substantial hooks were the size needed to land large bass if you were</div><div>using live bait instead of lures. In his tackle box at home were hooks identical</div><div>to those that now drew his blood.</div><div>He dared not go to a doctor. He’d have to be his own physician.</div><div>At 3:30 in the morning, he had the rural roadways to himself. The night</div><div>was still, but the SUV made its own wind, which blustered at the broken-out</div><div>window. In the halogen headlights, flat vineyards, hillside vineyards, and</div><div>wooded heights remained familiar to his eye but, mile by mile, became as alien</div><div>to his heart as any foreign barrens.</div><div>82</div><div>PART 2</div><div>ARE YOU PREPARED FOR YOUR SECOND WOUND?</div><div>Chapter 17</div><div>In February, after the extraction of a molar with roots fused to his</div><div>jawbone, Billy had been given a prescription for a painkiller, Vicodin, by his</div><div>periodontist. He had used only two of ten tablets.</div><div>83</div><div>The pharmacy label specified that the medication should be taken with</div><div>food. He had not eaten dinner, and he still had no appetite.</div><div>He needed the medication to be effective. From the refrigerator, he got a</div><div>baking dish of leftover homemade lasagna.</div><div>Although the punctures in his brow were plugged with clots and the</div><div>bleeding had stopped, the pain continued unrelenting and made coherent</div><div>thought increasingly difficult. He chose not to delay the few minutes necessary</div><div>to zap the dish in the microwave. He put it cold on the kitchen table.</div><div>A pink sticker on the pill bottle counseled against consuming alcoholic</div><div>beverages while taking the painkiller. Screw that. He had no intention of</div><div>driving a car or operating heavy machinery in the next several hours.</div><div>He popped the tablet and forked lasagna into his mouth, washing</div><div>everything down with Elephant beer, a Danish brew boasting a higher alcohol</div><div>content than other beers.</div><div>As he ate, he thought about the dead schoolteacher, about Lanny sitting in</div><div>the bedroom armchair, about what the killer might do next.</div><div>Those lines of thought were not conducive to appetite or to digestion. The</div><div>teacher and Lanny were beyond rescue, and there was no way to foretell the</div><div>freak’s next move.</div><div>Instead, he thought about Barbara Mandel, mostly about Barbara as she</div><div>had been, not as she was now in Whispering Pines. Inevitably, these</div><div>reminiscences led forward to the moment, and he began to worry about what</div><div>would happen to her if he died.</div><div>He remembered the small square envelope from her physician. He fished it</div><div>out of his pocket and tore it open.</div><div>The name Dr. Jordan Ferrier was blind embossed on the face of the creamcolored</div><div>note card. He had precise handwriting: Dear Billy, When you start</div><div>timing your visits to Barbara in order to avoid me during my regular rounds, I</div><div>know the time has come for our semiannual review of her condition. Please call</div><div>my office to schedule an appointment.</div><div>Sweat beaded the bottle of Elephant beer. He used Dr. Ferrier’s note card</div><div>as a coaster to protect the table.</div><div>“Why don’t you call my office for an appointment,” Billy said.</div><div>The baking dish was half full of lasagna. Although he had no appetite, he</div><div>ate everything, shoving food into his mouth and chewing vigorously, ate as if</div><div>eating could satiate anger as easily as it could hunger.</div><div>84</div><div>Eventually the pain in his forehead substantially subsided.</div><div>He went to his fishing gear in the garage. From his angler’s kit, he</div><div>retrieved needle-nose pliers with a wire-cutting edge.</div><div>In the house again, after locking the back door, he went to the bathroom,</div><div>where he examined his face in the mirror. The mask of blood had dried. He</div><div>looked like an aboriginal resident of Hell.</div><div>The freak had inserted the three hooks with care. Apparently, he had tried</div><div>to do as little damage as possible.</div><div>To suspicious police, that tenderness would have supported the theory that</div><div>these wounds were self-inflicted.</div><div>One end of the hook featured the bend and the barb. At the other end was</div><div>an eye to which a snap and leader could be attached. Pulling either the barb or</div><div>the eye through the puncture would further rip the flesh.</div><div>He used the pliers to snip off the eye from one hook. Between thumb and</div><div>forefinger, he pinched the barbed end and extracted the cut shank.</div><div>When he had removed all three hooks, he took a shower as hot as he could</div><div>tolerate.</div><div>After the shower, he sterilized the punctures as best he could with rubbing</div><div>alcohol and then hydrogen peroxide. He applied Neosporin and covered the</div><div>wounds with gauze pads fixed with adhesive tape.</div><div>At 4:27 A.M., according to the nightstand clock, Billy went to bed. A</div><div>double bed, two sets of pillows. His head on one soft pillow, the hard revolver</div><div>under the other. May the judgment not be too heavy upon us…</div><div>As his eyelids fell shut of their own weight, he saw Barbara in his mind’s</div><div>eye, her pale lips forming inscrutable statements.</div><div>I want to know what it says, the sea. What it is that it keeps on saying.</div><div>He was asleep before the clock counted the half hour.</div><div>In his dream, he lay in a coma, unable to move or to speak, but nonetheless</div><div>aware of the world around him. Doctors in white lab coats and black ski masks</div><div>loomed, working on his flesh with steel scalpels, carving clusters of bloody</div><div>acanthus leaves.</div><div>Resurgent pain, dull but persistent, woke him at 8:40 Wednesday morning.</div><div>At first, he could not remember which of his recent nightmarish</div><div>experiences had been dreamed, which real. Then he could.</div><div>85</div><div>He wanted another Vicodin. Instead, in the bathroom, he shook two aspirin</div><div>from a bottle.</div><div>Intending to take the aspirins with orange juice, he went into the kitchen.</div><div>He had neglected to put the baking pan, crusted with the residue of lasagna, in</div><div>the dishwasher. The empty bottle of Elephant beer stood on Dr. Ferrier’s</div><div>stationery.</div><div>Morning light flooded the room. The blinds had been raised. The windows</div><div>had been covered when he’d gone to bed.</div><div>Taped to the refrigerator was a folded sheet of paper, the fourth message</div><div>from the killer.</div><div>Chapter 18</div><div>He knew beyond doubt that he had engaged the deadbolt in the back door</div><div>when he had returned from the garage with the needle-nose pliers. Now it was</div><div>unlocked. Stepping onto the porch, he surveyed the western woods. A few elms</div><div>in the foreground, pines beyond. The morning sun bent all tree shadows in</div><div>upon the grove and probed those dusky reaches without much illuminating</div><div>them. As his gaze traveled the Greenwood, seeking the telltale flare of sunlight</div><div>off the lenses of binoculars, he saw movement. Mysterious forms whidded</div><div>among the trees, as fluid as the shadows of birds in flight, flickering palely</div><div>when sunlight dappled them. A sense of the uncanny overcame Billy. Then the</div><div>forms broke from the trees, and they were only deer: a buck, two does, a fawn.</div><div>He thought that something must have spooked them in the woods, but they</div><div>86</div><div>gamboled only a few yards onto the lawn before coming to a halt. As serene as</div><div>deer in Eden, they grazed upon the tender grass. Returning to the house,</div><div>leaving the deer to their breakfast, Billy locked the back door even though he</div><div>gained no safety from the deadbolt. If the killer didn’t possess a key, then he</div><div>owned lock picks and was experienced in their use.</div><div>Leaving the note undisturbed, Billy opened the fridge. He took out a quart</div><div>of orange juice.</div><div>As he drank juice from the carton, washing down the aspirins, he stared at</div><div>the note taped to the refrigerator. He did not touch it.</div><div>He put two English muffins in the toaster. When they were crisp, he spread</div><div>peanut butter on them and ate at the kitchen table.</div><div>If he never read the note, if he burned it in the sink and washed the ashes</div><div>down the drain, he would be removing himself from the game.</div><div>The first problem with that idea was the same that had pricked his</div><div>conscience before: Inaction counted as a choice.</div><div>The second problem was that he himself had become a victim of assault.</div><div>And he had been promised more. Are you prepared for your first wound?</div><div>The freak had not underlined or italicized first, but Billy understood where</div><div>the emphasis belonged. Although he had his faults, self-delusion wasn’t one of</div><div>them.</div><div>If he didn’t read the note, if he tried to opt out, he would be even less able</div><div>to imagine what might be coming than he was now. When the ax fell on him,</div><div>he would not even hear the blade cutting the air above his head.</div><div>Besides, this was in no way a game to the killer, which Billy had realized</div><div>the previous night. Denied a playmate, the freak would not simply pick up his</div><div>ball and go home. He would see this through to whatever end he had in mind.</div><div>Billy would have liked to carve acanthus leaves.</div><div>He wanted to work a crossword puzzle. He was good at them.</div><div>Laundry, yard work, cleaning out the rain gutters, painting the mailbox: He</div><div>could lose himself in the mundane chores of daily life, and take solace in them.</div><div>He wanted to work at the tavern and let the hours pass in a blur of</div><div>repetitive tasks and inane conversations.</div><div>All the mystery he needed—and all the drama—was to be found in his</div><div>visits to Whispering Pines, in the puzzling words that Barbara sometimes spoke</div><div>and in his persistent belief that there was hope for her. He needed nothing</div><div>more. He had nothing more.</div><div>87</div><div>He had nothing more until this, which he didn’t need and didn’t want—but</div><div>could not escape.</div><div>Finished with the muffins, he took the plate and knife to the sink. He</div><div>washed them, dried them, and put them away.</div><div>In the bathroom, he peeled the bandage off his forehead. Each hook had</div><div>torn him twice. The six punctures looked red and raw.</div><div>Gently he washed the wounds, then reapplied alcohol, hydrogen peroxide,</div><div>and Neosporin. He fashioned a fresh bandage.</div><div>His brow was cool to the touch. If the hook had been dirty, an infection</div><div>might not be prevented by his precautions, especially if the points and barbs</div><div>had scored the bone.</div><div>He was safe from tetanus. Four years previously, renovating the garage to</div><div>accommodate a woodworking shop, he’d sustained a deep cut in his left hand,</div><div>from a hinge that corrosion had made brittle and sharp. He’d gotten a booster</div><div>shot of DPT vaccine. Tetanus didn’t worry him. He would not die of tetanus.</div><div>Neither would he die of infected hook wounds. This was a false worry to</div><div>give his mind a rest from real and greater threats.</div><div>In the kitchen, he peeled the note off the refrigerator. He wadded it in his</div><div>fist and took it to the waste can.</div><div>Instead of throwing the note away, he smoothed it on the table and read it.</div><div>Stay home this morning. An associate of mine will come to see you at 11:00.</div><div>Wait for him on the front porch. If you don’t stay home, I will kill a child. If</div><div>you inform the police, I will kill a child. You seem so angry. Have I not</div><div>extended to you the hand of friendship? Yes, I have. Associate. The word</div><div>troubled Billy. He did not like that word at all.</div><div>In rare cases, homicidal sociopaths worked in pairs. The cops called them</div><div>kill buddies. The Hillside Strangler in Los Angeles had proved to be a pair of</div><div>cousins. The D.C. Sniper had been two men.</div><div>The Manson Family numbered more than two.</div><div>A simple bartender might rationally hope to get the best of one ruthless</div><div>psychopath. Not two.</div><div>Billy did not consider going to the police. The freak had twice proved his</div><div>sincerity; if disobeyed, he would kill a child.</div><div>In this instance, at least, a choice was open to him that did not entail</div><div>selecting anyone for death.</div><div>88</div><div>Although the first four lines of the note were straightforward, the meaning</div><div>of the last two lines could not be easily interpreted. Have I not extended to you</div><div>the hand of friendship?</div><div>The mockery was evident. Billy also detected a taunting quality suggesting</div><div>that information had been offered here that would prove helpful to him if only</div><div>he could understand it.</div><div>Rereading the message six times—eight, even ten—did not bring clarity.</div><div>Only frustration.</div><div>With this note, Billy had evidence again. Although it did not amount to</div><div>much and would not itself impress the police, he intended to keep it safe.</div><div>In the living room, he surveyed the book collection. In recent years, it had</div><div>been nothing to him except something to be dusted.</div><div>He selected In Our Time. He tucked the killer’s note between the</div><div>copyright page and the dedication page, and he returned the volume to the</div><div>shelf.</div><div>He thought of Lanny Olsen sitting dead in an armchair with an adventure</div><div>novel in his lap.</div><div>In the bedroom, he fetched the .38 Smith and Wesson from under the</div><div>pillow.</div><div>As he handled the revolver, he remembered how it felt when it discharged.</div><div>The barrel wanted to rake up. The backstrap hardened against the meat of the</div><div>palm, and the recoil traveled the bones of the hand and arm, seeming to churn</div><div>the marrow as a school of fish churned water.</div><div>In a dresser drawer was an open box of ammunition. He put three spare</div><div>cartridges in each of the front pockets of his chinos.</div><div>That seemed to be enough insurance. Whatever might be coming, it would</div><div>not be a war. It would be violent and vicious, but brief.</div><div>He smoothed the night out of the bedclothes. Although he didn’t use a</div><div>spread, he plumped the pillows and tucked in the sheets so they were as taut as</div><div>a drum skin.</div><div>When he picked up the gun from the nightstand, he remembered not only</div><div>the recoil but also what it felt like to kill a man.</div><div>89</div><div>Chapter 19</div><div>Jackie O’Hara answered his cell phone with a line he sometimes used</div><div>when he worked behind the bar. “What can I do ya for?”</div><div>“Boss, it’s Billy.”</div><div>“Hey, Billy, you know what they were talking about in the tavern last</div><div>night?”</div><div>“Sports?”</div><div>“The hell they were. We’re not a damn sports bar.”</div><div>Looking out a kitchen window toward the lawn from which the deer had</div><div>vanished, Billy said, “Sorry.”</div><div>“The guys in sports bars—the drinking doesn’t mean anything to them.”</div><div>90</div><div>“It’s just a way to get high.”</div><div>“That’s right. They’d as soon smoke a little pot or even get a Starbucks</div><div>buzz. We’re not a damn sports bar.”</div><div>Having heard this before, Billy tried to move the discussion along: “To our</div><div>customers, the drinking is a kind of ceremony.”</div><div>“Beyond ceremony. It’s an observance, a solemnity, almost a kind of</div><div>sacrament. Not to all of them, but to most. It’s communion.”</div><div>“All right. So were they talking about Big Foot?”</div><div>“I wish. The best, the really intense barroom talk used to be about Big</div><div>Foot, flying saucers, the lost continent of Atlantis, what happened to the</div><div>dinosaurs—”</div><div>“—what’s on the dark side of the moon,” Billy interjected, “the Loch Ness</div><div>monster, the Shroud of Turin—”</div><div>“—ghosts, the Bermuda Triangle, all that classic stuff,” Jackie continued.</div><div>“But it’s not like that so much anymore.”</div><div>“I know,” Billy acknowledged.</div><div>“They were talking about these professors at Harvard and Yale and</div><div>Princeton, these scientists who say they’re going to use cloning and stem cells</div><div>and genetic engineering to create a superior race.”</div><div>“Smarter and faster and better than we are,” Billy said.</div><div>“So much better than we are,” Jackie said, “they won’t be human at all.</div><div>It’s in Time or maybe Newsweek, these scientists smiling and proud of</div><div>themselves right in a magazine.”</div><div>“They call it the posthuman future,” Billy said.</div><div>“What happens to us when we’re post?” Jackie wondered. “Post is toast. A</div><div>master race? Haven’t these guys heard of Hitler?”</div><div>“They think they’re different,” Billy said.</div><div>“Don’t they have mirrors? Some idiots are crossing human and animal</div><div>genes to create new… new things. One of them wants to create a pig that’s got</div><div>a human brain.”</div><div>“How about that.”</div><div>“The magazine doesn’t say why a pig, like it should be obvious why a pig</div><div>instead of a cat or a cow or a chipmunk. For God’s sake, Billy, isn’t it hard</div><div>enough being a human brain in a human body? What kind of hell would it be a</div><div>human brain in a pig body?”</div><div>91</div><div>“Maybe we won’t live to see it,” Billy said. “Unless you’re planning to die</div><div>tomorrow, you will. I liked Big Foot better. I liked the Bermuda Triangle and</div><div>ghosts a lot better. Now all the crazy shit is real.”</div><div>“Why I called,” Billy said, “is to let you know I can’t make it to work</div><div>today.”</div><div>With genuine concern, Jackie said, “Hey, what, are you sick?”</div><div>“I’m kind of queasy.”</div><div>“You don’t sound like you have a cold.”</div><div>“I don’t think it’s a cold. It’s like a stomach thing.”</div><div>“Sometimes a summer cold starts that way. Better take zinc. They’ve got</div><div>this zinc gel you squeeze up your nose. It really works. It stops a cold dead.”</div><div>“I’ll get some.”</div><div>“Too late for vitamin C. You gotta be taking that all along.”</div><div>“I’ll get some zinc. Did I call too early, did you close up the tavern last</div><div>night?”</div><div>“No. I went home at ten o’clock. All that talk about pigs with human</div><div>brains, I just wanted to go home.”</div><div>“So Steve Zillis closed up?”</div><div>“Yeah. He’s a reliable boy. That stuff I told you, I wish now I hadn’t. If he</div><div>wants to chop up mannequins and watermelons in his backyard, that’s his</div><div>business, as long as he does his job.”</div><div>Tuesday night was often slow in the bar business. If the traffic grew light,</div><div>Jackie preferred to lock the tavern before the usual 2:00 A.M. closing time. An</div><div>open bar with few or no customers in the wee hours is a temptation to a stickup</div><div>artist, putting employees at risk.</div><div>“Busy night?” Billy asked. “Steve said after eleven it was like the world</div><div>ended. He had to open the front door and look outside to be sure the tavern</div><div>hadn’t been teleported to the moon or somewhere. He turned off the lights</div><div>before midnight. Thank God there aren’t two Tuesdays in a week.”</div><div>Billy said, “People like to spend some time with their families. That’s the</div><div>curse of a family bar.”</div><div>“You’re a funny guy, aren’t you?”</div><div>“Not usually.”</div><div>92</div><div>“If you put that zinc gel up your nose and you don’t feel any better,”</div><div>Jackie said, “call me back, and I’ll tell you somewhere else you can stuff it.”</div><div>“I think you’d have made a fine priest. I really do.”</div><div>“Get well, okay? The customers miss you when you’re off.”</div><div>“Do they?”</div><div>“Not really. But at least they don’t say they’re glad you’re gone.”</div><div>Under the circumstances, perhaps only Jackie O’Hara could have made</div><div>Billy Wiles crack a smile.</div><div>He hung up. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty-one.</div><div>The “associate” would be here in less than half an hour.</div><div>If Steve Zillis had left the tavern shortly before midnight, he would have</div><div>had plenty of time to go to Lanny’s place, kill him, and move the body to the</div><div>armchair in the master bedroom.</div><div>If Billy had been handicapping suspects, he would have given long odds</div><div>on Steve. But once in a while, a long shot won the race.</div><div>Chapter 20</div><div>On the front porch were two teak rocking chairs with dark-green cushions,</div><div>Billy seldom needed the second chair.</div><div>This morning, wearing a white T-shirt and chinos, he occupied the one</div><div>farthest from the porch steps. He didn’t rock. He sat quite still.</div><div>Beside him stood a teak cocktail table. On the table, on a cork coaster, was</div><div>a glass of cola.</div><div>He hadn’t drunk any of the cola. He had prepared it as a prop, to distract</div><div>the eye from consideration of the box of Ritz crackers.</div><div>The box contained nothing but the snub-nosed revolver. The only crackers</div><div>were a stack of three on the table, beside the box.</div><div>Bright and clear and hot, the day was too dry to please the grape growers,</div><div>but it was all right with Billy.</div><div>93</div><div>From the porch, between deodar cedars, he could see a long way down the</div><div>rural road that sloped up toward his house and far beyond.</div><div>Not much traffic passed. He recognized some of the vehicles, but he didn’t</div><div>know to whom they belonged.</div><div>Rising off the sun-scorched blacktop, shimmering heat ghosts haunted the</div><div>morning.</div><div>At 10:53, a figure appeared in the distance, on foot. Billy did not expect</div><div>the associate to hike in for the meeting. He assumed this was not the man.</div><div>At first the figure might have been a mirage. The furnace heat distorted</div><div>him, made him ripple as if he were a reflection on water. Once he seemed to</div><div>evaporate, then reappeared.</div><div>In the hard light, he looked tall and thin, unnaturally thin, as if he had</div><div>recently hung on a cross in a cornfield, glaring the birds away with his button</div><div>eyes.</div><div>He turned off the county road and followed the driveway. He left the</div><div>driveway for the grass and, at 10:58, arrived at the bottom of the porch steps.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles?” he asked.</div><div>“Yes.”</div><div>“I believe you’re expecting me.”</div><div>He had the raw, rough voice of one who had marinated his larynx in</div><div>whiskey and slow-cooked it in years of cigarette smoke.</div><div>“What’s your name?” Billy asked.</div><div>“I’m Ralph Cottle, sir.”</div><div>Billy had thought the question would be ignored. If the man were hiding</div><div>behind a false name, John Smith would have been good enough. Ralph Cottle</div><div>sounded real.</div><div>Cottle was as thin as the distorting heat had made him appear to be from a</div><div>distance, but not as tall. His scrawny neck looked as if it might snap with the</div><div>weight of his head.</div><div>He wore white tennis shoes dark with age and filth. Shiny in spots and</div><div>frayed at the cuffs, the cocoa-brown, summer-weight suit hung on him with no</div><div>more grace than it would have hung from a coat rack. His polyester shirt was</div><div>limp, stained, and missing a button.</div><div>These were thrift-shop clothes from the cheapest bin; and he had gotten</div><div>long wear out of them.</div><div>94</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, may I come in the shade?”</div><div>Standing at the bottom of the steps, Cottle looked as if the weight of the</div><div>sunlight might collapse him. He seemed too frail to be a threat, but you never</div><div>could tell.</div><div>“There’s a chair for you,” Billy said.</div><div>“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the kindness.”</div><div>Billy tensed as Cottle ascended the stairs but relaxed a little when the man</div><div>had settled into the other rocker.</div><div>Cottle didn’t rock, either, as if getting the chair moving was a more</div><div>strenuous task than he cared to contemplate.</div><div>“Sir, do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.</div><div>“Yes. I do mind.”</div><div>“I understand. It’s a filthy habit.”</div><div>From an inner coat pocket, Cottle produced a pint of Seagram’s and</div><div>unscrewed the cap. His bony hands trembled. He didn’t ask if it was all right to</div><div>drink. He just took a swig.</div><div>Apparently, he had sufficient control of his nicotine jones to be polite</div><div>about it. The hooch, on the other hand, told him when he needed it, and he</div><div>could not disobey its liquid voice.</div><div>Billy suspected that other pints were tucked in other pockets, plus</div><div>cigarettes and matches, and possibly a couple of hand-rolled joints. This</div><div>explained why a suit in summer heat: It was not only clothing but also a</div><div>portmanteau for his various vices.</div><div>The booze didn’t heighten the color of his face. His skin was already dark</div><div>from much sun and red from an intricate web of burst capillaries.</div><div>“How far did you walk?” Billy asked.</div><div>“Only from the junction. I hitched a ride that far.” Billy must have looked</div><div>skeptical, for Cottle added, “A lot of people know me around these parts. They</div><div>know I’m harmless, unkempt but not dirty.”</div><div>Indeed, his blond hair looked clean, though uncombed. He had shaved,</div><div>too, his leathery face tough enough to resist nicking even with the razor</div><div>wielded by such an unsteady hand.</div><div>His age was difficult to determine. He might have been forty or sixty, but</div><div>not thirty or seventy.</div><div>“He’s a very bad man, Mr. Wiles.”</div><div>95</div><div>“Who?”</div><div>“The one who sent me.”</div><div>“You’re his associate.”</div><div>“No more than I’m a monkey.”</div><div>“Associate—that’s what he called you.”</div><div>“Do I look like a monkey, either?”</div><div>“What’s his name?”</div><div>“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”</div><div>“What’s he look like?”</div><div>“I haven’t seen his face. I hope I never do.”</div><div>“A ski mask?” Billy guessed.</div><div>“Yes, sir. And eyes looking out of it cold as snake eyes.” His voice</div><div>quavered in sympathy with his hands, and he tipped the bottle to his mouth</div><div>again.</div><div>“What color were his eyes?” Billy asked.</div><div>“They looked yellow as egg yolks to me, but that was just the lamplight in</div><div>them.”</div><div>Remembering the encounter in the church parking lot, Billy said, “There</div><div>was too little light for me to see color… just a hot shine.”</div><div>“I’m not such a bad man, Mr. Wiles. Not like him. What I am is weak.”</div><div>“Why’ve you come here?”</div><div>“Money, for one thing. He paid me one hundred forty dollars, all in tendollar</div><div>bills.”</div><div>“One-forty? What—did you bargain him up from a hundred?”</div><div>“No, sir. That’s the precise sum he offered. He said it’s ten dollars for each</div><div>year of your innocence, Mr. Wiles.”</div><div>In silence, Billy stared at him.</div><div>Ralph Cottle’s eyes might once have been a vibrant blue. Maybe all the</div><div>alcohol had faded them, for they were the palest blue eyes that Billy had ever</div><div>seen, the faint blue of the sky at high altitude where there is too little</div><div>atmosphere to provide rich color and where the void beyond is barely</div><div>concealed.</div><div>96</div><div>After a moment, Cottle broke eye contact, looked out at the yard, the trees,</div><div>the road.</div><div>“Do you know what that means?” Billy asked. “My fourteen years of</div><div>innocence?”</div><div>“No, sir. And it’s none of my business. He just wanted me to make a point</div><div>of telling you that.”</div><div>“You said money was one thing. What was the other?”</div><div>“He’d kill me if I didn’t come see you.”</div><div>“That’s what he threatened to do?”</div><div>“He doesn’t make threats, Mr. Wiles.”</div><div>“Sounds like one.”</div><div>“He just says what is, and you know it’s true. I come see you or I’m dead.</div><div>And not dead easy, either, but very hard.”</div><div>“Do you know what he’s done?” Billy asked.</div><div>“No, sir. And don’t you tell me.”</div><div>“There’s two of us now who know he’s real. We can corroborate each</div><div>other’s story.”</div><div>“Don’t even talk that way.”</div><div>“Don’t you see, he’s made a mistake.”</div><div>“I wish I could be his mistake,” Cottle said, “but I’m not. You think too</div><div>much of me, and shouldn’t.”</div><div>“But he’s got to be stopped,” Billy said.</div><div>“Not by me. I’m nobody’s hero. Don’t you tell me what he’s done. Don’t</div><div>you dare.”</div><div>“Why shouldn’t I tell you?”</div><div>“That’s your world. It isn’t mine.”</div><div>“There’s just one world.”</div><div>“No, sir. There’s a billion of them. Mine’s different from yours, and that’s</div><div>the way it’s gonna stay.”</div><div>“We’re sitting here on the same porch.”</div><div>“No, sir. It looks like one porch, but it’s two, all right. You know that’s</div><div>true. I see it in you.”</div><div>“See what?”</div><div>97</div><div>“I see the way you’re a little like me.”</div><div>Chilled, Billy said, “You can’t see anything. You won’t even look at me.”</div><div>Ralph Cottle met Billy’s eyes again. “Have you seen the woman’s face in</div><div>the jar like a jellyfish?”</div><div>The conversation had suddenly switched from the main track to a strange</div><div>spur line.</div><div>“What woman?” Billy asked.</div><div>Cottle knocked back another slug from the pint. “He says he’s had her in</div><div>the jar three years.”</div><div>“Jar? Better stop pouring down that nose paint, Ralph. You’re not making</div><div>much sense.”</div><div>Cottle closed his eyes and grimaced, as if he could see what he now</div><div>described. “It’s a two-quart jar, maybe bigger, with a wide-mouth lid. He</div><div>changes the formaldehyde regularly to keep it from clouding.”</div><div>Beyond the porch, the sky was crystalline. High in the clear light, a lone</div><div>hawk circled, as clean as a shadow.</div><div>“The face tends to fold into itself,” Cottle continued, “so you don’t at first</div><div>see a face. It’s like something from the sea, clenched yet billowy. So he gently</div><div>shakes the jar, gently swirls the contents, and the face… it blossoms.”</div><div>The grass is sweet and green across the lawn, then taller and golden where</div><div>nature alone tends to it. The two grasses produce distinct fragrances, each crisp</div><div>and pleasant in its own way.</div><div>“You recognize an ear first,” said Ralph Cottle. “The ears are attached, and</div><div>the cartilage gives them shape. There’s cartilage in the nose, too, but it hasn’t</div><div>held its shape very well. The nose is just a lump.”</div><div>From the shining heights, the hawk descended in a narrowing gyre,</div><div>describing silent and harmonious curves.</div><div>“The lips are full, but the mouth is just a hole, and the eyes are holes.</div><div>There’s no hair, ‘cause he cut only from one ear to the other, from the top of</div><div>the brow to the bottom of the chin. You can’t tell it’s a woman’s face, and not a</div><div>man’s. He says she was beautiful, but there’s no beauty in the jar.”</div><div>Billy said, “It’s just a mask, latex, a trick.”</div><div>“Oh, it’s real. It’s as real as terminal cancer. He says it was the second act</div><div>in one of his best performances.”</div><div>“Performances?”</div><div>98</div><div>“He has four photos of her face. In the first, she’s alive. Then dead. In the</div><div>third, the face is partly peeled back. In the fourth, her head is there, her hair,</div><div>but the soft tissue of her face is gone, nothing but bone, the grinning skull.”</div><div>From graceful gyre to sudden plunge, the hawk knifed toward the tall</div><div>grass.</div><div>The pint told Ralph Cottle that he needed fortification, and he drank a new</div><div>foundation for his crumbling courage.</div><div>Following a fumy exhalation, he said, “The first photo, when she was</div><div>alive, maybe she was pretty like he says. You can’t tell because… she’s all</div><div>terror. She’s ugly with terror.”</div><div>The tall grass, previously motionless in the fixative heat, stirred briefly in a</div><div>single place, where feathers thrashed the stalks.</div><div>“The face in that first picture,” Cottle said, “is worse than the one in the</div><div>jar. It’s a lot worse.”</div><div>The hawk burst from the grass and soared. Its talons clutched something</div><div>small, perhaps a field mouse, which struggled in terror, or didn’t. At this</div><div>distance, you couldn’t be sure.</div><div>Cottle’s voice was a file rasping on ancient wood. “If I don’t do exactly</div><div>what he wants me to, he promises to put my face in a jar. And while he</div><div>harvests it, he’ll keep me alive, and conscious.”</div><div>In the bright pellucid sky, the rising hawk was as black and clean as a</div><div>shadow once more. Its wings cleaved the shining air, and the high thermals</div><div>were the pristine currents of a river through which it swam, and dwindled, and</div><div>vanished, having killed only what it needed to survive.</div><div>99</div><div>Chapter 21</div><div>Rockless in the rocking chair, Ralph Cottle said that he lived in a</div><div>ramshackle cottage by the river. Two rooms and a porch with a view, the place</div><div>had been hammered together in the 1930’s and had been falling apart ever</div><div>since.</div><div>Long ago, unknown rugged individuals had used the cottage for fishing</div><div>vacations. It had no electric service. An outhouse served as the toilet. The only</div><div>running water was what passed in the river.</div><div>“I think mainly it was a place for them to get away from their wives,”</div><div>Cottle said. “A place to drink and get drunk. It still is.”</div><div>A fireplace provided heat and allowed simple cooking. What meals Cottle</div><div>ate were spooned from hot cans.</div><div>100</div><div>Once the property had been privately owned. Now it belonged to the</div><div>county, perhaps seized for back taxes. Like much government land, it was</div><div>poorly managed. No bureaucrats or game wardens had bothered Ralph Cottle</div><div>since the day, eleven years ago, when he had cleaned out the cottage, put down</div><div>his bedroll, and settled in as a squatter.</div><div>No neighbors lived within sight or within shouting distance. The cottage</div><div>was a secluded outpost, which suited Cottle just fine.</div><div>Until 3:45 the previous morning, when he had been prodded awake by a</div><div>visitor in a ski mask: Then what had seemed like cozy privacy had become a</div><div>terrifying isolation.</div><div>Cottle had fallen asleep without extinguishing the oil lamp by which he</div><div>read Western novels and drank himself to sleep. In spite of that light, he hadn’t</div><div>absorbed any useful details about the killer’s appearance. He couldn’t estimate</div><div>the man’s height or weight.</div><div>He claimed the madman’s voice had no memorable characteristics.</div><div>Billy figured Cottle knew more but feared to tell. The anxiety that now</div><div>simmered in his faded blue eyes was as pure and intense, if not as immediate,</div><div>as the terror he described in the photograph of the unknown woman from</div><div>whom the freak had “harvested” a face.</div><div>Judging by the length of his skeletal fingers and the formidable bones in</div><div>his knobby wrists, Cottle had once been equipped to fight back. Now, by his</div><div>own admission, he was weak, not just emotionally and morally, but physically.</div><div>Nevertheless, Billy leaned forward in his chair and tried again to enlist</div><div>him: “Back me up with the police. Help me—”</div><div>“I can’t even help myself, Mr. Wiles.”</div><div>“You must’ve once known how.”</div><div>“I don’t want to remember.”</div><div>“Remember what?”</div><div>“Anything. I told you—I’m weak.”</div><div>“Sounds like you want to be.”</div><div>Raising the pint to his lips, Cottle smiled thinly and, before taking a drink,</div><div>said, “Haven’t you heard—the meek shall inherit the earth.”</div><div>“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”</div><div>Licking his lips, which were badly chapped by the heat and by the</div><div>dehydrating effect of the whiskey, Cottle said, “Why would I?”</div><div>101</div><div>“The meek don’t stand by and watch another man destroyed. The meek</div><div>aren’t the same as cowards. They’re two different breeds.”</div><div>“You can’t insult me into cooperation. I don’t insult. I don’t care. I know</div><div>I’m nothing, and that’s all right with me.”</div><div>“Just because you’ve come here to do what he wants, you won’t be safe</div><div>out there in your cottage.”</div><div>Screwing the cap on the bottle, Cottle said, “Safer than you.”</div><div>“Not at all. You’re a loose end. Listen, the police will give you</div><div>protection.”</div><div>A dry laugh escaped the stewbum. “Is that why you’ve been so quick to</div><div>run to them—for their protection?”</div><div>Billy said nothing.</div><div>Emboldened by Billy’s silence, Cottle found a sharper voice that was less</div><div>mean than smug: “Just like me, you’re nothing, but you don’t know it yet.</div><div>You’re nothing, I’m nothing, we’re all nothing, and as far as I care, if he leaves</div><div>me alone, that psycho shithead can do what he wants to anybody because he’s</div><div>nothing, too.”</div><div>Watching Cottle screw open the pint-bottle cap that he had just screwed</div><div>shut, Billy said, “What if I throw your ass down those stairs and kick you off</div><div>my land? He calls me sometimes just to wear on my nerves. What if when he</div><div>calls I tell him you were drunk, incoherent, I couldn’t understand a thing you</div><div>said?”</div><div>Cottle’s sunburned and blood-fused face could not turn pale, but his small</div><div>purse of a mouth, snugged tight with self-satisfaction after his rant, now</div><div>loosened and poured forth the dull coins of a counterfeit apology. “Mr. Wiles,</div><div>sir, please don’t take offense at my bad mouth. I can’t control what comes out</div><div>of it any more than I can control what I pour into it.”</div><div>“He wanted to be sure you told me about the face in the jar, didn’t he?”</div><div>“Yes, sir.”</div><div>“Why?”</div><div>“I don’t know. He didn’t consult with me, sir. He just put words in my</div><div>mouth to bring to you, and here I am because I want to live.”</div><div>“Why?”</div><div>“Sir?”</div><div>“Look at me, Ralph.”</div><div>102</div><div>Cottle met his eyes.</div><div>Billy said, “Why do you want to live?”</div><div>As though Cottle had never considered it before, the question seemed to</div><div>pin down some fluttering thing in his mind, like a rare moth to a specimen</div><div>board, some ever-restless and ever-contentious and ever-bitter aspect of</div><div>himself that for a moment he seemed at last disposed to consider. Then his eyes</div><div>became evasive, and he clasped both hands, not just one, around the pint of</div><div>whiskey.</div><div>“Why do you want to live?” Billy persisted.</div><div>“What else is there?” Avoiding Billy’s eyes, Cottle raised the bottle in</div><div>both hands, as if it were a chalice. “I could use just a taste,” he said, as though</div><div>asking for permission.</div><div>“Go ahead.”</div><div>He took a small sip, but then at once took another.</div><div>“The freak made you tell me about the face in the jar because he wants that</div><div>image in my head.”</div><div>“If you say so.”</div><div>“It’s about intimidation, about keeping me off balance.”</div><div>“Are you?”</div><div>Instead of answering the question, Billy said, “What else did he send you</div><div>here to tell me?”</div><div>As if getting down to business, Cottle screwed the cap on the bottle again</div><div>and this time returned the pint to his coat pocket. “You’ll have five minutes to</div><div>make a decision.”</div><div>“What decision?”</div><div>“Take off your wristwatch and prop it on the porch railing.”</div><div>“Why?”</div><div>“To count off the five minutes.”</div><div>“I can count them with the watch on my wrist.”</div><div>“Putting it on the railing is a signal to him that the countdown has started.”</div><div>Woods to the north, shadowy and cool in the hot day. Green lawn, then tall</div><div>golden grass, then a few well-crowned oaks, then a couple of houses downslope</div><div>and to the east. To the west lay the county road, trees and fields beyond</div><div>it.</div><div>103</div><div>“He’s watching now?” Billy asked.</div><div>“He promised he would be, Mr. Wiles.”</div><div>“From where?”</div><div>“I don’t know, sir. Just please, please take off your watch and prop it on</div><div>the railing.”</div><div>“And if I won’t?”</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, don’t talk that way.”</div><div>“But if I won’t?” Billy pressed.</div><div>His baritone rasp thinned to a higher register as Cottle said, “I told you,</div><div>he’ll take my face, and me awake when he does. I told you.”</div><div>Billy got up, removed his Timex, and propped it on the railing so that the</div><div>watch face could be seen from both of the rocking chairs.</div><div>As the sun approached the zenith of its arc, it penetrated the landscape and</div><div>melted shadows everywhere but in the woods. The green-cloaked</div><div>conspiratorial trees revealed no secrets.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, you’ve got to sit down.”</div><div>Brightness fell from the air, and a chrome-yellow glare hazed the fields</div><div>and furrows, forcing Billy to squint at numberless places where a man could lie</div><div>in the open, effectively camouflaged by nothing more than spangled sunlight.</div><div>“You won’t spot him,” Cottle said, “and he won’t like it that you’re trying.</div><div>Come back, sit down.”</div><div>Billy remained on his feet at the railing.</div><div>“You’ve wasted half a minute, Mr. Wiles, forty seconds.”</div><div>Billy didn’t move.</div><div>“You don’t know what a box you’re in,” Cottle said anxiously. “You’re</div><div>gonna need every minute he’s given you to think.”</div><div>“So tell me about the box.”</div><div>“You have to be sitting down. For God’s sake, Mr. Wiles.” Cottle wrung</div><div>his voice as a worried old woman might wring her hands. “He wants you</div><div>sitting in the chair.”</div><div>Billy returned to the rocking chair.</div><div>“I just want to be done with this,” Cottle said. “I just want to do what he</div><div>told me and get out of here.”</div><div>104</div><div>“Now you’re the one wasting time.”</div><div>One of the five minutes had passed.</div><div>“All right, okay,” Cottle said. “This is him talking now. You understand?</div><div>This is him.”</div><div>“Get on with it.”</div><div>Cottle nervously licked his lips. He slipped the pint from his coat, not</div><div>seeking a taste at the moment, instead clutching it with both hands, as if it were</div><div>a talisman with the occult power to lift the fog of whiskey that blurred his</div><div>memory, ensuring that he would deliver the message clearly enough to save his</div><div>face from being pickled in a jar.</div><div>“ ‘I will kill someone you know. You will select the target for me from</div><div>people in your life,’” Cottle quoted. “ ‘This is your chance to rid the world of</div><div>some hopeless asshole.’”</div><div>“The twisted sonofabitch,” Billy said, and discovered that both of his</div><div>hands were fisted, with nothing to punch.</div><div>“ ‘If you don’t select the target for me,’” Cottle continued quoting, “ ‘I will</div><div>choose someone in your life to kill. You have five minutes to decide. The</div><div>choice is yours, if you have the balls to make it.’”</div><div>Chapter 22</div><div>The effort to recall the precise wording of the message reduced Ralph</div><div>Cottle to a hive of buzzing nerves. Countless anxieties swarmed through him</div><div>and were glimpsed in his darting eyes, in his twitching face, in his trembling</div><div>hands; Billy could almost hear the thrumming wings of dread.</div><div>While Cottle had recited the freak’s challenge and conditions, with the</div><div>penalty of death hanging over him if he got them wrong, the pint bottle had</div><div>been a talisman with the power to inspire, but now he needed the contents.</div><div>Staring at the wristwatch on the porch railing, Billy said, “I don’t need five</div><div>minutes. Hell, I don’t even need the three that’re left.”</div><div>105</div><div>Without intention, by not going to the police and getting them involved, he</div><div>had already contributed to the death of one person in his life: Lanny Olsen. By</div><div>his inaction, he had spared the mother of two, but he had doomed his friend.</div><div>Lanny himself had been partly if not largely responsible for his own death.</div><div>He had taken the killer’s notes and had destroyed them to save his job and his</div><div>pension, at the cost of his life.</div><div>Nevertheless, some of the blame lay with Billy. He could feel the weight;</div><div>and always would.</div><div>What the freak demanded of him now was something new and more</div><div>terrible than anything heretofore. Not by inaction this time, not by</div><div>inadvertence, but by conscious intent, Billy was expected to mark someone he</div><div>knew for death.</div><div>“I won’t do it,” he said.</div><div>Having guzzled a dram or two, Cottle was sliding the wet mouth of the</div><div>bottle back and forth across his lips, as if he might French kiss it instead of</div><div>drinking any more. Through his nose, he noisily inhaled the rising fumes.</div><div>“If you won’t do it, he will,” said Cottle.</div><div>“Why would I choose? I’m screwed either way, aren’t I?”</div><div>“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. It’s not my business.”</div><div>“The hell it’s not.”</div><div>“It’s not my business,” Cottle insisted. “I’ve got to sit here till you give me</div><div>your decision, then I give it to him, and I’m not a part of it anymore. You’ve</div><div>got just more than two minutes left.”</div><div>“I’m going to the cops.”</div><div>“It’s too late for that.”</div><div>“I’m in shit to my hips,” Billy admitted, “but I’ll only be deeper later.”</div><div>When Billy rose from his rocking chair, Cottle said sharply, “Sit down! If</div><div>you try to leave this porch before I do, you’ll be shot in the head.”</div><div>The stewbum stowed bottles in his pockets, not weapons. Even if Cottle</div><div>had a gun, Billy was confident about taking it from him.</div><div>“Not me,” Cottle said. “Him. How he’s watching us right now is through</div><div>the scope of a high-powered rifle.”</div><div>The gloom of the woods to the north, the dazzle of sun on the slope to the</div><div>east, the rock formations and swales of the fields on the south side of the</div><div>county road…</div><div>106</div><div>“He can just about read our lips,” Cottle said. “It’s the finest marksman’s</div><div>gun, and he’s qualified for it. He can nail you at a thousand yards.”</div><div>“Maybe that’s what I want.”</div><div>“He’s willing to oblige. But he doesn’t think you’re ready. He says you</div><div>will be eventually. In the end, he says, you’ll ask him to kill you. But not yet.”</div><div>Even with his weight of guilt, Billy Wiles suddenly felt like a feather, and</div><div>he feared a sudden wind. He settled into the rocking chair.</div><div>“Why it’s too late to go to the cops,” Cottle said, “is because he planted</div><div>evidence in her place, on her body.”</div><div>The day remained still, but here came the wind. “What evidence?”</div><div>“For one thing, some of your hairs in her fist and under her fingernails.”</div><div>Billy’s mouth felt numb. “How would he get my hairs?”</div><div>“From your shower drain.”</div><div>Before the nightmare had begun, when Giselle Winslow had still been</div><div>alive, the freak had already been in this house.</div><div>The shade on the porch no longer held the summer heat at bay. Billy might</div><div>as well have been standing on blacktop in the sun. “What else besides hairs?”</div><div>“He didn’t say. But it’s nothing the police will tie to you… unless for</div><div>some reason you come under suspicion.”</div><div>“Which he can make happen.”</div><div>“If the cops start thinking maybe they should ask you for a DNA sample,</div><div>you’re finished.”</div><div>Cottle glanced at the wristwatch.</div><div>So did Billy.</div><div>“One minute left,” Cottle advised.</div><div>107</div><div>Chapter 23</div><div>One minute. Billy Wiles stared at his wristwatch as if it were a bomb clock</div><div>counting down to detonation.</div><div>He wasn’t thinking about the fleeting seconds or the evidence planted at</div><div>the scene of Giselle Winslow’s murder, or about being in the sights of a highpowered</div><div>rifle.</div><div>Instead, he was composing a mental directory of people in his life. Faces</div><div>flickered rapidly through his mind. Those he liked. Those toward whom he was</div><div>indifferent. Those he disliked.</div><div>108</div><div>These were dark shoals. He could founder on them. Yet turning his mind</div><div>away from such thoughts proved as difficult as ignoring a knife held to his</div><div>throat.</div><div>A knife of another kind, a knife of guilt cut him loose from these</div><div>considerations at last. Realizing how seriously he had been calculating the</div><div>comparative value of the people in his life, assessing which of them had a</div><div>lesser right to life than others, he could not repress a shudder of disgust.</div><div>“No,” he said, seconds before his time ran out. “No, I’ll never choose. He</div><div>can go to Hell.”</div><div>“Then he’ll choose for you,” Cottle reminded Billy.</div><div>“He can go to Hell.”</div><div>“All right. It’s your call. It’s on your shoulders, Mr. Wiles. It’s none of my</div><div>business.”</div><div>“Now what?”</div><div>“You stay in the chair, sir, right where you are. I’m supposed to go inside</div><div>to the kitchen phone, wait for his call, and tell him your decision.”</div><div>“I’ll go inside,” Billy said. “I’ll take the call.”</div><div>“You’re making me crazy,” Cottle said, “you’re gonna get us both killed.”</div><div>“It’s my house.”</div><div>When he raised the bottle to his mouth, Cottle’s hands shook so badly that</div><div>the glass rattled against his teeth. Whiskey dribbled down his chin.</div><div>Without wiping the spill off his face, he said, “He wants you in that chair.</div><div>You try to go inside, he’ll blow your brains out before you reach the door.”</div><div>“What sense does that make?”</div><div>“Then he’ll blow my brains out, too, because I couldn’t make you listen to</div><div>me.”</div><div>“He won’t,” Billy disagreed, beginning to intuit something of the freak’s</div><div>perspective. “He’s not ready to end it, not this way.”</div><div>“What do you know? You don’t know. You don’t know squat.”</div><div>“He’s got a plan, a purpose, something that might not make sense to you or</div><div>me, but it makes sense to him.”</div><div>“I’m just a useless damn drunk, but even I know you’re full of crap.”</div><div>“He wants to work it all out the way he conceived it,” Billy said more to</div><div>himself than to Cottle, “not just end it in the middle with two head shots.”</div><div>109</div><div>Anxiously surveying the sun-dazzled day beyond the front porch, spraying</div><div>spittle as he spoke, Ralph Cottle said, “You bullheaded sonofabitch, will you</div><div>listen to me! You don’t listen!”</div><div>“I’m listening.”</div><div>“More than anything, he wants things done his way. He doesn’t want to</div><div>talk to you. Get it? Maybe he doesn’t want you to hear his voice.”</div><div>That made sense if the freak was someone whom Billy knew.</div><div>Cottle said, “Or maybe he just doesn’t want to listen to your bullshit any</div><div>more than I do. I don’t know. If you want to answer the phone to show him</div><div>who’s boss, just to piss him off, and he blows your brains out, I don’t give a</div><div>rat’s ass. But then he’ll kill me, too, and you can’t choose for me. You can’t</div><div>choose for me!”</div><div>Billy knew that his instincts were right: The freak wouldn’t shoot them.</div><div>“Your five minutes are up,” Cottle said worriedly, gesturing toward the</div><div>watch on the railing. “Six minutes. You’re past six minutes. He won’t like</div><div>this.”</div><div>In truth, Billy didn’t know the freak would hold his fire. He suspected that</div><div>would be the case, intuited it, but he didn’t know.</div><div>“Your time is up. Going on seven minutes. Seven minutes. He expects me</div><div>to leave the porch, go inside.”</div><div>Cottle’s faded blue eyes were boiled in fear. He had so little to live for, yet</div><div>he was desperate to live. What else is there? he had said.</div><div>“Go,” Billy told him.</div><div>“What?”</div><div>“Go inside. Go to the phone.”</div><div>Bolting up from his rocking chair, Cottle dropped the open pint. Several</div><div>ounces of whiskey spilled from the uncapped mouth.</div><div>Cottle didn’t stoop to retrieve his treasure. In fact, in his haste to get to the</div><div>front door, he kicked the bottle and sent it spinning across the porch floor.</div><div>At the threshold to the house, he looked back and said, “I’m not sure how</div><div>quick he’ll call.”</div><div>“You just remember every word he says,” Billy instructed. “You</div><div>remember every word exactly.”</div><div>“All right, sir. I will.”</div><div>110</div><div>“And every inflection. You remember every word and how he says it, and</div><div>you come tell me.”</div><div>“I will, Mr. Wiles. Every word,” Cottle promised, and he went into the</div><div>house.</div><div>Billy remained alone on the porch. Perhaps still in the crosshairs of a</div><div>telescopic sight.</div><div>Chapter 24</div><div>Three butterflies, aerial geishas, danced out of the sunshine, into the porch</div><div>shadows. Their silken kimonos flaring and folding and flaring in graceful</div><div>swirls of color, as bashful as faces hidden behind the pleats of hand-painted</div><div>fans, they fled, quick, into the brightness from which they had come.</div><div>Performance.</div><div>Perhaps this was the word that defined the killer, that would lead to an</div><div>explanation of his actions, and that if understood would reveal his Achilles’</div><div>heel.</div><div>111</div><div>According to Ralph Cottle, the freak had referred to the murder of a</div><div>woman and to the peeling away of her face as “the second act” in one of his</div><div>“best performances.”</div><div>In assuming that the psychopath considered murder to be largely a thrilling</div><div>game, Billy had been wrong. Sport might be part of it, but this man wasn’t</div><div>entirely or even primarily motivated by a perverse sense of fun.</div><div>Billy didn’t quite know what to make of the word performance. Maybe to</div><div>his nemesis, the world was a stage, reality was a fraud, and all was artifice.</div><div>How that view could explain this homicidal behavior—or predict it—Billy</div><div>didn’t know, couldn’t guess. Nemesis represented wrong thinking. A nemesis</div><div>was an enemy who could not be defeated. The better word was adversary. Billy</div><div>had not given up hope.</div><div>With the front door standing open, the ring of the telephone would carry to</div><div>the front porch. He had not heard it yet.</div><div>Lazily rocking the chair, not to make a harder target of himself, but to</div><div>disguise his anxiety and thus rob the killer of the chance to take any</div><div>satisfaction from it, Billy studied the nearest California live oak and then the</div><div>next to the nearest.</div><div>They were huge old trees with broad canopies. Their trunks and branches</div><div>looked black in the bright sun.</div><div>In those shadowy arbors, a sniper might find a crook of branches to serve</div><div>as a platform to accommodate him and a tripod for his rifle.</div><div>The two nearest houses down-slope, one on this side of the road, one on</div><div>the farther side, were well within the thousand-yard range. If nobody had been</div><div>home, the freak could have broken into one of those places; he might now be at</div><div>an upstairs window. Performance.</div><div>Billy was not able to think of any person in his life to whom that word had</div><div>greater relevance than it did to Steve Zillis. The tavern was a stage to Steve.</div><div>Was it logical, however, that the freak, a vicious serial killer with a taste</div><div>for mutilation, would have a sense of humor so simple and a concept of theater</div><div>so puerile that he got a kick out of nose-shot peanuts, tongue-tied cherry stems,</div><div>and jokes about dumb blondes?</div><div>Repeatedly Billy glanced at the wristwatch on the porch railing.</div><div>Three minutes was a reasonable wait, even four. But when five passed,</div><div>that seemed to be too many.</div><div>112</div><div>He started to get up from the chair, but he heard Cottle’s voice in</div><div>memory—You can’t choose for me!—and a weight of responsibility pressed</div><div>him back into the rocker.</div><div>Because Billy had kept Cottle on the porch past the five-minute deadline,</div><div>the freak might be playing payback, making them wait so their nerves would</div><div>fray a little, to teach them not to screw with the big dog.</div><div>That thought comforted Billy for a minute. Then a more ominous</div><div>possibility occurred to him.</div><div>When Cottle hadn’t gone into the house promptly at the five-minute mark,</div><div>when Billy had delayed two or three minutes, maybe the killer had taken the</div><div>lack of punctuality to mean that Billy refused to choose a victim, which was</div><div>indeed the case.</div><div>Having made that assumption, the freak might have decided that he had no</div><div>reason to call Ralph Cottle. At that moment he could have picked up his rifle</div><div>and walked out of the woods or away from one of the houses down-slope.</div><div>If he’d selected a victim in advance of hearing Billy’s answer, which</div><div>surely he had done, he might be eager to get on with his plans.</div><div>One of the people in Billy’s life, the most important person, was of course</div><div>Barbara, helpless in Whispering Pines.</div><div>Independent of any experience or knowledge that would justify his</div><div>confidence, Billy sensed that this bizarre drama was still in the first act of</div><div>three. His wretched antagonist was far from ready to conclude this</div><div>performance; therefore, Barbara was not in imminent jeopardy.</div><div>If the freak knew anything about the subject of his torment—and he</div><div>seemed to know a lot—he would realize that Barbara’s death would instantly</div><div>take all the fight out of Billy. Resistance was essential to drama. Conflict.</div><div>Without Billy, there would be no act two.</div><div>He must take steps to protect Barbara. But he needed to think hard about</div><div>how, and he had time to do so.</div><div>If he was wrong about that, if Barbara was next, then this world was about</div><div>to become a brief and bitter purgatory before he quickly moved on to a room in</div><div>Hell.</div><div>Seven minutes had passed since Cottle had gone inside, seven and</div><div>counting.</div><div>Billy got up from the rocker. His legs felt weak. He pulled the revolver</div><div>from the box of Ritz crackers. He didn’t care if the drunkard saw it.</div><div>113</div><div>At the threshold of the open door, he called out, “Cottle?” and received no</div><div>reply, and said, “Cottle, damn it.”</div><div>He went into the house, crossed the living room, and stepped into the</div><div>kitchen.</div><div>Ralph Cottle wasn’t there. The back door stood open, and Billy knew that</div><div>he had left it closed, locked.</div><div>He went out onto the back porch. Cottle wasn’t there, either, nor was he in</div><div>the yard. He had gone.</div><div>The phone hadn’t rung, yet Cottle had gone. Maybe when the call hadn’t</div><div>come in, Cottle had taken the silence to be a sign that the killer judged him a</div><div>failure. He could have panicked and fled.</div><div>Returning to the house, closing the door behind himself, Billy swept the</div><div>kitchen with his gaze, looking for something amiss. He had no idea what that</div><div>might be.</div><div>Everything seemed to be as it had been, as it should be. Uncertainty gave</div><div>way to misgiving, however, and misgiving became suspicion. Cottle must have</div><div>taken something, brought something, done something.</div><div>From the kitchen to the living room, to the study, Billy found nothing out</div><div>of the ordinary, but in the bathroom he discovered Ralph Cottle. Dead.</div><div>Chapter 25</div><div>Hard fluorescent light painted a film of faux frost on Cottle’s open eyes.</div><div>Having passed on rather than out, the drunk sat on the lidded seat of the</div><div>toilet, leaning against the tank, head tipped back, mouth slack. Yellow rotten</div><div>teeth framed a tongue that appeared milky pink and vaguely fissured from the</div><div>dehydration of perpetual inebriation.</div><div>Billy stood breathless, stunned stupid, then backed out of the bathroom</div><div>into the hall, staring at the corpse through the doorway.</div><div>114</div><div>He didn’t retreat because of any stench. Cottle had not voided bowels or</div><div>bladder in his death throes. He remained unkempt but not filthy—the only</div><div>thing about which he had seemed to have any pride.</div><div>Billy just couldn’t breathe in the bathroom, as though all the air had been</div><div>sucked out of that space, as though the dead man had been killed by a sudden</div><div>vacuum that now threatened to suffocate Billy himself.</div><div>In the hallway, he could draw breath again. He could begin to think.</div><div>For the first time, he noticed the handle of the knife, which pinned Cottle’s</div><div>rumpled suit coat to him. A bright-yellow handle.</div><div>The blade had been thrust at an upward angle between the ribs on the left</div><div>side, buried to the hilt. The heart had been pierced, and stopped.</div><div>Billy knew that the embedded blade measured six inches. The yellow knife</div><div>belonged to him. He kept it in his angler’s kit in the garage. It was a fishing</div><div>knife, honed sharp to gut bass and fillet trout.</div><div>The killer had not been in the woods or in a meadow swale, or in a</div><div>neighbor’s house watching them through a telescopic rifle sight. That was a lie,</div><div>and the drunkard had believed it.</div><div>As Cottle had approached the front porch, the freak must have entered by</div><div>the back door. While Billy and his visitor had sat in the rockers, their adversary</div><div>had been in the house, a few feet from them.</div><div>Billy had refused to choose someone in his life to be the next victim. As</div><div>promised, the killer then made the choice with startling swiftness.</div><div>Although Cottle had been the next thing to a stranger, he was undeniably</div><div>in Billy’s life. And now in his house. Dead.</div><div>In less than a day and a half, in just forty-one hours, three people had been</div><div>murdered. Yet this still felt to Billy like act one; perhaps it was the end of act</div><div>one, but his gut instinct told him that significant developments lay ahead.</div><div>At every turn of events, he had done what seemed to be the most sensible</div><div>and cautious thing, especially given his personal history.</div><div>His common sense and caution, however, played into the killer’s hands.</div><div>Hour by hour, Billy Wiles was drifting farther from any safe shore.</div><div>Down in Napa, evidence that might incriminate him had been planted in</div><div>the house where Giselle Winslow had been murdered. Hairs from his shower</div><div>drain. He didn’t know what else.</div><div>115</div><div>No doubt evidence had been salted in Lanny Olsen’s house, as well. For</div><div>one thing, the place marker in the book under Lanny’s dead hand was all but</div><div>certainly a photo of Winslow, linking the crimes.</div><div>Now in his bathroom slumped a corpse from which bristled a knife that</div><div>belonged to him.</div><div>Here in summer, Billy felt as if he were on an icy slope, the bottom</div><div>invisible beyond a cold mist, still on his feet in a wild glissade, but gaining</div><div>speed that, second by second, threatened his balance.</div><div>Initially the discovery of Cottle’s corpse had shocked Billy into mental and</div><div>physical immobility. Now several courses of action occurred to him, and he</div><div>stood hobbled by indecision.</div><div>The worst thing he could do was act precipitately. He needed to think this</div><div>through, attempt to foresee the consequences of each of his options.</div><div>He could afford no more mistakes. His freedom depended on his wits and</div><div>courage. So did his survival.</div><div>Stepping into the bathroom again, he noticed no gore. Maybe this meant</div><div>Cottle hadn’t been killed in the bath.</div><div>Billy hadn’t seen evidence of violence elsewhere in the house, either.</div><div>This realization focused him on the handle of the knife. Around the point</div><div>of penetration, dark blood soaked the lightweight summer suit jacket, but the</div><div>stain wasn’t as large as he would have expected.</div><div>The killer had finished Cottle with a single thrust. He’d known precisely</div><div>where and how to slip the thin blade between the ribs. The heart had stopped</div><div>within a beat or two of being punctured, which minimized the bleeding.</div><div>Cottle’s hands lay in his lap, one upturned and the other cupped against it, as if</div><div>he’d died while applauding his killer. Mostly concealed, something was</div><div>captured between the hands. When Billy pinched a corner of the object and</div><div>pulled it free of the dead man’s grasp, he discovered a computer diskette: red,</div><div>high density, the same brand that he had used in the days when he had worked</div><div>at his computer. He studied the body from different angles. He turned slowly in</div><div>a full circle, surveying the bathroom for any clues the killer might have left</div><div>either intentionally or inadvertently. Sooner than later, he should probably go</div><div>through Cottle’s coat and pants pockets. The diskette gave him an excuse to</div><div>postpone that unpleasant task. In the study, after putting the revolver and the</div><div>diskette on the desk, he removed the vinyl cover from his shrouded computer.</div><div>He had not used the machine in almost four years. Curiously, he had never</div><div>unplugged it. He supposed this might be an unconscious expression of his</div><div>116</div><div>stubborn—if fragile—hope that Barbara Mandel might one day recover. In his</div><div>second year of college, when he realized that not much of what he learned</div><div>there would help him become the writer he wanted to be, he had dropped out.</div><div>He had done manual labor of various kinds, writing diligently in his spare time.</div><div>At twenty-one, he had taken his first bartending job. The work had seemed</div><div>ideal for a writer. He saw story material in every barfly. Patiently developing</div><div>his talent, he sold more than a score of well-received short stories to a variety</div><div>of magazines. When he was twenty-five, a major publisher had wanted to</div><div>collect them in a book. The book sold modestly but earned critical praise,</div><div>suggesting that bartending would not forever be his primary occupation.</div><div>When Barbara came into Billy’s life, she provided not merely</div><div>encouragement but also inspiration. Just by knowing her, by loving her, he</div><div>found a truer and clearer voice in his prose.</div><div>He wrote his first novel, and his publisher responded to it with excitement.</div><div>The revisions suggested by the editor were minor, a month’s work.</div><div>Then he lost Barbara to the coma.</div><div>The truer and clearer voice in his prose had not been lost with her. He</div><div>could still write.</div><div>The desire to write, however, slipped away from him, and the will to write,</div><div>and all interest in storytelling. He no longer wanted to explore the human</div><div>condition in fiction, for he had too much hard experience of it in reality.</div><div>For two years, his publisher and editor were patient. But the month’s work</div><div>on his manuscript had become to him more than a lifetime of labor. He could</div><div>not do it. He repaid the advance and canceled the contract.</div><div>Switching on this computer, even just to review what the killer had left in</div><div>Ralph Cottle’s hands, felt like a betrayal of Barbara, although she would have</div><div>disapproved of—even mocked—such thinking.</div><div>He was a little surprised when the machine, so long unused, at once came</div><div>to life. The screen brightened, and the operating-system logo appeared as the</div><div>simulated harp strings of the signature music issued from the speakers.</div><div>The computer might have been used more recently than he thought. The</div><div>fact that the diskette was the same brand as the unused diskettes in one of his</div><div>desk drawers suggested that it was in fact one of his and that the freak had</div><div>composed his latest message at this keyboard.</div><div>Oddly enough, he was creeped out by this realization even more than he</div><div>had been when he’d found the corpse in his bathroom.</div><div>117</div><div>Long unseen yet familiar, the software menu appeared. Because he had</div><div>written his fiction in Microsoft Word, he tried it first.</div><div>That choice proved correct. The killer had written his message in Word, as</div><div>well; and it loaded at once.</div><div>The diskette contained three documents. Before Billy could review the</div><div>text, the telephone rang.</div><div>He figured it must be the freak.</div><div>Chapter 26</div><div>Billy picked up the phone. “Hello?”</div><div>Not the freak. A woman said, “To whom am I speaking?”</div><div>“To whom am I speaking? You called me.”</div><div>“Billy, that sounds like you. This is Rosalyn Chan.”</div><div>118</div><div>Rosalyn was a friend of Lanny Olsen. She worked for the Napa County</div><div>Sheriff’s Department. She came into the tavern now and then.</div><div>Before Billy had been able to decide what to do about Lanny’s body, it</div><div>must have been found.</div><div>The instant that he realized he hadn’t responded to her, Rosalyn said</div><div>probingly, “Are you all right?”</div><div>“Me? I’m fine. Doin’ okay. This heat’s making me crazy, though.”</div><div>“Is something wrong there?”</div><div>He flashed on a mental image of Cottle’s corpse in the bathroom, and guilt</div><div>rolled his mind into angles of disorientation. “Wrong? No. Why would there</div><div>be?”</div><div>“Did you just call here and hang up without saying anything?” Clouds of</div><div>mystification thickened for a moment, then abruptly evaporated. For a moment</div><div>he had forgotten what Rosalyn did in the sheriff’s department. She was a 911</div><div>operator.</div><div>The name and address of every 911 caller appeared on her monitor as soon</div><div>as she picked up the phone at her end.</div><div>“That was just—what?—was that even a minute ago?” he asked, thinking</div><div>fast, or trying to.</div><div>“A minute ten now,” Rosalyn said. “Did you—”</div><div>“What I did,” he said, “is I keyed in 911 when I meant to call</div><div>information.”</div><div>“You meant to call 411?”</div><div>“I meant to call 411, but I pressed 911. I realized right away what I’d done,</div><div>so I hung up.”</div><div>The freak was still in the house. The freak had called 911. Why he had</div><div>done this, what he hoped to achieve, Billy couldn’t figure, at least not under</div><div>this pressure.</div><div>“Why didn’t you stay on the line,” Rosalyn Chan asked, “and tell me the</div><div>call was made in error?”</div><div>“I realized my mistake right away, I hung up so fast, I didn’t think a</div><div>connection had been made yet. That was stupid. I’m sorry, Rosalyn. I was</div><div>calling 411.”</div><div>“So you’re all right?”</div><div>“I’m all right. It’s just this crazy heat.”</div><div>119</div><div>“Don’t you have air conditioning?”</div><div>“I have it, but it conked out.”</div><div>“That sucks.”</div><div>“Totally.”</div><div>The revolver lay on the desk. Billy picked it up. The freak was in the</div><div>house.</div><div>“Hey, maybe I’ll stop in the tavern around five,” she said.</div><div>“Well, I won’t be there. I’m feeling sort of punky, so I called in sick.”</div><div>“I thought you said you were fine.”</div><div>So easy to trip himself up. He needed to look for the intruder, but he</div><div>needed to sound right to Rosalyn.</div><div>“I am fine. I’m okay. Nothing serious. Just a little stomach thing. Maybe</div><div>it’s a summer cold. I’m taking that nasal gel stuff.”</div><div>“What stuff?”</div><div>“You know, that zinc gel, you squeeze it up your nose, it knocks the cold</div><div>right out of you.”</div><div>She said, “I think I heard about that.”</div><div>“It’s good. It works. Jackie O’Hara put me on to it. You should keep some</div><div>on hand.”</div><div>“So everything’s okay there?” she asked.</div><div>“Except for the heat and me feeling punky, but you can’t do much about</div><div>that. Nine-one-one can’t fix a cold or an air conditioner. I’m sorry, Rosalyn. I</div><div>feel like an idiot.”</div><div>“It’s no big deal. Half the calls we get aren’t emergencies.”</div><div>“They aren’t?”</div><div>“People call, their cat’s in a tree, the neighbors are having a noisy party,</div><div>things like that.”</div><div>“That makes me feel better. At least I’m not the biggest idiot on the</div><div>block.”</div><div>“Just take care of yourself, Billy.”</div><div>“I will. You too. You take care of yourself.”</div><div>“Bye,” she said.</div><div>He put down the phone and rose from his chair.</div><div>120</div><div>While Billy had been in the bathroom with the corpse, the freak had come</div><div>back into the house. Or maybe he had already been inside, hiding in a closet or</div><div>somewhere that Billy hadn’t checked.</div><div>The guy had balls. Big brass ones. He knew about the .38, but he came</div><div>back into the house and he called 911 while Billy was taking the vinyl cover</div><div>off the computer.</div><div>The freak might still be here. Doing what? Doing something.</div><div>Billy crossed the study to the door, which he had left open. He went</div><div>through fast, two hands on the revolver, sweeping it left, then right.</div><div>The freak wasn’t in the hall. He was somewhere.</div><div>Chapter 27</div><div>Although Billy Wiles wasn’t wearing his wristwatch, he knew that time</div><div>was running out as fast as water through a sieve.</div><div>In the bedroom, he slid aside one of the closet doors. No one.</div><div>The space under the bed was too tight. No one would choose to hide under</div><div>there because squirming out quickly wasn’t possible; that hiding place would</div><div>be a trap. Besides, no overhanging spread curtained that low space.</div><div>121</div><div>Looking under the bed would be a waste of time. Billy started toward the</div><div>door. He returned to the bed, dropped to one knee. A waste.</div><div>The freak was gone. He was crazy, but he wasn’t crazy enough to stay here</div><div>after calling 911 and hanging up on them.</div><div>In the hallway again, Billy hurried to the threshold of the bathroom. Cottle</div><div>sat alone in there.</div><div>The shower curtain was drawn open. If it had been drawn shut, it would</div><div>have been a prime place to look.</div><div>A large hall closet housed the oil-fired furnace. It offered no options.</div><div>The living room. An open space, easy to search with a sweep of the eyes.</div><div>The kitchen cabinetry featured a tall, narrow broom closet. No good.</div><div>He tore open the door to the walk-in pantry. Canned goods, boxes of pasta,</div><div>bottles of hot sauce, household supplies. Nowhere to hide a grown man.</div><div>In the living room again, he shoved the revolver deep under a sofa</div><div>cushion. It didn’t leave a visible lump, but anyone who sat on the gun would</div><div>feel it.</div><div>He had left the front door standing open. An invitation. Before hastening</div><div>once more to the bathroom, he closed the door.</div><div>Cottle with his head tipped back and his mouth open, with his hands</div><div>together in his lap as if clapping, might have been singing Western swing and</div><div>keeping time.</div><div>The knife sawed against bone as Billy pulled it out of the wound. Blood</div><div>smeared the blade.</div><div>With a few Kleenex plucked from a box beside the sink, he wiped the</div><div>knife clean. He balled up the tissues and put them on top of the toilet tank.</div><div>He folded the blade into the yellow handle and put the knife beside the</div><div>sink.</div><div>When Billy shifted the corpse sideways on the toilet, the head fell forward,</div><div>and a gaseous sputter escaped the lips, as if Cottle had died on an inhalation, as</div><div>if his last breath, until now, had been trapped in his throat.</div><div>He hooked his arms under the dead man’s arms. Trying to avoid the bloodsoaked</div><div>part of the suit coat, Billy hauled him off the toilet.</div><div>Worn thin by a diet of spirits, Cottle weighed hardly more than an</div><div>adolescent. Carrying him would be too difficult, however, because he was</div><div>gangly, spindle-legged.</div><div>122</div><div>Fortunately, rigor mortis had not begun to set in. Cottle was limp, flexible.</div><div>Shuffling backward, Billy dragged the body out of the bathroom. The</div><div>heels of the dead man’s sneakers squeaked and stuttered along the ceramic-tile</div><div>floor.</div><div>They protested against the polished Santos-mahogany floors of the hall</div><div>and study, too, all the way around behind the desk, where he lowered the</div><div>corpse to the hardwood.</div><div>Billy heard himself breathing hard, not so much from exertion as from</div><div>high anxiety.</div><div>Time rushed away, rushed like a river over a falls.</div><div>After rolling the office chair aside, he shoved the corpse into the knee</div><div>space. He had to bend the legs to make the dead man fit.</div><div>He swung the chair in front of the computer again. He pushed it as far into</div><div>the knee space as possible.</div><div>The desk was deep and had a privacy panel on the front. Anyone who</div><div>came into the room would have to walk all the way behind the work station and</div><div>peer purposefully into the kneehole to see the cadaver.</div><div>Even then, because of the chair and depending on the angle of view, a</div><div>casual look might not reveal this grisly secret.</div><div>Shadows would be helpful. Billy switched off the overhead light. He left</div><div>only the desk lamp aglow.</div><div>In the bathroom once more, he saw a smear of blood on the floor. None</div><div>had been there before he’d moved Cottle.</div><div>His heart was a kicking horse battering the board walls of his chest.</div><div>One mistake. If he made one mistake here, it would finish him.</div><div>His time perception was whacked. He knew that only a few minutes had</div><div>passed since he’d set out to search the house, but he felt as if ten minutes had</div><div>fled, fifteen.</div><div>He wished that he had his wristwatch. He didn’t dare take the time to</div><div>retrieve it from the front-porch railing.</div><div>With a wad of toilet paper, he wiped the blood off the floor. The tiles came</div><div>clean, but a faint discoloration remained in a section of grout. It looked like</div><div>rust, not like blood. That’s what he wanted to believe.</div><div>Into the toilet he dropped the wad of paper as well as the Kleenex with</div><div>which he had swabbed the blade of the knife. He flushed them away.</div><div>123</div><div>The murder weapon lay on the counter beside the sink. He buried it at the</div><div>back of a vanity drawer, behind bottles of shaving lotion and suntan oil.</div><div>When he slammed the drawer shut so hastily, so hard, that it banged like a</div><div>gunshot, he knew he needed to get a tighter grip on himself. Teach us to care</div><div>and not to care. Teach us to sit still.</div><div>He would remain calmer if he remembered his true purpose. His true</div><div>purpose was not the endless cycle of idea and action, was not the preservation</div><div>of his freedom or even his life. He must live that she could live, helpless but</div><div>safe, helpless and sleeping and dreaming but subjected to no indignity, no evil.</div><div>He was a shallow man. He had often proved that truth to himself.</div><div>In the face of suffering, he had not possessed the strength of will to pursue</div><div>his gift for the written word. He rejected the gift not just once but a damning</div><div>number of times, for gifts conferred by the power that had conferred this one</div><div>are perpetually offered and can come to nothing only if they are perpetually</div><div>rejected.</div><div>In his suffering, he had been humbled by the limitations of language,</div><div>which he should have been. He had also been defeated by the limitations of</div><div>language, which he should not have been.</div><div>He was a shallow man. He did not have within him the capacity to care</div><div>deeply about multitudes, to accept every neighbor into his heart without</div><div>qualification. The power of compassion was in him merely an ability, and its</div><div>potentiality seemed to be fulfilled by caring for one woman.</div><div>Because of this shallowness, he believed himself to be a weak man,</div><div>perhaps not as weak as Ralph Cottle, but not strong. He had been chilled but</div><div>never surprised when the stewbum had said I see the way you’re a little like</div><div>me.</div><div>The sleeper, safe and dreaming, was his true purpose and also his only</div><div>hope of redemption. For that, he must care and not care; he must be still.</div><div>Calmer than when he had slammed the drawer, Billy reviewed the</div><div>bathroom one more time. He saw no evidence of the crime.</div><div>Time was still a river rushing, a spinning wheel.</div><div>Hurriedly but thoroughly, he retraced the route along which he had</div><div>dragged the dead man, searching for additional smears of blood like the one in</div><div>the bathroom. He discovered none.</div><div>124</div><div>Doubting himself, he quickly toured the bedroom, living room, and</div><div>kitchen once more. He tried to see everything through the eyes of suspicious</div><div>authority.</div><div>Only the situation on the front porch remained to be set right. He had left</div><div>that task for last because it was less urgent than the need to conceal the corpse.</div><div>In case he didn’t have time to address the porch, he took from a kitchen</div><div>cabinet the bottle of bourbon with which he had spiked his Guinness stout on</div><div>Monday night. He swigged directly from the bottle.</div><div>Instead of swallowing, he swished the whiskey between his teeth, around</div><div>his mouth, as if it were mouthwash. The longer he held the alcohol, the more it</div><div>burned his gums, tongue, cheeks.</div><div>He spat it in the sink before he remembered to gargle.</div><div>He rinsed his mouth with another swig but also let it churn in his throat for</div><div>several seconds.</div><div>With a wheeze but not a choke, he spat this second mouthful in the sink</div><div>just as the expected knock came at the front door, loud and protracted.</div><div>Perhaps four minutes had passed since he’d hung up the phone after his</div><div>conversation with Rosalyn Chan. Maybe five. It felt like an hour; it felt like ten</div><div>seconds.</div><div>As the knock sounded, Billy turned on the cold water to wash the reek of</div><div>booze out of the sink. He left it streaming.</div><div>In the quiet after the knock, he capped the bourbon and returned it to the</div><div>cabinet.</div><div>At the sink once more, he cranked off the water as the knocking came</div><div>again.</div><div>Answering at once on the first knock might have made him seem anxious.</div><div>Waiting for a third might make it appear as though he had considered not</div><div>answering at all.</div><div>Crossing the living room, he thought to examine his hands. He did not see</div><div>any blood.</div><div>125</div><div>Chapter 28</div><div>When Billy Wiles opened the front door, he found a sheriff’s deputy</div><div>standing three cautious steps from the threshold and to one side. The cop’s</div><div>right hand rested on the pistol in the swivel holster at his hip, rested there not</div><div>as if he were prepared to draw it, but as casually as anyone might stand with a</div><div>hand on his hip.</div><div>Billy had hoped that he would know him. He didn’t.</div><div>126</div><div>The officer’s badge featured a nameplate: Sgt. V. Napolitino.</div><div>At forty-six, Lanny Olsen had held the same rank—deputy—at which he</div><div>had entered service as a younger man.</div><div>In his early twenties, V. Napolitino had already been promoted to sergeant.</div><div>He had the well-scrubbed, clear-eyed, intelligent, and diligent look of a man</div><div>who would make lieutenant by twenty-five, captain by thirty, commander by</div><div>thirty-five, and chief before forty.</div><div>Billy’s preference would have been a fat, rumpled, weary, and cynical</div><div>specimen. Maybe this was one of those days when you should stay away from</div><div>roulette because every bet on black would ensure a red number.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles?”</div><div>“Yeah. That’s me.”</div><div>“William Wiles?”</div><div>“Billy, yes.”</div><div>Sergeant Napolitino shifted his attention back and forth between Billy and</div><div>the living room behind him.</div><div>The sergeant’s face remained expressionless. His eyes revealed neither</div><div>apprehension nor even disquiet, nor as much as wariness, but were only</div><div>watchful.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, would you mind stepping out to my car with me?”</div><div>The sheriffs-department cruiser stood in the driveway.</div><div>“You want to come in?” Billy asked.</div><div>“Not necessarily, sir. Just to the car for a minute or two, if you don’t</div><div>mind.”</div><div>This almost sounded like a request, but it wasn’t.</div><div>“Sure,” Billy said. “All right.”</div><div>A second patrol car pulled off the county blacktop, into the driveway, and</div><div>halted ten feet behind the first.</div><div>As Billy reached for the knob to pull the front door shut after him,</div><div>Sergeant Napolitino said, “Why don’t you leave it open, sir.”</div><div>The deputy’s tone of voice did not signify either a question or a</div><div>suggestion. Billy left the door open.</div><div>Napolitino clearly expected him to lead the way.</div><div>Billy stepped over the pint bottle, past the spilled Seagram’s.</div><div>127</div><div>Although the puddle was at least fifteen minutes old, less than half of it</div><div>had evaporated in the heat. In the still air, the porch stank of whiskey.</div><div>Billy went down the steps and onto the lawn. He didn’t pretend to be</div><div>unsteady. He wasn’t a good enough actor to play drunk, and any attempt to do</div><div>so would call his sincerity into doubt.</div><div>He intended to rely on his potent breath to suggest functional inebriation</div><div>and to give credence to the story that he intended to tell.</div><div>As a deputy got out of the second patrol car, Billy recognized him. Sam</div><div>Sobieski. He also was a sergeant, and perhaps five years older than Sergeant</div><div>Napolitino.</div><div>Sobieski visited the tavern once in a while, usually with a date. He came</div><div>for the bar food more than to drink, and two beers were his limit.</div><div>Billy didn’t know him well. They weren’t friends, but knowing him at all</div><div>was better than dealing with two strangers.</div><div>On the front lawn, Billy turned to look back at the house.</div><div>Napolitino was still on the porch. He managed to cross to the steps and</div><div>begin to descend without fully turning his back on either the open door or the</div><div>windows, yet appearing unconcerned all the while.</div><div>Now he took the lead and brought Billy around the patrol car, putting it</div><div>between them and the house.</div><div>Sergeant Sobieski joined them. “Hi, Billy.”</div><div>“Sergeant Sobieski. How’re you doin’?”</div><div>Everybody called a bartender by his first name. In some cases, you knew</div><div>familiarity was expected in return; in this case not.</div><div>“Yesterday was chili day, and I forgot,” said Sobieski.</div><div>Billy said, “Ben makes the best chili.”</div><div>“Ben is a chili god,” Sobieski said.</div><div>The car was a lodestone to the sun, scorching the air around it and no</div><div>doubt blistering to the touch.</div><div>First on the scene, Napolitino took charge: “Mr. Wiles, are you all right?”</div><div>“Sure. I’m okay. This is about my screw-up, I guess.”</div><div>“You called 911,” Napolitino said.</div><div>“I meant to call 411.1 told Rosalyn Chan.”</div><div>“You didn’t tell her until she called you back.”</div><div>128</div><div>“I hung up so fast I didn’t realize a connection had been made.”</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, are you to any degree under duress?”</div><div>“Duress? Hey, no. You mean was somebody holding a gun to my head</div><div>when I was on the phone with Rosalyn? Wow. That’s a pretty wild idea. No</div><div>offense, I know that sort of thing happens, but not to me.”</div><div>Billy cautioned himself to give short answers. Longer ones could sound</div><div>like nervous babbling.</div><div>“You called in sick to work?” Napolitino asked.</div><div>“Yeah.” Grimacing but not too dramatically, he put one hand on his</div><div>abdomen. “I’ve got this stomach thing.”</div><div>He hoped they could smell his breath. He himself could smell it. If they</div><div>could smell his breath, they would think his claim of illness was a lame attempt</div><div>to conceal the fact that he was on a little bit of a bender.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, who else lives here?”</div><div>“No one. Just me. I live alone.”</div><div>“Is anyone in the house right now?”</div><div>“No. No one.”</div><div>“No friend or member of the family?”</div><div>“No. Not even a dog. Sometimes I think about getting a dog, but I never</div><div>do.”</div><div>Scalpels were not sharper than Sergeant Napolitino’s dark eyes. “Sir, if</div><div>there’s a bad guy in there—”</div><div>“No bad guy,” Billy assured him.</div><div>“If someone you care about is being held in there under duress, the best</div><div>thing you could do is tell me.”</div><div>“Of course. I know that. Who wouldn’t know that?”</div><div>The intense heat coming off the sun-hammered car made Billy half sick.</div><div>His face felt seared. Neither of the sergeants appeared to be bothered by the</div><div>broiling air.</div><div>“Under stress, intimidated,” Sobieski said, “people make bad decisions,</div><div>Billy.”</div><div>“Sweet Jesus,” Billy said, “I really made an ass of myself this time,</div><div>hanging up on 911, then what I said to Rosalyn.”</div><div>“What did you say to her?” Napolitino asked.</div><div>129</div><div>Billy was certain they knew the essentials of what he had said, and he</div><div>himself remembered every word with piercing clarity, but he hoped to</div><div>convince them that he was too booze-confused to recall quite how he had</div><div>gotten himself in this predicament.</div><div>“Whatever I said, it must have been stupid if I gave her the idea somebody</div><div>might be giving me trouble. Duress. Man. This is way embarrassing.”</div><div>He shook his head at his foolishness, found a dry laugh, and shook his</div><div>head again.</div><div>The sergeants just watched him.</div><div>“No one’s here but me. No one’s come around here in days. No one’s ever</div><div>here but me. I pretty much keep to myself, it’s the way I am.”</div><div>That was enough. He was perilously close to babbling again.</div><div>If they knew about Barbara, they knew how he was. If they didn’t know</div><div>about her, Rosalyn would tell them.</div><div>He had taken a risk by saying that nobody had visited in days. Rightly or</div><div>wrongly, he’d felt that he should make a point of his reclusive life.</div><div>If someone in the nearest houses down-slope had seen Ralph Cottle</div><div>walking up this driveway or had noticed him sitting on the porch, and if the</div><div>sergeants decided to have a word with the neighbors, Billy would be caught in</div><div>a lie.</div><div>“What happened to your forehead?” Napolitino asked.</div><div>Until that moment, Billy had forgotten about the hook wounds in his brow,</div><div>but a low throbbing pain arose in them when the sergeant asked the question.</div><div>Chapter 29</div><div>“Isn’t that a bandage?” Sergeant Napolitino persisted.</div><div>Although Billy’s thick hair fell over his forehead, it did not entirely</div><div>conceal the gauze pads and adhesive tape.</div><div>“I had a little table—saw accident,” Billy said, pleasantly surprised by the</div><div>swiftness with which a suitable lie occurred to him.</div><div>“Sounds serious,” Sergeant Sobieski said.</div><div>130</div><div>“It’s not. It’s nothing. I have a woodworking shop in the garage. I built all</div><div>the cabinetry in the house. Last night, I was working on something, cutting a</div><div>walnut one-by-six, and there was a knot in it. The blade cracked the knot, and a</div><div>few splinters shot into my forehead.”</div><div>“You could lose an eye like that,” Sobieski said.</div><div>“I wear safety goggles. I always wear goggles.”</div><div>Napolitino said, “Did you go to a doctor?”</div><div>“Nah. No need. Just some splinters. I dug ‘em out with tweezers. Hell, the</div><div>only reason I need a bandage is I did more damage with the tweezers, getting</div><div>the splinters out, than they did going in.”</div><div>“Be careful about infection.”</div><div>“I soaked it with alcohol, hydrogen peroxide. Smeared Neosporin on it. I’ll</div><div>be all right. This kind of thing, it happens.”</div><div>Billy felt that he had satisfied their concerns. To his ear, he didn’t sound</div><div>like a man under duress, with a life-or-death problem.</div><div>The sun was a furnace, a forge, and the heat coming off the car cooked</div><div>him more effectively than a microwave oven might have done, but he was cool.</div><div>When the questioning took a negative and more aggressive turn, he didn’t</div><div>at once recognize the change.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles,” said Napolitino, “did you then call information?”</div><div>“Did I what?”</div><div>“After you mistakenly dialed 911 and hung up, did you dial 411 as you</div><div>had intended?”</div><div>“No, I just sat there for a minute thinking about what I’d done.”</div><div>“You sat there for a minute thinking how you had mistakenly dialed 911?”</div><div>“Well, not a whole minute. However long it was. I didn’t want to screw up</div><div>again. I was feeling a little woozy. Like I said, my stomach. Then Rosalyn</div><div>called me back.”</div><div>“Before you could dial 411 for information, she called back.”</div><div>“That’s right.”</div><div>“After your conversation with the 911 operator—”</div><div>“Rosalyn.”</div><div>“Yes. After your conversation with her, did you then call 411?”</div><div>131</div><div>The telephone company imposed a 411 service charge for each call. If he</div><div>had placed one, they would have a record of it.</div><div>“No,” Billy said. “I felt like such a bonehead. I needed a drink.”</div><div>The reference to a drink had come naturally, not as if he were trying to sell</div><div>them on his supposed inebriation. He thought he had sounded smooth,</div><div>convincing.</div><div>Napolitino said, “What number would you have asked for if you had called</div><div>411?”</div><div>Billy realized that these inquiries were no longer related to his welfare and</div><div>safety. A veiled antagonism colored Napolitino’s questions, subtle but</div><div>unmistakable.</div><div>Billy wondered if he should openly acknowledge this development and</div><div>question their intent. He didn’t want to appear guilty.</div><div>“Steve,” he said. “I needed Steve Zillis’s number.”</div><div>“He is… ?”</div><div>“He’s a bartender at the tavern.”</div><div>“He covers your shift when you’re sick?” Napolitino asked.</div><div>“No. He works the shift after mine. Why’s it matter?”</div><div>“Why did you need to call him?”</div><div>“I just wanted to warn him that I was out, and when he came on he’d have</div><div>a mess to clean up because Jackie would have been tending bar alone.”</div><div>“Jackie?” Napolitino asked.</div><div>“Jackie O’Hara. He’s the owner. He’s covering my shift. Jackie doesn’t</div><div>continually tidy the work bar, the lower bar, like he should. The clutter and</div><div>spills just build up till the guy following him needs like a frantic fifteen</div><div>minutes to get the set-up workable again.”</div><div>Every time Billy had to give a longer, more explanatory answer, he heard a</div><div>shakiness arise in his voice. He didn’t think that he was imagining it; he</div><div>believed that the sergeants could hear it, too.</div><div>Maybe everyone sounded this way when talking to on-duty cops for any</div><div>substantial length of time. Maybe uneasiness was natural.</div><div>A lot of gesturing was not natural, however, especially not for Billy.</div><div>During his longer answers, he found himself using his hands too much, and he</div><div>couldn’t control them. Defensively, but trying to appear casual, he slipped his</div><div>hands into the pockets of his chinos. In each pocket, his fingers found three .38</div><div>132</div><div>cartridges, spare ammunition. Napolitino said, “So you wanted to warn Steve</div><div>Zillis he’d have a mess.”</div><div>“That’s right.”</div><div>“You don’t know Mr. Zillis’s phone number?”</div><div>“I don’t call him often.”</div><div>They were not engaged in an innocent Q and A anymore. They had not</div><div>descended to the level of an interrogation yet, but they were on the down</div><div>escalator. Billy did not quite understand why this should be the case—except</div><div>that perhaps his answers and his demeanor had not been as exculpatory as he</div><div>had thought. “Isn’t Mr. Zillis’s number in the directory?”</div><div>“I guess so. But sometimes it’s just easier to call 411.”</div><div>“Unless you mistakenly dial 911,” Napolitino said.</div><div>Billy decided that making no reply would be better than berating himself</div><div>for idiocy, as he had done earlier. If the situation deteriorated to the point</div><div>where they decided to search him, even just to pat him down, they would find</div><div>the cartridges in his pockets. He wondered if he’d be able to explain the bullets</div><div>with another facile and convincing lie. At the moment, he couldn’t think of</div><div>one. But he couldn’t believe it would ever come to that. The deputies were here</div><div>because they had been concerned that he might be in danger. He had only to</div><div>convince them that he was safe, and they would leave. Something that he had</div><div>said—or had not said—left them with lingering doubts. If he could only find</div><div>the right words, the magic words, the sergeants would go away.</div><div>Now, here, he chafed again at the limitations of language.</div><div>As real as the change in Napolitino’s attitude seemed, a part of Billy</div><div>argued that he was imagining it. The strain of disguising his anxiety had bent</div><div>his perceptions, had made him a little paranoid.</div><div>He counseled himself to be still, to have patience.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles,” said Napolitino, “are you absolutely sure that you yourself</div><div>dialed 911?”</div><div>Although Billy could parse that sentence, he couldn’t quite make sense out</div><div>of it. He couldn’t grasp the intention behind the question, and considering</div><div>everything that he had told them thus far, he didn’t know what answer they</div><div>expected from him.</div><div>“Is there any possibility whatsoever that someone else in your house</div><div>placed that call to 911?” Napolitino pressed.</div><div>133</div><div>For an instant Billy thought somehow they knew about the freak, but then</div><div>he understood. He understood.</div><div>Sergeant Napolitino’s question was phrased with an eye toward eventual</div><div>legal challenges to police procedure. What he wanted to ask Billy was more</div><div>direct: Mr. Wiles, are you holding someone in your house under duress, and</div><div>did she get free long enough to dial 911, and did you tear the phone out of her</div><div>hand and hang up, hoping a connection had not been made?</div><div>To ask the question more bluntly than he had done, Napolitino would first</div><div>have had to inform Billy of his constitutional right to remain silent and to have</div><div>an attorney present during questioning.</div><div>Billy Wiles had become a suspect.</div><div>They were on the brink. A precipice.</div><div>Never had Billy’s mind calculated options and consequences so feverishly,</div><div>aware that every second of hesitation made him appear guiltier.</div><div>Fortunately, he did not have to counterfeit a flabbergasted expression. His</div><div>jaw must have looked unhinged.</div><div>Not trusting his ability to fake anger or even indignation with any</div><div>conviction whatsoever, Billy instead played his genuine surprise: “Good Lord,</div><div>you don’t think… You do think I… Good Lord. I’m the last guy I’d expect to</div><div>be mistaken for Hannibal Lecter.”</div><div>Napolitino said nothing.</div><div>Neither did Sobieski.</div><div>Their eyes were as steady as the axis of a spinning gyroscope.</div><div>“Of course you’d have to consider the possibility,” Billy said. “I</div><div>understand. I do. It’s all right. Go inside if you want. Have a look around.”</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, are you inviting us to search your house for an intruder or</div><div>others?”</div><div>His fingertips resting on the cartridges in his pockets, his mind’s eye</div><div>resting on the shadowy form of Cottle in the knee space of the desk…</div><div>“Search it for anything,” he said affably, as if relieved to understand at last</div><div>what was wanted of him. “Go ahead.”</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, I am not asking to search your residence. You do see the</div><div>situation?”</div><div>“Sure. I know. It’s okay. Go to it.”</div><div>134</div><div>If they were invited to enter, any evidence they found could be used in</div><div>court. If instead they entered uninvited, without a warrant or without adequate</div><div>reason to believe that someone inside might be in jeopardy, the court would</div><div>throw out the same evidence.</div><div>The sergeants would regard Billy’s cooperation, happily given, as highly</div><div>suggestive of innocence.</div><div>He felt relaxed enough to take his hands out of his pockets.</div><div>If he was open, relaxed, sufficiently encouraging, they might decide that</div><div>he had nothing to hide. They might go away without bothering to search the</div><div>place.</div><div>Napolitino glanced at Sobieski, and Sobieski nodded.</div><div>“Mr. Wiles, since you would feel better if I did so, I’ll take a quick look</div><div>through the house.”</div><div>Sergeant Napolitino rounded the front of the patrol car and headed toward</div><div>the porch steps, leaving Billy with Sobieski.</div><div>Chapter 30</div><div>Guilt spills itself in fear of being spilt, someone had said, perhaps</div><div>Shakespeare, perhaps O.I. Simpson. Billy couldn’t remember who had nailed</div><div>that thought so well in words, but he realized the truth in the aphorism and felt</div><div>it keenly now.</div><div>135</div><div>At the house, Sergeant Napolitino climbed the front steps and crossed the</div><div>porch, stepping over the pint bottle and whatever spilled whiskey had not yet</div><div>evaporated.</div><div>“Too Joe Friday,” Sobieski said.</div><div>“Excuse me?”</div><div>“Vince. He’s too deadpan. He gives you those flat eyes, that cast-concrete</div><div>face, but he’s not really the hardass you think.”</div><div>By sharing Napolitino’s first name, Sobieski seemed to be taking Billy into</div><div>his confidence.</div><div>Astutely alert for deception and manipulation, Billy suspected that the</div><div>sergeant was no more taking him into his confidence than a trapdoor spider</div><div>would greet an in-falling beetle with gentleness and brotherhood.</div><div>At the house, Vince Napolitino disappeared through the open front door.</div><div>“Vince has still got too much of the academy in him,” Sobieski continued.</div><div>“When he’s seasoned a little more, he won’t come on so strong.”</div><div>“He’s just doing his job,” Billy said. “I understand that. No big deal.”</div><div>Sobieski remained in the driveway because he still at least half suspected</div><div>Billy of some crime. Otherwise the two deputies would have searched the</div><div>house together. Sergeant Sobieski was here to grab Billy if he tried to run.</div><div>“How’re you feeling?”</div><div>“I’m all right,” Billy said. “I just feel stupid putting you to all this trouble.”</div><div>“I meant your stomach,” Sobieski said.</div><div>“I don’t know. Maybe I ate something that was off.”</div><div>“Couldn’t have been Ben Vernon’s chili,” Sobieski said. “That stuff is so</div><div>hot it cures just about any sickness known to science.”</div><div>Realizing that an innocent man, with nothing to fear, would not stare</div><div>anxiously at the house, waiting for Napolitino to finish the search, Billy turned</div><div>away from it and gazed out across the valley, at vineyards dwindling in a</div><div>golden glare, toward mountains rising in blue haze.</div><div>“Crab will do it,” Sobieski said.</div><div>“What?”</div><div>“Crab, shrimp, lobster—if it’s a little off, it’ll cause true mayhem.”</div><div>“I had lasagna last night.”</div><div>“That sounds pretty safe.”</div><div>136</div><div>“Maybe not my lasagna,” Billy said, trying to match Sobieski’s apparent</div><div>nonchalance.</div><div>“Come on, Vince,” the sergeant said with a trace of impatience. “I know</div><div>you’re thorough, copadre. You don’t have to prove anything to me.” Then of</div><div>Billy he asked, “You have an attic?”</div><div>“Yeah.”</div><div>The sergeant sighed. “He’ll want to check the attic.”</div><div>Out of the west came a flock of small birds, swooping low and then</div><div>soaring, swooping low again. They were flickers, unusually active for this heat.</div><div>“Are you hunting for one of these?” Sobieski asked.</div><div>The deputy offered the open end of a roll of breath mints.</div><div>For an instant Billy was bewildered, until he realized that his hands were</div><div>in his pockets again, fingering the bullets.</div><div>He took his hands out of his chinos. “I’m afraid it’s a little late for this,” he</div><div>said, but accepted the mint.</div><div>“Occupational hazard, I guess,” said Sobieski. “A bartender, you’re around</div><div>the stuff all day.”</div><div>Sucking on the mint, Billy said, “Actually, I don’t drink that much. I woke</div><div>up at three in the morning, couldn’t turn my mind off, worrying about things I</div><div>can’t control anyway, thought a shot or two would knock me out.”</div><div>“We all have nights like that. I call it the blue willies. You can’t drink</div><div>them away, though. A mug of hot chocolate will cure just about any insomnia,</div><div>but not even that works with the blue willies.”</div><div>“When the hooch didn’t do the job, it still seemed like a way to pass the</div><div>night. Then the morning.”</div><div>“You hold it well.”</div><div>“Do I?”</div><div>“You don’t seem blotto.”</div><div>“I’m not. I’ve been tapering off the last few hours, trying to ease out of it</div><div>to avoid a hangover.”</div><div>“Is that the trick?”</div><div>“It’s one of them.”</div><div>Sergeant Sobieski was easy to talk to: far too easy.</div><div>137</div><div>The flickers swooped low in their direction again, abruptly banked and</div><div>soared and banked again, thirty or forty individuals flying as if with a single</div><div>mind.</div><div>“They’re a real nuisance,” Sobieski said of the birds.</div><div>With pointed bills, flickers sought preferred houses and stables and</div><div>churches of Napa County to drill elaborate lacelike patterns in wooden</div><div>cornices, architraves, eaves, bargeboards, and corner boards.</div><div>“They never bother my place,” Billy said. “It’s cedar.”</div><div>Many people found the flickers’ destructive work so beautiful that</div><div>damaged wood trim was not always replaced until time and weather brought it</div><div>down.</div><div>“They don’t like cedar?” Sobieski asked.</div><div>“I don’t know. But they don’t like mine.”</div><div>Having drilled its lacework, the flicker plants acorns in many of the holes,</div><div>high on the building where the sun can warm them. After a few days, the bird</div><div>returns to listen to the acorns. Hearing noise in some, not in others, it pecks</div><div>open the noisy acorns to eat the larvae that are living inside.</div><div>So much for the sanctity of the home.</div><div>Flickers and sergeants will do their work.</div><div>Slowly, relentlessly, they will do it.</div><div>“It’s not such a big place,” Billy said, allowing himself to sound slightly</div><div>impatient, as he imagined that an innocent man would.</div><div>When Sergeant Napolitino returned, he did not come out of the front door.</div><div>He appeared along the south side of the house, from the direction of the</div><div>detached garage.</div><div>He did not approach with one hand resting casually on his gun. Maybe that</div><div>was a good sign.</div><div>As if by the sight of Napolitino, the birds were chased to a far corner of the</div><div>sky.</div><div>“That’s a nice wood shop you’ve got,” he told Billy. “You could do just</div><div>about anything in there.”</div><div>Somehow the young sergeant made it sound as if Billy might have used</div><div>the power tools to dismember a body.</div><div>Looking out across the valley, Napolitino said, “You’ve got a pretty</div><div>terrific view here.”</div><div>138</div><div>“It’s nice,” Billy said.</div><div>“It’s paradise.”</div><div>“It is,” Billy agreed.</div><div>“I’m surprised you keep all your window shades down.”</div><div>Billy had relaxed too soon. He said only half coherently, “When it’s this</div><div>hot, I do, the sun.”</div><div>“Even on the sides of the house where the sun doesn’t hit.”</div><div>“On a day this bright,” Billy said, “dodging a whiskey headache, you want</div><div>soothing gloom.”</div><div>“He’s been tapering off the booze all morning,” Sobieski told Napolitino,</div><div>“trying to ease his way sober and avoid a hangover.”</div><div>“Is that the trick?” Napolitino asked.</div><div>Billy said, “It’s one of them.”</div><div>“It’s nice and cool in there.”</div><div>“Cool helps, too,” Billy said.</div><div>“Rosalyn said you lost your air conditioning.”</div><div>Billy had forgotten that little lie, such a small filament in his enormous</div><div>patchwork web of deceit.</div><div>He said, “It conks out for a few hours, then it comes on, then it conks out</div><div>again. I don’t know if maybe it’s a compressor problem.”</div><div>“Tomorrow’s supposed to be a scorcher,” Napolitino said, still gazing out</div><div>across the valley. “Better get a repairman if they aren’t already booked till</div><div>Christmas.”</div><div>“I’m going to have a look at it myself a little later,” Billy said. “I’m pretty</div><div>handy with things.”</div><div>“Don’t go poking around in machinery until you’re full sober.”</div><div>“I won’t. I’ll wait.”</div><div>“Especially not electrical equipment.”</div><div>“I’m going to make something to eat. That’ll help. Maybe it’ll even help</div><div>my stomach.” Napolitino finally looked at Billy. “I’m sorry to have kept you</div><div>out here in the sun, with your headache and all.” The sergeant sounded sincere,</div><div>conciliatory for the first time, but his eyes were as cold and dark and humbling</div><div>as the muzzles of a pair of pistols.</div><div>139</div><div>“The whole thing’s my fault,” Billy said. “You guys were just doing your</div><div>job. I’ve already said six ways I’m an idiot. There’s no other way to say it. I’m</div><div>really sorry to have wasted your time.”</div><div>“We’re here ‘to serve and protect.’” Napolitino smiled thinly. “It even says</div><div>so on the door of the car.”</div><div>“I liked it better when it said ‘the best deputies money can buy,’” said</div><div>Sergeant Sobieski, surprising a laugh from Billy but drawing only a vaguely</div><div>annoyed look from Napolitino. “Billy, maybe it’s time to stop the tapering off</div><div>and switch to food.”</div><div>Billy nodded. “You’re right.”</div><div>As he walked to the house, he felt they were watching him. He didn’t look</div><div>back. His heart had been relatively calm. Now it pounded again. He couldn’t</div><div>believe his luck. He feared that it wouldn’t hold. On the porch, he took his</div><div>watch off the railing, put it on his wrist. He bent down to pick up the pint</div><div>bottle. He didn’t see the cap. It must have rolled off the porch or under a</div><div>rocker.</div><div>At the table beside his chair, he dropped the three crackers into the empty</div><div>Ritz box, which for a while had held the .38 revolver. He picked up the glass of</div><div>cola.</div><div>He expected to hear the engines of the patrol cars start up. They didn’t.</div><div>Without glancing back, he carried the glass and the box and the bottle</div><div>inside. He closed the door and leaned against it.</div><div>Outside, the day remained still, the engines silent.</div><div>Chapter 31</div><div>Sudden superstition warned Billy that as long as he waited with his back</div><div>against the door, Sergeants Napolitino and Sobieski would not leave.</div><div>Listening, he went into the kitchen. He dropped the Ritz box in the trash</div><div>can.</div><div>140</div><div>Listening, he poured the last ounce of whiskey from the bottle into the</div><div>sink, and then chased it with the cola in the glass. He put the bottle in the trash,</div><div>the glass in the dishwasher.</div><div>When by this time Billy had still heard no engines starting up, curiosity</div><div>gnawed at him with ratty persistence.</div><div>The blinded house grew increasingly claustrophobic. Perhaps because he</div><div>knew that it contained a corpse, it seemed to be shrinking to the dimensions of</div><div>a casket.</div><div>He went into the living room, sorely tempted to put up one of the pleated</div><div>shades, all of them. But he didn’t want the sergeants to think that he raised the</div><div>shades to watch them and that their continued presence worried him.</div><div>Cautiously, he bent the edge of one of the shades back from the window</div><div>frame. He was not at an angle to see the driveway.</div><div>Billy moved to another window, tried again, and saw the two men standing</div><div>at Napolitino’s car, where he’d left them. Neither deputy directly faced the</div><div>house.</div><div>They appeared to be deep in conversation. They weren’t likely to be</div><div>discussing baseball.</div><div>He wondered if Napolitino had thought to search the woodworking shop</div><div>for the half-cut, one-by-six walnut plank with the knothole. The sergeant would</div><div>not have found that length of lumber, of course, because it did not exist.</div><div>When Sobieski turned his head toward the house, Billy at once let go of</div><div>the shade. He hoped that he had been quick enough.</div><div>Until they were gone, Billy could do nothing other than worry. With</div><div>everything he had to fret about, however, it was odd that his all-enveloping fog</div><div>of anxiety quickly condensed upon the bizarre idea that Ralph Cottle’s body no</div><div>longer lay under the desk in the study, where he had left it.</div><div>To have moved the cadaver, the killer would have had to return to the</div><div>house while both of the deputies had been speaking with Billy in the driveway,</div><div>before he himself had returned to the house. The freak had proved his boldness;</div><div>but this would have been recklessness if not the worst temerity.</div><div>If the corpse had been moved, however, he would have to find it. He</div><div>couldn’t afford to wait until it turned up by surprise in an inconvenient and</div><div>incriminating moment.</div><div>Billy withdrew the .38 revolver from under the sofa cushion. When he</div><div>broke out the cylinder and checked to be certain all six rounds were whole and</div><div>141</div><div>loaded, he assured himself that this was an act of healthy suspicion, not a sign</div><div>of creeping paranoia.</div><div>He followed the hallway as the disquiet that rang softly along his nerves</div><div>quickened and, by the time he crossed the threshold into the study, swelled into</div><div>clamorous alarm.</div><div>He shoved the office chair out of the way.</div><div>Embraced on three sides by the knee space, in the soft folds of his baggy</div><div>and rumpled suit, Ralph Cottle looked like the meat of a walnut snugged inside</div><div>its shell.</div><div>Even minutes previously, Billy could not have imagined that he would</div><div>ever be relieved to find a corpse in his house.</div><div>He suspected that several pieces of subtle but direct evidence tying him to</div><div>Cottle had been planted on the man’s body. Even if he took the time for a</div><div>meticulous inspection of the cadaver, he would surely miss one incriminating</div><div>bit or another.</div><div>The body must be destroyed or buried where it would never be found.</div><div>Billy had not yet decided how to dispose of it; but even as he coped with the</div><div>mounting developments of the current crisis, dark corners of his mind were</div><div>composing gruesome scenarios.</div><div>Finding the body as he left it, he also discovered the computer screen</div><div>aglow and waiting. He had loaded the diskette that he’d found in Cottle’s dead</div><div>hands, but before he had been able to review its contents, Rosalyn Chan had</div><div>called to ask if he had just phoned 911.</div><div>He rolled the office chair in front of the desk once more. He sat before the</div><div>computer, tucking his legs under the chair, away from the corpse.</div><div>The diskette contained three documents. The first was labeled Why,</div><div>without a question mark.</div><div>When he accessed the document, he found that it was short: Because I, too,</div><div>am a fisher of men.</div><div>Billy read the line three times. He didn’t know what to make of it, but the</div><div>hook wounds in his brow burned anew.</div><div>He recognized the religious reference. Christ had been called a fisher of</div><div>men.</div><div>The easy inference was that the killer might be a religious fanatic who</div><div>thought he heard divine voices urging him to kill, but easy inferences were</div><div>142</div><div>usually wrong. Sound inductive reasoning required more than one particular</div><div>from which to generalize.</div><div>Besides, the freak possessed a knack for duplicity, a faculty for</div><div>obfuscation, a talent for deception, and a genius for carefully crafted enigma.</div><div>He preferred the oblique to the straightforward, the circuitous to the direct.</div><div>Why. Because I, too, am a fisher of men.</div><div>The true, full meaning of that statement could not be surmised let alone</div><div>ascertained in a hundred readings, nor in the limited time that Billy currently</div><div>could devote to its analysis.</div><div>The second document was labeled How. It proved to be no less mysterious</div><div>than the first: Cruelty, violence, death. Movement, velocity, impact. Flesh,</div><div>blood, bone.</div><div>Although without rhyme or meter, that triad seemed almost to be a stanza</div><div>of verse. As with the most recondite poetry, the meaning was not on the</div><div>surface.</div><div>Billy had the strange feeling that those three lines were three answers and</div><div>that if only he knew the questions, he would also know the identity of the</div><div>killer.</div><div>Whether that impression might be reliable intuition or delusion, he had no</div><div>time just now to consider it. Lanny’s body still awaited final disposition, as did</div><div>Cottle’s. Billy was half convinced that if he consulted his wristwatch, he would</div><div>see the minute and hour hands spinning as if they were counting off mere</div><div>seconds.</div><div>The third document on the diskette was labeled When, and as Billy</div><div>accessed it, the dead man in the knee space seized his foot.</div><div>If Billy could have breathed, he would have cried out. By the time the</div><div>trapped exhalation exploded from his throat, however, he realized that the</div><div>explanation was less supernatural than it had at first seemed.</div><div>The dead man had not seized him; in Billy’s agitation, he had pressed his</div><div>feet against the corpse. He tucked them under the chair once more.</div><div>On the screen, the document labeled When offered a message that required</div><div>less interpretation than Why and How. My last killing: midnight Thursday.</div><div>Your suicide: soon thereafter.</div><div>143</div><div>Chapter 32</div><div>My last killing: midnight Thursday. Your suicide: soon thereafter.</div><div>Billy Wiles consulted his wristwatch. A few minutes past noon,</div><div>Wednesday.</div><div>144</div><div>If the freak meant what he said, this performance, or whatever it was,</div><div>would conclude in thirty-six hours. Hell was eternal, but any hell on earth must</div><div>be by definition finite.</div><div>The reference to a “last” killing did not necessarily mean that only one</div><div>more murder lay ahead. In the past day and a half, the freak had killed three,</div><div>and in the day and a half ahead, he might be no less murderous. Cruelty,</div><div>violence, death. Movement, velocity, impact. Flesh, blood, bone.</div><div>Of those nine words in the second document, one struck Billy as more</div><div>pertinent than the others. Velocity.</div><div>The movement had begun when the first note had been left under the</div><div>windshield wiper on the Explorer. The impact would come with the last killing,</div><div>the one meant to make him consider suicide.</div><div>Meanwhile, at a steadily accelerating pace, new challenges were being</div><div>thrown at Billy, keeping him off balance. The word velocity seemed to promise</div><div>him that the longest plunges of this roller coaster were still ahead.</div><div>He neither disbelieved the promise of increasing velocity nor dismissed the</div><div>confident assertion that he would commit suicide.</div><div>Suicide was a mortal sin, but Billy knew himself to be a shallow man,</div><div>weak in some ways, flawed. At this point, he wasn’t capable of selfdestruction;</div><div>but hearts and minds can both be broken.</div><div>He had little difficulty imagining what might drive him to such a brink. In</div><div>fact, no difficulty at all.</div><div>Barbara Mandel’s death alone would not drive him to suicide. For almost</div><div>four years, he had prepared himself for her passing. He had hardened himself</div><div>to the idea of living without even the hope of her recovery.</div><div>The manner of her murder, however, might cause a fatal stress crack in</div><div>Billy’s mental architecture. In her coma, she might not be aware of much that</div><div>the killer did to her. Nevertheless, assuming that she would be subjected to</div><div>pain, to vile abuse, to gross indignities, Billy could imagine a weight of horror</div><div>so great that he would break under it. This was a man who beat lovely young</div><div>schoolteachers to death and peeled off women’s faces.</div><div>Furthermore, if the freak intended to engineer circumstances in which it</div><div>would appear that Billy himself had killed not only Giselle Winslow, Lanny,</div><div>and Ralph Cottle, but also Barbara, then Billy would not want to endure</div><div>months of being a media sensation or the spotlight of the trial, or the abiding</div><div>suspicion with which he’d be regarded even if found innocent in a court of law.</div><div>145</div><div>The freak killed for pleasure, but also with a purpose and a plan. Whatever</div><div>the purpose, the plan might be to convince police that Billy committed the</div><div>homicides leading to Barbara’s murder in her bed at Whispering Pines, that his</div><div>intent had been to establish that a brutal serial killer was at work in the county,</div><div>thereby directing suspicion from himself to the nonexistent psychopath.</div><div>If the freak was clever—and he would be—the authorities would swallow</div><div>that theory as if it were a spoonful of vanilla ice cream. After all, in their eyes,</div><div>Billy had a strong motive to do away with Barbara.</div><div>Her medical care was covered by the investment income earned by a</div><div>seven-million-dollar trust fund established with a legal settlement from the</div><div>corporation responsible for her coma. Billy was the primary of three trustees</div><div>who managed the fund.</div><div>If Barbara died while in a coma, Billy was the sole heir to her estate.</div><div>He did not want the money, none of it, and would not keep it if it came to</div><div>him. In that sad event, he had always intended to give the millions away.</div><div>No one, of course, would believe that was his intention.</div><div>Especially not after the freak was finished setting him up, if in fact that’s</div><div>what the freak was doing.</div><div>The call to 911 certainly seemed to signify that intention. It had drawn</div><div>Billy to the attention of the sheriff’s department in a context that they would</div><div>remember… and wonder about.</div><div>Now Billy combined all three documents and printed them on a single</div><div>sheet of paper: Because I, too, am a fisher of men. Cruelty, violence, death.</div><div>Movement, velocity, impact. Flesh, blood, bone. My last killing: midnight</div><div>Thursday. Your suicide: soon thereafter.</div><div>With scissors, Billy trimmed out the block of text, intending to fold it and</div><div>put it in his wallet, where he would have it for easy review.</div><div>As he finished, he realized that this paper appeared identical to that on</div><div>which he had received the first four messages from the killer. If the diskette in</div><div>Cottle’s hands had been prepared on this computer, perhaps the first four notes</div><div>had been composed here as well.</div><div>He exited Microsoft Word, and then entered the software again. He called</div><div>up the directory.</div><div>The list of documents was not long. He had used this program solely for</div><div>writing fiction.</div><div>146</div><div>He recognized the key words of the titles of his single novel and of the</div><div>short stories that he had completed, as well as those of stories never finished.</div><div>Only one document was unfamiliar to him: Death.</div><div>When he loaded that document, he discovered the text of the first four</div><div>messages from the freak.</div><div>He hesitated, remembering procedures. Then he rattled the keys,</div><div>summoning the date when the document had been first composed, which</div><div>turned out to be 10:09 A.M. the previous Friday.</div><div>Billy had left for work fifteen minutes earlier than usual that day. He had</div><div>swung by the post office to mail some bills.</div><div>The two notes left on his windshield, the one taped over the Explorer’s</div><div>ignition, and even the one he’d found on his refrigerator this same morning had</div><div>been prepared on this computer more than three days before the first had been</div><div>delivered, before the nightmare had begun Monday evening.</div><div>If Lanny had not destroyed the first two notes to save his job, if Billy had</div><div>offered them to the police as evidence, sooner or later the authorities would</div><div>have checked this computer. They would have reached the inescapable</div><div>conclusion that Billy himself had written the notes.</div><div>The freak had prepared for all contingencies. He was nothing if not</div><div>thorough. And he had been confident his script would play out as he had</div><div>intended.</div><div>Billy deleted the document titled Death, which might still be used as</div><div>evidence against him, depending on how events unfolded from here on.</div><div>He suspected that deleting it from the directory did not remove it from the</div><div>hard disk. He would have to find a way to ask someone who was a computer</div><div>maven.</div><div>When he shut down the computer, he realized that he had still not heard</div><div>the patrol-car engines start up.</div><div>Chapter 33</div><div>147</div><div>Peeling the shade aside at a study window, Billy discovered the driveway</div><div>empty in the streaming sunshine. He had become so absorbed with the diskette</div><div>that he had not heard the car engines start. The sergeants had gone.</div><div>He had expected to discover another challenge on the diskette: a choice</div><div>between two innocent victims, a short deadline for making a decision.</div><div>No doubt another one would come soon, but for now he was free to deal</div><div>with other urgent business. He had plenty of it.</div><div>He went to the garage and returned with a length of rope and one of the</div><div>polyurethane drop cloths with which he covered furniture when he had</div><div>repainted the interior of the house in the spring. He unfolded this tarp on the</div><div>study floor in front of the desk.</div><div>After wrestling Cottle’s body out of the knee space and dragging it around</div><div>the desk, he rolled it onto the drop cloth.</div><div>The prospect of turning out the dead man’s pockets disgusted him. He got</div><div>on with it, anyway.</div><div>Billy wasn’t looking for planted evidence that would incriminate him. If</div><div>the freak had salted the corpse, he had been subtle about it; Billy would not</div><div>find everything.</div><div>Besides, he intended to dispose of the body in a place where it would</div><div>never be found. For that reason, he was unconcerned about leaving fingerprints</div><div>on the plastic sheeting.</div><div>The suit coat had two inner pockets. In the first, Cottle had kept the pint of</div><div>whiskey that he had spilled. From the second, Billy extracted a pint of rum, and</div><div>returned it.</div><div>In the two outer pockets of the coat were cigarettes, a cheap butane lighter,</div><div>and a roll of butterscotch Life Savers. In the front pants pockets, he found</div><div>sixty-seven cents in coins, a deck of playing cards, and a whistle in the form of</div><div>a plastic canary.</div><div>Cottle’s wallet contained six one-dollar bills, a five, and fourteen tendollar</div><div>bills. These last must have come from the freak. Ten dollars for each</div><div>year of your innocence, Mr. Wiles.</div><div>Basically frugal, Billy didn’t want to bury the money with the body. He</div><div>considered dropping it in the poor box at the church where he had parked—and</div><div>been assaulted—the previous night.</div><div>Squeamishness trumped frugality. Billy left the money in the wallet. As</div><div>dead pharaohs had been sent to the Other Side with salt, grain, wine, gold, and</div><div>148</div><div>euthanized servants, so Ralph Cottle would travel across the Styx with</div><div>spending money.</div><div>Among the few other items in the wallet were two of interest, the first a</div><div>worn and creased snapshot of Cottle as a young man. He looked handsome,</div><div>virile, radically different from the beaten man of his later years but</div><div>recognizable. With him was a lovely young woman. They were smiling. They</div><div>looked happy.</div><div>The second item was a 1983 membership card in the American Society of</div><div>Skeptics. Ralph Thurman Cottle, member since 1978.</div><div>Billy kept the snapshot and the membership card and returned everything</div><div>else to Cottle’s hip pocket.</div><div>He rolled the cadaver tightly in the tarp. He folded the ends down and</div><div>secured the bundle with yards of strapping tape.</div><div>His expectation had been that, inside multiple layers of opaque</div><div>polyurethane, the body might pass for a rug wrapped in protective plastic. It</div><div>looked like a corpse in a tarp.</div><div>Using the rope, he fashioned a tightly knotted handle to one end of the</div><div>packaged cadaver, by which it could be dragged.</div><div>He did not intend to dispose of Cottle until after dark. The cargo space in</div><div>his Explorer was encircled by windows. SUV’s were useful vehicles, but if you</div><div>were going to be transporting corpses in broad daylight, you better have a car</div><div>with a roomy trunk.</div><div>Because he’d begun to feel that his house was being as freely traveled as a</div><div>public bus terminal, Billy hauled the body out of the study, to the living room,</div><div>where he left it behind the sofa. It could not be seen from the front door or</div><div>from the doorway to the kitchen.</div><div>At the kitchen sink, he vigorously scrubbed his hands with multiple</div><div>applications of liquid soap, in near-scalding water.</div><div>Then he made a ham sandwich. Ravenous, he wondered how he could</div><div>have an appetite after the gruesome business he had just concluded.</div><div>He would not have thought that his will to survive had remained this</div><div>strong during his years of retreat. He wondered what other qualities, good and</div><div>bad, he would rediscover or discover in himself during the thirty-six hours</div><div>ahead. There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade,</div><div>but Death you shall not.</div><div>149</div><div>Chapter 34</div><div>As Billy finished the ham sandwich, the telephone rang.</div><div>He didn’t want to answer it. He didn’t receive a lot of calls from friends,</div><div>and Lanny was dead. He knew who this must be. Enough was enough.</div><div>On the twelfth ring, he pushed his chair back from the table.</div><div>The freak had never said anything on the phone. He didn’t want to reveal</div><div>his voice. He would do nothing but listen to Billy in mocking silence.</div><div>On the sixteenth ring, Billy got up from the table.</div><div>These calls had no purpose but to intimidate. Taking them made no sense.</div><div>Billy stood by the phone, staring at it. On the twenty-sixth ring, he lifted</div><div>the handset.</div><div>The digital readout revealed ho caller ID.</div><div>Billy didn’t say hello. He listened.</div><div>After a few seconds of silence on the other end, a mechanical click was</div><div>followed by a hiss. Pops and scratches punctuated the hiss: the sound of blank</div><div>audio tape passing over a playback head.</div><div>When the words came, they were in a series of voices, some men, some</div><div>women. No individual spoke more than three words, often just one.</div><div>Judging by the inconstant volume levels and other tells, the freak had</div><div>constructed the message by sampling existing audio, perhaps books on tape by</div><div>different readers. “I will… kill a… pretty redhead. If you… say… waste the</div><div>bitch… I will… kill… her… quickly. Otherwise… she will… suffer… much…</div><div>torture. You… have… one minute… to… say… waste the bitch. The choice…</div><div>is… yours.”</div><div>Again, the hiss and pop and scratch of blank tape…</div><div>The conundrum had been perfectly constructed. It allowed an evasive man</div><div>no room for further evasion.</div><div>Previously, Billy had been morally co-opted only to the extent that the</div><div>choice of the victims had been made because of his inaction, and in Cottle’s</div><div>case because of the refusal to act.</div><div>In the choice between a lovely schoolteacher and a charitable old woman,</div><div>the deaths seemed equally tragic unless you were biased toward the beautiful</div><div>150</div><div>and against the aged. Making an active decision resulted in neither less nor</div><div>greater tragedy than did inaction.</div><div>When the possible victims had been an unmarried man “who won’t much</div><div>be missed by the world” or a young mother of two, the greater tragedy had</div><div>seemed to be the death of the mother. In that case, the choice had been</div><div>constructed so that Billy’s failure to go to the police ensured the mother’s</div><div>survival, rewarding inaction and playing to his weakness.</div><div>Once again, he was being asked to choose between two evils, and thereby</div><div>become the freak’s collaborator. But this time, inaction was not a viable option.</div><div>By saying nothing, he would be sentencing the redhead to torture, to a</div><div>protracted and hideous death. By responding, he would be granting her a</div><div>degree of mercy.</div><div>He could not save her.</div><div>In either case, death.</div><div>But one death would be cleaner than the other.</div><div>The running audio tape produced two more words: “dis… thirty</div><div>seconds…”</div><div>Billy felt as though he couldn’t breathe, but he could. He felt as though he</div><div>would choke if he tried to swallow, but he didn’t choke. “… fifteen seconds…”</div><div>His mouth was dry. His tongue grew thick. He didn’t believe that he could</div><div>speak, but he did: “Waste the bitch.”</div><div>The freak hung up. So did Billy.</div><div>Collaborators.</div><div>The masticated ham and the bread and the mayonnaise turned in his</div><div>stomach.</div><div>If he had suspected that the freak might actually communicate by</div><div>telephone, he could have been prepared to record the message. Too late.</div><div>Such a recording of a recording wouldn’t be persuasive to the cops,</div><div>anyway, unless the body of a redhead turned up. And if such a corpse was</div><div>found, planted evidence would most likely tie it to Billy.</div><div>The air conditioner worked well, yet the kitchen air seemed to be</div><div>sweltering, stifling, and it cloyed in his throat, and lay heavy in his lungs.</div><div>Waste the bitch.</div><div>Without any memory of having left the house, Billy found himself</div><div>descending the back-porch steps. He didn’t know where he was going.</div><div>151</div><div>He sat on the steps.</div><div>He stared at the sky, at the trees, at the backyard.</div><div>He looked at his hands. He didn’t recognize them.</div><div>152</div><div>Chapter 35</div><div>He left town by a circuitous route and saw no one following. With no</div><div>corpse burrito in the Explorer, Billy risked exceeding the speed limit most of</div><div>the way to the southern end of the county. A hot wind quarreled at the brokenout</div><div>window in the driver’s door as he crossed the Napa city limits at 1:52 P.M.</div><div>Napa is a quaint, rather picturesque town, for the most part naturally so, not by</div><div>dint of politicians and corporations conspiring to reconceive it as a theme park</div><div>on the model of Disneyland, a fate of many places in California. Harry</div><div>Avarkian, Billy’s attorney, had offices downtown, not far from the courthouse,</div><div>on a street lined with ancient olive trees. He was expecting Billy and greeted</div><div>him with a bear hug. Fiftyish, tall and solid, avuncular, with a rubbery face and</div><div>quick smile, Harry looked like the spokesman for a miracle hair restorer. He</div><div>had a head of wiry black hair so thick that it looked as though a barber might</div><div>have to tend to it daily, a walrus mustache, and such a thatch of crisp black</div><div>hairs on the backs of his big hands that he looked as if he might be prone to</div><div>hibernate in winter.</div><div>He worked at an antique partner’s desk, so that when Billy sat opposite</div><div>him, the relationship didn’t seem like that of attorney and client but like that of</div><div>friends engaged in a business enterprise.</div><div>After the usual how-ya-beens and talk of the heat, Harry said, “So what’s</div><div>so important that we couldn’t do it by phone?”</div><div>“It’s not that I didn’t want to talk on the phone,” Billy lied. The rest was</div><div>true enough: “I had to come down here for a couple other things, so I figured I</div><div>might as well sit down with you in person and ask about what’s troubling me.”</div><div>“So hit me with your questions, and let’s see if I know any damn thing</div><div>about the law.”</div><div>“It’s about the trust fund that takes care of Barbara.” Harry Avarkian and</div><div>Gi Minh “George” Nguyen, Billy’s accountant, were the other two trustees on</div><div>the three-member board.</div><div>“Just two days ago, I reviewed the second quarter’s financial statement,”</div><div>Harry said. “Return was fourteen percent. Excellent in this market. Even after</div><div>Barbara’s expenses, the principal is growing steadily.”</div><div>153</div><div>“We’re smartly invested,” Billy agreed. “But I’m lying awake at night</div><div>worrying is there a way anyone could get at the pot?”</div><div>“The pot? You mean Barbara’s money? If you’ve got to worry about</div><div>something, worry about an asteroid hitting the earth.”</div><div>“I worry. I can’t help it.”</div><div>“Billy, I drew up those trust documents, and they’re tighter than a gnat’s</div><div>ass. Besides, with you guarding the vault for her, nobody’s going to pinch a</div><div>nickel.”</div><div>“I mean if something happens to me.”</div><div>“You’re only thirty-four. From my perspective, you’re barely past</div><div>puberty.”</div><div>“Mozart died younger than thirty-four.”</div><div>“This isn’t the eighteenth century, and you don’t even play the piano,”</div><div>Harry said, “so the comparison makes no sense.” He frowned. “Are you sick or</div><div>something?”</div><div>“I’ve felt better,” Billy admitted.</div><div>“What’s that patch on your forehead?”</div><div>Billy gave him the story about a knothole in a walnut plank. “It’s nothing</div><div>serious.”</div><div>“You’re pale for summer.”</div><div>“I haven’t been fishing much. Look, Harry, I don’t have cancer or</div><div>anything, but a truck could always hit me.”</div><div>“Have they been after you lately, these trucks? Have you had to dodge a</div><div>few? Since when were you baptized a pessimist?”</div><div>“What about Dardre?”</div><div>Dardre was Barbara’s sister. They were twins, but fraternal, not identical.</div><div>They looked nothing alike, and were radically different people, as well.</div><div>“The court not only pulled her plug,” Harry said, “they cut it off and took</div><div>out her batteries.”</div><div>“I know, but—”</div><div>“She’s an Energizer Bunny of Evil, all right, but she’s as much history as</div><div>the Lebne and string cheese I ate for lunch a week ago.”</div><div>154</div><div>Barbara and Dardre’s mother, Cicily, had been a drug addict. She had</div><div>never identified their father, and on their birth certificates, the twins had their</div><div>mother’s maiden name.</div><div>Cicily wound up in a psychiatric ward when the girls were two, and they</div><div>were removed from their mother’s custody and placed in a foster home. Cicily</div><div>died eleven months later.</div><div>Until they were five, the sisters had been shuffled through the same series</div><div>of foster homes. Thereafter they were separated.</div><div>Barbara had never seen Dardre again. In fact when, at the age of twentyone,</div><div>she tracked down and tried to reestablish a relationship with her sister, she</div><div>had been rebuffed.</div><div>While not as self-destructive as Cicily, Dardre had acquired her mother’s</div><div>taste for illegal chemical compounds and the party life. She found her cleanand-</div><div>sober sibling to be boring and uncool.</div><div>Eight years later, after extensive media attention to the case, when the</div><div>insurance company settled millions on Barbara to pay for her long-term care,</div><div>Dardre developed a deep emotional attachment to her sister. As Barbara’s only</div><div>known blood relative, she had brought legal action to be declared sole trustee.</div><div>Fortunately, at good Harry’s urging, immediately following their</div><div>engagement, Billy and Barbara had drawn and signed, in this office, simple</div><div>wills naming each other as heirs and executors.</div><div>Dardre’s history, tactics, and unconcealed avarice had earned her the</div><div>judge’s scorn. Her action had been dismissed with prejudice.</div><div>She had tried to get another court to reinstate her case. She had not been</div><div>successful. They hadn’t heard from her in two years.</div><div>Now Billy said, “But if I died—”</div><div>“You’ve selected contingent trustees to replace you. If you’re run down by</div><div>a truck, one of them will.”</div><div>“I understand. Nevertheless—”</div><div>“If you and I and George Nguyen are run down by trucks,” Harry said, “in</div><div>fact if each of us is run down by three trucks, willing candidates for trustees,</div><div>acceptable to the court, are standing by and ready to take over. Until they could</div><div>be installed, day-today trust affairs would be in the hands of a bonded trustmanagement</div><div>firm.”</div><div>“You’ve thought of everything.”</div><div>155</div><div>His massive mustache lifting with his smile, Harry said, “Of all my</div><div>accomplishments, I’m proudest of never having yet been disbarred.”</div><div>“But if anything happened to me—”</div><div>“You’re making me nuts.”</div><div>“—is there anyone besides Dardre that we should worry about?”</div><div>“Like who?”</div><div>“Anyone.”</div><div>“No.”</div><div>“You’re sure?”</div><div>“Yes.”</div><div>“No one who could take Barbara’s money?”</div><div>Leaning forward, arms on his desk, Harry said, “What’s this all about?”</div><div>Billy shrugged. “I don’t know. Lately I’ve just been… spooked.”</div><div>After a silence, Harry said, “Maybe it’s time for you to get a life again.”</div><div>“I’ve got a life,” Billy said, his voice too sharp considering that Harry was</div><div>a friend and a decent guy.</div><div>“You can look after Barbara, be faithful to her memory, and still have a</div><div>life.”</div><div>“She’s not just a memory. She’s alive. Harry, you’re the last person I want</div><div>to have to punch in the mouth.”</div><div>Harry sighed. “You’re right. No one can tell you what your heart should</div><div>feel.”</div><div>“Hell, Harry, I’d never punch you in the mouth.”</div><div>“Did I look scared?”</div><div>Laughing softly, Billy said, “You looked you. You looked like a Muppet.”</div><div>The graceful shadows of sunlit olive trees moved on the window glass, and</div><div>in the room.</div><div>After a silence, Harry Avarkian said, “There are cases in which people</div><div>have come out of a botulism coma with most of their faculties intact.”</div><div>“They’re rare,” Billy acknowledged.</div><div>“Rare isn’t the same as never.”</div><div>“I try to be realistic, but I don’t really want to be.”</div><div>156</div><div>“I used to like vichyssoise,” Harry said. “Now if I even happen to see it on</div><div>a shelf in a supermarket, I get sick to my stomach.”</div><div>While Billy had been working at the tavern one Saturday, Barbara had</div><div>opened a can of soup for dinner. Vichyssoise. She made a grilled-cheese</div><div>sandwich as well.</div><div>When she didn’t answer her phone Sunday morning, he went to her</div><div>apartment, let himself in with his key. He found her unconscious on the</div><div>bathroom floor.</div><div>At the hospital she had been treated with antitoxin promptly enough to</div><div>spare her from death. And now she slept. And slept.</div><div>Until she woke, if she woke, the extent of brain damage could not</div><div>accurately be determined.</div><div>The manufacturer of the soup, a reputable company, instantly pulled an</div><div>entire run of vichyssoise off store shelves. Out of more than three thousand</div><div>cans, only six were found to be contaminated.</div><div>None of the six showed telltale signs of swelling; therefore, in a way,</div><div>Barbara’s suffering had spared at least six other people from a similar fate.</div><div>Billy never managed to find any comfort in that fact.</div><div>“She’s a lovely woman,” Harry said.</div><div>“She’s pale and thin, but she’s still beautiful to me,” Billy said. “And</div><div>inside somewhere, she’s alive. She says things. I’ve told you. She’s alive in</div><div>there, and thinking.”</div><div>He watched the olive-tree shadows projected onto the desk by the lens of</div><div>the window.</div><div>He did not look at Harry. He didn’t want to see the pity in the attorney’s</div><div>eyes.</div><div>After a while, Harry talked about the weather some more, and then Billy</div><div>said, “Did you hear, at Princeton—or maybe it’s Harvard—scientists are trying</div><div>to make a pig with a human brain?”</div><div>“They’re doing crap like that everywhere,” Harry said. “They never learn.</div><div>The smarter they are, the dumber they get.”</div><div>“The horror of it.”</div><div>“They don’t see the horror. Just the glory and the money.”</div><div>“I don’t see the glory.”</div><div>“What glory could anyone have seen in Auschwitz? But some did.”</div><div>157</div><div>Following a mutual silence, Billy met Harry’s eyes. “Do I know how to</div><div>cheer up a room, or what?”</div><div>“I haven’t laughed so hard since Abbott and Costello.”</div><div>Chapter 36</div><div>At an electronics store in Napa, Billy bought a compact video camera and</div><div>recorder. The equipment could be used in the usual fashion or could be set</div><div>instead to compile a continuous series of snapshots taken at intervals of a few</div><div>seconds.</div><div>In its second mode, loaded with the proper custom disk, the system was</div><div>able to provide week-long recorded surveillance similar to that in the average</div><div>convenience store.</div><div>Considering that the Explorer’s broken window didn’t allow him to lock</div><div>any valuables in the vehicle, he paid for his purchases and arranged to return</div><div>for them in half an hour.</div><div>From the electronics store, he went in search of a newspaper-vending</div><div>machine. He found one in front of a pharmacy.</div><div>The lead story concerned Giselle Winslow. The schoolteacher had been</div><div>murdered in the early hours of Tuesday morning, but her body had not been</div><div>found until late Tuesday afternoon, less than twenty-four hours previously.</div><div>The picture of her in the newspaper was different from the one tucked in</div><div>the book on Lanny Olsen’s lap, but they were photos of the same attractive</div><div>woman.</div><div>Carrying the newspaper, Billy walked to the main branch of the county</div><div>library. He had a computer at home but no longer had Internet access; the</div><div>library offered both.</div><div>He was alone at the cluster of work stations. Other patrons were at reading</div><div>tables and prowling the stacks. Maybe the embrace of “book alternatives”</div><div>wasn’t turning out to be the future of libraries, after all.</div><div>When he’d been writing fiction, he had used the Worldwide Web for</div><div>research. Later, it had provided distraction, escape. In the past two years, he</div><div>hadn’t surfed the Web at all.</div><div>Meanwhile, things had changed. Access was faster. Searches were faster,</div><div>too, and easier.</div><div>158</div><div>Billy typed in a search string. When he got no hits, he modified the string,</div><div>then modified it again.</div><div>Drinking-age laws varied state by state. In many jurisdictions, Steve Zillis</div><div>hadn’t been old enough to tend bar until he was twenty-one, so Billy dropped</div><div>bartender from the search string.</div><div>Steve had been working at the tavern only five months. He and Billy had</div><div>never swapped biographies.</div><div>Billy vaguely recalled that Steve had gone to college. He could not</div><div>remember where. He added student to the string.</div><div>Perhaps the word murder was too limiting. He replaced it with foul play.</div><div>He got one hit. From the Denver Post.</div><div>The story dated back five years and eight months. Although Billy warned</div><div>himself not to read into this discovery more than it actually contained, the</div><div>information struck him as relevant.</div><div>That November, at the University of Colorado at Denver, a coed named</div><div>Judith Sarah Kesselman, eighteen, had gone missing. Initially, at least, there</div><div>were no signs of foul play.</div><div>In what appeared to be the first newspaper piece about the missing young</div><div>woman, another UCD student, Steven Zillis, nineteen, was quoted as saying</div><div>that Judith was “a wonderful girl, compassionate and concerned, a friend to</div><div>everyone.” He worried because “Judi is too responsible to just go off for a</div><div>couple days without telling anyone her plans.”</div><div>Another search string related to Judith Sarah Kesselman produced scores</div><div>of hits. Billy steeled himself for the discovery that her dead body had been</div><div>found without a face.</div><div>He went through the articles, reading closely at first. As the material</div><div>became repetitive, he scanned.</div><div>Friends, relatives, and professors of Judith Kesselman were often quoted.</div><div>Steven Zillis was not mentioned again.</div><div>Judging by the wealth of material available to Billy, no trace of Judith had</div><div>ever been found. She vanished as completely as if she had stepped out of this</div><div>universe into another.</div><div>The frequency of newspaper coverage declined steadily through Christmas</div><div>of that year. It dropped sharply with the new year.</div><div>The media favors dead bodies over missing ones, blood over mystery.</div><div>There is always new and exciting violence.</div><div>159</div><div>The last piece was dated on the fifth anniversary of Judith’s disappearance.</div><div>Her hometown was Laguna Beach, California, and the article appeared in the</div><div>Orange County Register.</div><div>A columnist, sympathetic to the Kesselman family’s unresolved grief,</div><div>wrote movingly about their enduring hope that Judith was still alive. Somehow.</div><div>Somewhere. And one day coming home.</div><div>She had been a music major. She played piano well, and guitar. She liked</div><div>gospel music. And dogs. And long walks on the beach.</div><div>The press had been provided two photos of her. In both she looked impish,</div><div>amused, and gentle.</div><div>Although Billy had never known Judith Kesselman, he could not bear the</div><div>promise of her fresh face. He avoided looking at her photos.</div><div>He printed selected articles for review later. He folded them inside the</div><div>newspaper that he’d gotten from the vending machine.</div><div>As he was leaving the library, passing the reading tables, a man said,</div><div>“Billy Wiles. Long time no see.”</div><div>In a chair at one of the tables, smiling broadly, sat Sheriff John Palmer.</div><div>160</div><div>Chapter 37</div><div>Although he wore his uniform, without hat, the sheriff less resembled an</div><div>officer of the law than he did a politician. Because his was an elected position,</div><div>he was in fact both cop and pol.</div><div>Barbered to the point of affectation, shaved as smooth as a glass peach,</div><div>teeth veneered to white perfection, features suitable for a Roman coin, he</div><div>looked ten years younger than he was—and ready for the cameras.</div><div>Although Palmer sat at a reading table, neither a magazine nor a</div><div>newspaper, nor a book, lay in front of him. He looked like he knew everything</div><div>already.</div><div>Palmer did not get up. Billy remained standing.</div><div>“How’re things up in Vineyard Hills?” Palmer asked.</div><div>“Lots of vineyards and hills,” Billy said.</div><div>“You still tending bar?”</div><div>“There’s always a need. It’s the third oldest profession.”</div><div>“What’s second, after whores?” Palmer asked.</div><div>“Politicians.”</div><div>The sheriff seemed to be amused. “Are you writing these days?”</div><div>“A little,” Billy lied.</div><div>One of his published short stories had featured a character who was a</div><div>thinly veiled portrait of John Palmer.</div><div>“Doing some research for your writing?” Palmer asked.</div><div>From where the sheriff sat, he had a direct view of the computer at which</div><div>Billy had been working, although not of its screen.</div><div>Maybe Palmer had a way of finding out what Billy had been doing at the</div><div>work station. A public computer might keep a record of a user’s keystrokes.</div><div>No. Probably not. Besides, there were privacy laws.</div><div>“Yeah,” Billy said. “Some research.”</div><div>“Deputy of mine saw you parking in front of Harry Avarkian’s office.”</div><div>Billy said nothing.</div><div>161</div><div>“Three minutes after you left Harry’s, the time on your parking meter ran</div><div>out.”</div><div>That might be true.</div><div>Palmer said, “I put two quarters in for you.”</div><div>“Thanks.”</div><div>“The window’s busted out of your driver’s door.”</div><div>“A little accident,” Billy said.</div><div>“It’s not a code violation, but you ought to get it fixed.”</div><div>“I’ve got an appointment on Friday,” Billy lied.</div><div>“This doesn’t bother you, does it?” the sheriff asked.</div><div>“What?”</div><div>“You and me talking like this.” Palmer surveyed the library. No one was</div><div>close to them. “Just the two of us.”</div><div>“It doesn’t bother me,” Billy said.</div><div>He had every right and reason to walk away. Instead he stayed, determined</div><div>not to give even the appearance of intimidation.</div><div>Twenty years ago, as a fourteen-year-old boy, Billy Wiles had endured</div><div>interrogations conducted in such a way that they should have destroyed John</div><div>Palmer’s law-enforcement career.</div><div>Instead, Palmer had been promoted from lieutenant to captain, later to</div><div>chief. Eventually he had campaigned for the office of sheriff and had been</div><div>elected. Twice.</div><div>Harry Avarkian had a succinct explanation for Palmer’s ascent and</div><div>claimed that he had heard it from deputies in the department: Shit floats.</div><div>“How’s Miss Mandel these days?” Palmer asked.</div><div>“The same.”</div><div>He wondered if Palmer knew about the 911 call. Napolitino and Sobieski</div><div>had no reason to file a report on it, especially since it had been a false alarm.</div><div>Besides, the two sergeants worked out of the St. Helena substation. While</div><div>Sheriff Palmer toured throughout his jurisdiction, his office was here in the</div><div>county seat.</div><div>“What a sad thing that was,” Palmer said.</div><div>Billy did not reply.</div><div>162</div><div>“At least for the rest of her life, she’ll get the best care, with all that</div><div>money.”</div><div>“She’s going to get well. She’ll come out of it.”</div><div>“Do you really think so?”</div><div>“Yes.”</div><div>“All that money—I hope you’re right.”</div><div>“I am.”</div><div>“She ought to have a chance to enjoy all that money.”</div><div>Stone-faced, Billy gave no slightest sign that he understood Palmer’s</div><div>pointed implication.</div><div>Yawning, stretching, so relaxed and casual in his chair, Palmer probably</div><div>saw himself as a cat toying with a mouse. “Well, people are going to be happy</div><div>to hear that you’re not burnt out, that you’re writing a little.”</div><div>“What people?”</div><div>“People who like your writing, of course.”</div><div>“Do you know any of them?”</div><div>Palmer shrugged. “I don’t move in those circles. But I’m pretty sure about</div><div>one thing…”</div><div>Because the sheriff wanted to be asked What?, Billy didn’t ask.</div><div>Off Billy’s silence, Palmer said, “I’m pretty sure your mom and dad would</div><div>be so proud.”</div><div>Billy walked away from him and out of the library.</div><div>After the air conditioning, the summer heat assaulted him. He felt as</div><div>though he were suffocating when he inhaled, as if strangling when he exhaled.</div><div>Or maybe it wasn’t the heat, but the past.</div><div>163</div><div>Chapter 38</div><div>Speeding north on Route 29, out of sun and into sun, with the famous and</div><div>fertile valley narrowing imperceptibly at first and then perceptibly, Billy</div><div>worried about protecting Barbara.</div><div>The trust fund could hire around-the-clock security for the duration, until</div><div>Billy found the freak or until the freak finished him. Money was no issue.</div><div>But this wasn’t a big city. The phone book didn’t contain page after page</div><div>of ads for private-security firms.</div><div>Explaining to the guards why they were needed would be risky. The whole</div><div>truth would tie Billy to three murders for which he was most likely being set up</div><div>to take the fall.</div><div>If he withheld too much of the truth, the guards wouldn’t know what they</div><div>were up against. He would be jeopardizing their lives.</div><div>Besides, most security guards around these parts were former police</div><div>officers or current cops who were moonlighting on their off hours. Many of</div><div>them had worked—or still did work—for or with John Palmer.</div><div>Billy didn’t want Palmer hearing about Barbara being watched over by</div><div>hired bodyguards. The sheriff would wonder. He would have questions.</div><div>After a few years during which he had stayed under Palmer’s radar, he was</div><div>now on the scope again. He dared not draw more attention to himself.</div><div>He couldn’t ask friends to help him stand watch over Barbara. They would</div><div>be at great risk.</div><div>Anyway, he didn’t have close friends whom he’d be comfortable</div><div>approaching. The people in his life were largely acquaintances.</div><div>He had managed things that way. There is no life that is not in community.</div><div>He knew this. He knew. Yet he had done no proper sowing and now had no</div><div>harvest.</div><div>The wind at the broken window spoke chaos to him.</div><div>In the hours of Barbara’s greatest danger, he alone would have to protect</div><div>her. If he could.</div><div>164</div><div>She deserved better than him. With his history, no one in need of a</div><div>guardian would turn to him first, or second, or at all. My last killing: midnight</div><div>Thursday.</div><div>If Billy read the freak correctly—and he was all but certain that he did—</div><div>Barbara’s murder would be the climax on which the curtain of this cruel</div><div>“performance” would be rung. Your suicide: soon thereafter.</div><div>Tomorrow evening, long before midnight, he would station himself at her</div><div>bedside.</div><div>This evening, he could not be with her. The urgent tasks on his agenda</div><div>would probably keep him busy until dawn.</div><div>If he was wrong, if her murder was to be a second-act surprise, this sunny</div><div>valley, for him, would become henceforth as dark as the vacant interstellar</div><div>spaces.</div><div>Driving faster, borne forward by a longing for redemption, with sunlight</div><div>slanting from his left and with the valley’s great monument, Mount St. Helena,</div><div>ahead and seeming never to grow nearer, Billy used his cell phone to call</div><div>Whispering Pines, pressing 1 and holding to speed dial.</div><div>Because Barbara had a private room with an attached half-bath, the usual</div><div>visiting-hour rules did not apply. With advance approval, a family member</div><div>might even stay overnight.</div><div>He hoped to stop at Whispering Pines on his way home and arrange to stay</div><div>with Barbara from Thursday evening at least through Friday morning. He had</div><div>conceived a cover story that might be accepted without suspicion.</div><div>The receptionist who answered his call informed him that Mrs. Norlee, the</div><div>manager, would be in meetings until five-thirty but would be able to see him</div><div>then. He took the appointment.</div><div>Shortly before four o’clock, he arrived home, half expecting to see patrol</div><div>cars, a coroner’s van, county deputies in number, and Sergeant Napolitino on</div><div>the front porch, standing over a rocking chair in which Ralph Cottle’s corpse</div><div>sat, unwrapped. But all was quiet.</div><div>Instead of using the garage, Billy parked in the driveway, toward the back</div><div>of the house.</div><div>He went inside and searched every room. He found no indications of an</div><div>intruder having been here during his absence.</div><div>The corpse still lay cocooned behind the sofa.</div><div>165</div><div>Chapter 39</div><div>Above the microwave oven, behind a pair of cabinet doors, a deep space</div><div>contained baking sheets, two perforated pizza pans, and other narrow items</div><div>stored vertically. Billy took the pans out—and the removable rack in which</div><div>they stood—and put them in the pantry.</div><div>At the back of the now empty space was an electric outlet with two</div><div>receptacles. A plug filled the bottom receptacle, and the cord disappeared</div><div>through a cut-out in the rear wall of the cabinet.</div><div>The plug powered the microwave. Billy pulled it.</div><div>Standing on a stepladder, using a power drill, he bored a hole in the floor</div><div>of the upper cabinet, through the ceiling of the oven. This ruined the</div><div>microwave. He didn’t care.</div><div>He used the drill bit as if it were a power file, simultaneously drawing it</div><div>around the perimeter of the bore and pumping it up and down, widening the</div><div>hole. The noise was horrendous.</div><div>A faint smell of scorched insulation arose, but he completed the job before</div><div>the frictional heat grew to be a problem.</div><div>He cleaned the debris out of the microwave. He put the video-cam inside.</div><div>After inserting the output jack of a video-transmission cable into the</div><div>camera, he shoved the other end through the hole that he had drilled in the</div><div>ceiling of the oven. He did the same with a pronged-at-both-ends power cord.</div><div>In the cabinet that previously held baking pans, Billy placed the video-disk</div><div>recorder. Following printed instructions, he jacked the free end of the</div><div>transmission cable into the recorder.</div><div>He plugged the camera power cord into the upper receptacle in the outlet</div><div>at the back of the cabinet. The recorder took the lower receptacle into which</div><div>the microwave had been plugged.</div><div>He loaded a seven-day disk. He set the system per instructions and</div><div>switched it on.</div><div>When he closed the door of the microwave oven, the inner surface of the</div><div>view window pressed against the rubber rim of the camera’s lens hood. The</div><div>videocam was aimed across the kitchen at the back door.</div><div>166</div><div>With the oven light off, Billy could see the camera inside only if he put his</div><div>face very close to the view window. The freak would not discover it unless he</div><div>decided to make microwave popcorn.</div><div>Because the window contained a fine screen laminated between layers of</div><div>glass, Billy didn’t know if the camera would have a clear view. He needed to</div><div>test it.</div><div>The pleated shades were drawn over all the kitchen windows. He raised</div><div>them, and he turned on the overhead lights.</div><div>He stood just inside the back door for a moment. Then he crossed the room</div><div>at an unhurried pace.</div><div>The recorder featured a mini screen for quick review. When Billy climbed</div><div>the stepladder and replayed the time-lapse recording, he saw a darkish figure.</div><div>As it crossed the room, resolution improved, and he could recognize himself.</div><div>He did not like watching himself, Ashen, sullen, and uncertain, full of</div><div>determined action but with halting purpose.</div><div>In fairness to himself, the image was black-and-white, and a little grainy.</div><div>His apparent lurch was merely the effect of time-lapse recording.</div><div>Allowing for all of that, he still saw an unconvincing figure: shape and</div><div>shading, but no more substance than an apparition. He appeared to be a</div><div>stranger in his own home.</div><div>He reset the machine. He closed the cabinet doors and put away the</div><div>stepladder.</div><div>In the bathroom, he changed the dressing on his brow. The hook wounds</div><div>were angry red, but no worse than before.</div><div>He changed into a black T-shirt, black jeans, black Rockports. Sunset was</div><div>less than four hours away, and when twilight passed, Billy would need to move</div><div>as inconspicuously as possible in a hostile night.</div><div>167</div><div>Chapter 40</div><div>Gretchen Norlee favored severe dark suits, wore no jewelry, combed her</div><div>hair straight back from her forehead, regarded the world through steel-framed</div><div>eyeglasses—and decorated her office with plush toys. A teddy bear, a toad, a</div><div>duck, a Knuffle Bunny, and a midnight-blue kitten were arranged on shelves in</div><div>a collection that consisted primarily of dogs that greeted visitors with a</div><div>brightness of unfurled pink- and red-velvet tongues.</div><div>Gretchen managed the 102-2ed Whispering Pines Convalescent Home</div><div>with military efficiency and maximum compassion. Her warm manner belied</div><div>the gruffness of her hard-edged voice.</div><div>She embodied no greater contradictions than any person who found</div><div>temporary balance in this most temporary world. Hers were just more</div><div>immediately visible, and more endearing.</div><div>Leaving her desk to signal that she viewed this as a personal consideration</div><div>rather than as a business matter, Gretchen sat in a wingback chair catercorner</div><div>to the chair in which Billy sat.</div><div>She said, “Because Barbara occupies a private room, she may have</div><div>company outside normal visiting hours without inconveniencing other patients.</div><div>I see no problem, though family usually stay overnight only when a patient has</div><div>just returned from a hospital transfer.”</div><div>Although Gretchen had too much class to express her curiosity directly,</div><div>Billy felt obliged to satisfy it with an explanation, even though every word he</div><div>told her was a lie.</div><div>“My Bible-study group has been discussing what scripture says about the</div><div>power of prayer.”</div><div>“So you’re in a Bible-study group,” she said as if intrigued, as if he was</div><div>not a man whom she could easily picture in such a pious pursuit.</div><div>“There was a major medical study that showed when friends and relatives</div><div>actively pray for a sick loved one, the patient more often recovers, and recovers</div><div>more quickly.”</div><div>168</div><div>That controversial study had provided gas to inflate barroom debates when</div><div>it had hit the newspapers. Recollection of all that boozy blather, not an earnest</div><div>Bible-study group, had inspired Billy to concoct this cover story.</div><div>“I think I remember reading about it,” Gretchen Norlee said.</div><div>“Of course I pray for Barbara every day.”</div><div>“Of course.”</div><div>“But I’ve come to see that prayer is more meaningful when it involves</div><div>some sacrifice.”</div><div>“Sacrifice,” she said thoughtfully.</div><div>He smiled. “I don’t mean to slaughter a lamb.”</div><div>“Ah. That will please the janitorial staff.”</div><div>“But a prayer before bed, however sincere, is no inconvenience.”</div><div>“I see your point.”</div><div>“Surely prayer will be more meaningful and effective if it comes at some</div><div>personal cost—like at least the loss of a night’s sleep.”</div><div>“I’ve never thought of it that way,” she said.</div><div>“From time to time,” Billy said, “I’d like to sit with her all night in prayer.</div><div>If it doesn’t help her, it’ll at least help me.”</div><div>Listening to himself, he thought that he sounded as phony as a TV</div><div>evangelist proclaiming the virtue of abstinence upon being caught naked with a</div><div>hooker in the back of his limo.</div><div>Evidently, Gretchen Norlee heard him differently from how he heard</div><div>himself. Behind her steel-rimmed spectacles, her eyes were moist with</div><div>sympathy.</div><div>His newfound slickness dismayed Billy, and worried him. When a liar</div><div>became too skilled at deception, he could lose the ability to discern truth, and</div><div>could himself be more easily deceived.</div><div>He expected there might be a price for playing a nice woman like Gretchen</div><div>Norlee for a fool, as there was a price for everything.</div><div>169</div><div>Chapter 41</div><div>As Billy followed the main hall toward Barbara’s room in the west wing,</div><div>Dr. Jordan Ferrier, her physician, exited the room of another patient. They</div><div>almost collided.</div><div>“Billy!”</div><div>“Hello, Dr. Ferrier.”</div><div>“Billy, Billy, Billy.”</div><div>“I sense a lecture coming on.”</div><div>“You’ve been avoiding me.”</div><div>“I’ve tried my best,” Billy admitted.</div><div>Dr. Ferrier looked younger than forty-two. He was sandy-haired, greeneyed,</div><div>perpetually cheerful, and a dedicated salesman for death.</div><div>“We’re weeks overdue for our semiannual review.”</div><div>“The semiannual review is your idea. I’m very happy with a once-everydecade</div><div>review.”</div><div>“Let’s go see Barbara.”</div><div>“No,” Billy said. “I won’t talk about this in front of her.”</div><div>“All right.” Taking Billy by the arm, Dr. Ferrier steered him to the lounge</div><div>where the staff took their breaks.</div><div>They were alone in the room. Vending machines for snacks and soft drinks</div><div>hummed, ready to dispense high-calorie, high-fat, high-caffeine treats to</div><div>medical workers who knew the consequences of their cravings but had the</div><div>good sense to cut themselves some slack.</div><div>Ferrier drew a white plastic chair away from an orange Formica table.</div><div>When Billy didn’t follow suit, the doctor sighed, pushed the chair under the</div><div>table, and remained on his feet.</div><div>“Three weeks ago I completed an evaluation of Barbara.”</div><div>170</div><div>“I complete one every day.”</div><div>“I’m not your enemy, Billy.”</div><div>“It’s hard to tell around this time of the year.”</div><div>Ferrier was a hard-working physician, intelligent, talented, and wellmeaning.</div><div>Unfortunately, the university that turned him out had infected him</div><div>with what they called “utilitarian ethics.”</div><div>“She’s gotten no better,” said Dr. Ferrier.</div><div>“She’s gotten no worse, either.”</div><div>“Any chance of her regaining high cognitive function—”</div><div>“Sometimes she talks,” Billy interrupted. “You know she does.”</div><div>“Does she ever make sense? Is she coherent?”</div><div>“Once in a while,” Billy said.</div><div>“Give me an example.”</div><div>“I can’t, offhand. I’d have to check my notebooks.”</div><div>Ferrier had soulful eyes. He knew how to use them. “She was a wonderful</div><div>woman, Billy. No one but you had more respect for her than I did. But now she</div><div>has no meaningful quality of life.”</div><div>“To me, it’s very meaningful.”</div><div>“You’re not the one suffering. She is.”</div><div>“She doesn’t seem to be suffering,” Billy said.</div><div>“We can’t really know for sure, can we?”</div><div>“Exactly.”</div><div>Barbara had liked Ferrier. That was one reason Billy did not replace him.</div><div>On some deep level she might perceive what was happening around her. In</div><div>that event, she might feel safer knowing she was being cared for by Ferrier</div><div>instead of by a strange doctor whom she’d never met.</div><div>Sometimes this irony was a grinding wheel that sharpened Billy’s sense of</div><div>injustice to a razor’s edge.</div><div>Had she known about Ferrier’s bioethics infection, had she known that he</div><div>believed he possessed the wisdom and the right to determine whether a Down’s</div><div>Syndrome baby or a handicapped child, or a comatose woman, enjoyed a</div><div>quality of life worth living, she might have changed physicians. But she had</div><div>not known.</div><div>171</div><div>“She was such a vibrant, involved person,” Ferrier said. “She wouldn’t</div><div>want to just hang on like this, year after year.”</div><div>“She’s not just hanging on,” Billy said. “She’s not lost at the bottom of a</div><div>sea. She’s floating near the surface. She’s right there.”</div><div>“I understand your pain, Billy. Believe me, I do. But you don’t have the</div><div>medical knowledge to assess her condition. She’s not right there. She never</div><div>will be.”</div><div>“I remember something she said just the other day. ‘I want to know what it</div><div>says… the sea, what it is that it keeps on saying.’”</div><div>Ferrier regarded him with equal measures of tenderness and frustration.</div><div>“That’s your best example of coherence?”</div><div>“ ‘First do no harm,’” Billy said.</div><div>“Harm is done to other patients when we spend limited resources on</div><div>hopeless cases.”</div><div>“She’s not hopeless. She laughs sometimes. She’s right there, and she’s</div><div>got plenty of resources.”</div><div>“Which could do so much good if properly applied.”</div><div>“I don’t want the money.”</div><div>“I know. You’re not the kind of guy who could ever spend a dime of it on</div><div>yourself. But you could direct those resources to people who have a greater</div><div>potential for an acceptable quality of life than she does, people who would be</div><div>more likely to be helped.”</div><div>Billy tolerated Ferrier also because the physician had been so effective in</div><div>pre-trial depositions that the maker of the vichyssoise had chosen to settle long</div><div>before getting near a courtroom.</div><div>“I’m only thinking of Barbara,” Ferrier continued. “If I were in her</div><div>condition, I wouldn’t want to lie there like that, year after year.”</div><div>“And I would respect your wishes,” Billy said. “But we don’t know what</div><div>her wishes are.”</div><div>“Letting her go doesn’t require active steps,” Ferrier reminded him. “We</div><div>need only be passive. Remove the feeding tube.”</div><div>In her coma, Barbara had no reliable gag reflex and could not properly</div><div>swallow. Food would end up in her lungs.</div><div>“Remove the feeding tube and let nature take its course.”</div><div>“Starvation.”</div><div>172</div><div>“Just nature.”</div><div>Billy kept her in Ferrier’s care also because the physician was</div><div>straightforward about his belief in utilitarian bioethics. Another doctor might</div><div>believe the same but conceal it… and fancy himself an angel—or agent—of</div><div>mercy.</div><div>Twice a year, Ferrier would make this argument, but he would not act</div><div>without Billy’s approval.</div><div>“No,” Billy said. “No. We won’t do that. We’ll go on just the way we have</div><div>been going.”</div><div>“Four years is such a long time.”</div><div>Billy said, “Death is longer.”</div><div>173</div><div>Chapter 42</div><div>Six o’clock sun on the vineyards filled the window with summer, life, and</div><div>bounty.</div><div>Beneath her pale lids, Barbara Mandel’s eyes followed the action of vivid</div><div>dreams.</div><div>Sitting on the barstool by her bedside, Billy said, “I saw Harry today. He</div><div>still smiles when he remembers you called him a Muppet. He says his greatest</div><div>achievement is never having been disbarred.”</div><div>He didn’t tell her anything else about his day. The rest of it would not have</div><div>lifted her spirits.</div><div>From the standpoint of defense, the two weak points of the room were the</div><div>door to the hallway and the window. The adjoining bathroom was windowless.</div><div>The window featured a blind and a latch. The door could not be locked.</div><div>Like every hospital bed, Barbara’s had wheels. Thursday evening, as</div><div>midnight approached, Billy could roll her out of here, where the killer expected</div><div>to find her, and put her in another room, somewhere safer.</div><div>She wasn’t tethered to life-support systems or to monitors. Her food</div><div>supply and pump hung from a rack fixed to the bed frame.</div><div>From the nurses’ station at midpoint of the long main corridor, no one</div><div>could see around the corner to this west-wing room. With luck, he might be</div><div>able to move Barbara at the penultimate moment without being seen, then</div><div>return here to wait for the freak.</div><div>Assuming it came to that crisis point. Which was a safe if not happy</div><div>assumption.</div><div>He left Barbara alone and walked the west wing, glancing in the rooms of</div><div>other patients, checking a supply closet, a bathing chamber, reviewing</div><div>possibilities.</div><div>174</div><div>When he returned to her room, she was talking: “… soaked in water…</div><div>smothered in mud… lamed by stones…”</div><div>Her words suggested a bad dream, but her tone of voice did not. She spoke</div><div>softly and as if enchanted.</div><div>“… cut by flints… stung by nettles… torn by briars…”</div><div>Billy had forgotten his pocket notebook and his pen. Even if he had</div><div>remembered them, he could not take the time to settle down and record these</div><div>utterances.</div><div>“Quick!” she said.</div><div>Standing at her bedside, he put a comforting hand on Barbara’s shoulder.</div><div>“Give it mouth!” she whispered urgently.</div><div>He half expected her eyes to open and to fix on him, but they did not.</div><div>When Barbara fell silent, Billy squatted to look for the cord that powered</div><div>the bed’s adjustable-mattress mechanism. If he needed to move her the</div><div>following night, he would have to pull that plug.</div><div>On the floor, just under the high bed, lay a snapshot taken by a digital</div><div>camera. Billy picked up the photo and stood to examine it in better light. “…</div><div>creep and creep…” Barbara whispered. He turned the snapshot three ways</div><div>before he realized that it depicted a praying mantis, apparently dead, pale upon</div><div>pale painted boards. “… creep and creep… and tear him open…” Suddenly her</div><div>whispering voice twitched like a dying mantis down through the spiraling</div><div>chambers of Billy’s ears, inspiring a shudder and a chill. During normal</div><div>visiting hours, family and friends of patients came through the front doors and</div><div>went where they wished, without any requirement to sign a register. “… hands</div><div>of the dead…” she whispered. Because Barbara required less attention than</div><div>conscious patients with their myriad complaints and demands, nurses did not</div><div>attend her as frequently as they did others. “… great stones… angry red…” A</div><div>quiet visitor might stay here half an hour and never be seen at this bedside—or</div><div>entering, or leaving. He did not want to leave Barbara alone, talking to an</div><div>empty room, though she must have done so on countless previous occasions.</div><div>Billy’s evening, already fully scheduled, had been complicated by the addition</div><div>of one more urgent task. “… chains hanging… terrible…” Billy pocketed the</div><div>snapshot. He bent to Barbara and kissed her forehead. Her brow was cool, as</div><div>always it was cool. At the window, he drew down the blind. Reluctant to leave,</div><div>he stood in the open doorway, looking back at her. She said something then</div><div>that resonated with him, though he had no clue why.</div><div>“Mrs. Joe,” she said. “Mrs. Joe.”</div><div>175</div><div>He did not know a Mrs. Joe or Mrs. Joseph, or Mrs. Johanson, or Mrs.</div><div>Jonas, or anyone by any name similar to the one that Barbara had spoken. And</div><div>yet somehow… he thought he did.</div><div>The phantom mantis twitched in his ears again. Along his spine.</div><div>With a prayer as real as any that he had lied about to Gretchen Norlee, he</div><div>left Barbara alone on this last night in which she might be safe.</div><div>Less than three hours of daylight remained in a sky too dry to support a</div><div>wisp of a cloud, the sun a thermonuclear brilliance, the air gathered to a</div><div>stillness as if in anticipation of a cataclysmic blast.</div><div>176</div><div>Chapter 43</div><div>The picketed front yard contained no grass in need of mowing, but instead</div><div>a lush carpet of baby’s tears and, under the graceful boughs of pepper trees,</div><div>lace flower.</div><div>Shading the front walk, an arbor tunnel was draped with trumpet vines.</div><div>Orchestras of silent scarlet horns raised their flared bells to the sun.</div><div>The arched-lattice tunnel, a preview of twilight, led to a sunny front patio</div><div>where pots were filled with red garnet, red valerian.</div><div>The house was a Spanish bungalow. Modest but graceful, it had been</div><div>tenderly maintained.</div><div>The black silhouette of a bird had been painted on the red front door. The</div><div>wings were on the upstroke, the bird in an angle of ascent.</div><div>Halfway through Billy’s brief knock, the door opened, as though he had</div><div>been expected and had been awaited with keen anticipation.</div><div>Ivy Elgin said, “Hi, Billy,” without surprise, as if she had seen him</div><div>through a window in the door. It had no window.</div><div>Barefoot, she wore khaki shorts cut for comfort and a roomy red T-shirt</div><div>that sold nothing. Hooded and cloaked, Ivy would still have been a lamp to</div><div>every moth that flew.</div><div>“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he said.</div><div>“I’m off Wednesdays.” She stepped back from the door.</div><div>Hesitating on the sun side of the threshold, Billy said, “Yeah. But you have</div><div>a life.”</div><div>“I’m shelling pistachios in the kitchen.”</div><div>She turned and walked away into the house, leaving him to follow as if he</div><div>had been here a thousand times. This was his first visit.</div><div>Heavily curtained sunlight and a floor lamp with a tasseled sapphire-silk</div><div>shade accommodated shadows in the living room.</div><div>Billy glimpsed dark fir floors, midnight-blue mohair furniture, a Persianstyle</div><div>rug. The artwork seemed to be from the 1930’s.</div><div>177</div><div>He made some noise on the hardwood floor, but Ivy did not. She crossed</div><div>the room as if a slip of air always separated the soles of her feet from the fir</div><div>planks, the way a sylph fly may choose to step across a pond without dimpling</div><div>the surface tension of the water.</div><div>At the back of the house, the kitchen matched the size of the living room</div><div>and contained a dining area.</div><div>Beadboard paneling, French-pane cabinet doors, a white tile floor with</div><div>black-diamond inlays, and an ineffable quality made him think of the bayou</div><div>and New Orleans charm.</div><div>Two windows between the kitchen and the back porch were open for</div><div>ventilation. In one window sat a large black bird.</div><div>The creature’s perfect stillness suggested taxidermy. Then it cocked its</div><div>head.</div><div>Although Ivy said nothing, Billy felt invited to the table, and even as he</div><div>sat, she put a glass of ice in front of him. She picked up a pitcher from the table</div><div>and poured tea.</div><div>Also on the red-and-white-checkered oilcloth were another glass of tea, a</div><div>dish of fresh cherries, a sheet-cake pan piled high with unshelled nuts, and a</div><div>bowl half full of liberated pistachios.</div><div>“You’ve got a nice place,” Billy said.</div><div>“It was my grandmother’s house.” She took three cherries from the dish.</div><div>“She raised me.”</div><div>Ivy spoke softly, as always. Even at the tavern, she never raised her voice,</div><div>yet she never failed to make herself heard.</div><div>Not one to pry, Billy was surprised to hear himself ask, in a voice softened</div><div>to match hers, “What happened to your mother?”</div><div>“She died in childbirth,” Ivy said as she lined up the cherries on the</div><div>window sill beside the bird. “My father just moved on.”</div><div>The tea had been sweetened with peach nectar, a hint of mint.</div><div>As Ivy returned to the table, sat, and continued shelling the nuts, the bird</div><div>watched Billy and ignored the cherries.</div><div>“Is he a pet?” Billy asked.</div><div>“We own each other. He seldom comes farther than the window, and when</div><div>he does, he respects my rules of cleanliness.”</div><div>“What’s his name?”</div><div>178</div><div>“He hasn’t told me yet. Eventually he will.”</div><div>Never in Billy’s life, until now, had he felt entirely at ease and vaguely</div><div>disoriented at the same time. Otherwise, he might not have found himself</div><div>asking such an odd question: “Which came first, the real bird or the one on the</div><div>front door?”</div><div>“They arrived together,” she said, giving him an answer no less odd than</div><div>his question.</div><div>“What is he—a crow?”</div><div>“He’s more lordly than that,” she said. “He’s a raven, and wants us to</div><div>believe he’s nothing more.”</div><div>Billy did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing. He felt</div><div>comfortable with silence, and apparently so did she.</div><div>He realized that he had lost the sense of urgency with which he had left</div><div>Whispering Pines. Time no longer seemed to be running out; in fact time</div><div>seemed not to matter here.</div><div>Finally the bird turned to the cherries, using its bill to strip the meat from</div><div>the pits with swift efficiency.</div><div>Ivy’s long nimble fingers appeared to work slowly, yet she quickly added</div><div>shelled pistachios to the bowl.</div><div>“This house is so quiet,” Billy said.</div><div>“Because the walls haven’t soaked up years of useless talk.”</div><div>“They haven’t?”</div><div>“My grandmother was deaf. We communicated by sign language and the</div><div>written word.”</div><div>Beyond the back porch lay a flower garden in which all blooms were red</div><div>or deep blue, or royal purple. If one leaf stirred, if a cricket busied itself, if a</div><div>bee circled a rose, no sound found its way through the open windows.</div><div>“You might like some music,” Ivy said, “but I’d prefer none.”</div><div>“You don’t like music?”</div><div>“I get enough of it at the tavern.”</div><div>“I like zydeco. And Western swing. The Texas Top Hands. Bob Wills and</div><div>the Texas Playboys.”</div><div>“Anyway, there’s already music,” she said, “if you’re still enough to hear</div><div>it.”</div><div>179</div><div>He must not have been still enough.</div><div>Taking the photo of the dead mantis from his pocket and placing it on the</div><div>table, Billy said, “I found this on the floor in Barbara’s room at Whispering</div><div>Pines.”</div><div>“You can keep it if you want.”</div><div>He didn’t know what to make of that. “Were you visiting her?”</div><div>“I sit with her sometimes.”</div><div>“I didn’t know.”</div><div>“She was kind to me.”</div><div>“You didn’t start to work at the tavern until a year after she was in a</div><div>coma.”</div><div>“I knew her before.”</div><div>“Really.”</div><div>“She was kind to me when Grandmother was dying in the hospital.”</div><div>Barbara had been a nurse, a good one.</div><div>“How often do you visit her?” Billy asked.</div><div>“Once a month.”</div><div>“Why have you never told me, Ivy?”</div><div>“Then we’d have to talk about her, wouldn’t we?”</div><div>“Talk about her?”</div><div>“Talking about how she is, what she’s suffered—does that give you</div><div>peace?” Ivy asked.</div><div>“Peace? No. How could it?”</div><div>“Does remembering how she was, before the coma, give you peace?”</div><div>He considered. “Sometimes.”</div><div>Her gaze rose from the pistachios, and her extraordinary brandy eyes met</div><div>his eyes. “Then don’t talk about now. Just remember when.”</div><div>Finished with two cherries, the raven paused to stretch its wings. Silently</div><div>they opened and silently closed.</div><div>When Billy looked at Ivy again, her attention had returned to her shelling</div><div>hands.</div><div>180</div><div>He asked, “Why did you take this snapshot with you when you visited</div><div>her?”</div><div>“I take them all with me everywhere, the most recent photos of dead</div><div>things.”</div><div>“But why?”</div><div>“Haruspicy,” she reminded him. “I read them. They foretell.”</div><div>He sipped his tea.</div><div>The raven watched him, beak open, as if it were shrieking. It made no</div><div>sound.</div><div>“What do they foretell about Barbara?” Billy asked.</div><div>Ivy’s serenity and fey quality concealed whether she calculated her answer</div><div>or whether instead she hesitated only because her thoughts were divided</div><div>between here and elsewhere. “Nothing.”</div><div>“Nothing at all?”</div><div>She had given her answer. She didn’t have another.</div><div>On the table, in the photo, the mantis said nothing to Billy.</div><div>“Where did you get this idea to read dead things?” he asked. “From your</div><div>grandmother?”</div><div>“No. She disapproved. She was an old-fashioned devout Catholic. To her,</div><div>believing in the occult is a sin. It puts the immortal soul in jeopardy.”</div><div>“But you disagree.”</div><div>“I do and I don’t,” Ivy said more softly than usual.</div><div>After the raven finished the third cherry, the naked pits were left side by</div><div>side on the window sill, as if in acknowledgment of the household rules of</div><div>neatness and order.</div><div>“I never heard my mother’s voice,” Ivy said.</div><div>Billy did not know what to make of that statement, and then he</div><div>remembered that her mother had died in childbirth.</div><div>Ivy said, “Since I was very little, I’ve known my mother has something</div><div>terribly important to say to me.”</div><div>For the first time he noticed a wall clock. It had no second, minute, or hour</div><div>hands.</div><div>“This house has always been so quiet,” Ivy said. “So quiet. You learn to</div><div>listen here.”</div><div>181</div><div>Billy listened.</div><div>“The dead have things to tell us,” Ivy said.</div><div>With polished-anthracite eyes, the raven regarded its mistress.</div><div>“The wall is thinner here,” she said. “The wall between the worlds. A spirit</div><div>might speak through if it wanted to badly enough.”</div><div>Pushing the empty shells aside, dropping the nut meats in the bowl, she</div><div>made the softest symphony of sounds, quieter even than the melting ice</div><div>shifting in the tea glasses.</div><div>Ivy said, “Sometimes in the night or in a particularly still moment of an</div><div>afternoon, or at twilight when the horizon swallows the sun and fully silences</div><div>it, I know she’s calling me. I can almost hear the quality of her voice… but not</div><div>the words. Not yet.”</div><div>Billy thought of Barbara speaking from the abyss of unnatural sleep, her</div><div>words meaningless to everyone else, yet fraught with enigmatic meaning to</div><div>him.</div><div>He found Ivy Elgin as troubling as she was alluring. If her innocence</div><div>sometimes seemed to approach the immaculate, Billy warned himself that in</div><div>her heart, as in the heart of every man and woman, must be a chamber where</div><div>light didn’t reach, where a calming silence could not be achieved.</div><div>Nevertheless, regardless of whatever he himself might believe about life</div><div>and death, and in spite of whatever impure motives Ivy entertained, if indeed</div><div>she entertained any, Billy felt that she was sincere in her belief that her mother</div><div>was trying to reach her, would continue trying, and would eventually succeed.</div><div>More important, she so impressed him, not by reason but by the judgment</div><div>of his adaptive unconscious, that he was unable to write her off as a mere</div><div>eccentric. In this house, the wall between worlds might well have been washed</div><div>thin, rinsed by so many years of silence.</div><div>Her predictions based on haruspicy were seldom correct in any detail. She</div><div>blamed this on her incompetence in reading signs, and would not abide</div><div>suggestions that haruspicy itself was useless.</div><div>Billy now understood her obstinacy. If one could not read the future in the</div><div>unique conditions of each dead thing, it might also be true that the dead have</div><div>nothing to tell us and that a child waiting to hear the voice of a lost mother</div><div>might never hear it no matter how well she listened or how silent and attentive</div><div>she remained.</div><div>182</div><div>And so she studied photos of possums broken along roadsides, of dead</div><div>mantises, of birds fallen from the sky.</div><div>She silently walked her house, noiselessly shelled pistachios, softly spoke</div><div>to the raven or did not speak at all, and at times the quiet became a perfect</div><div>hush.</div><div>Such a hush had fallen over them now, but Billy broke it.</div><div>Interested less in Ivy’s analysis than in her reaction, watching her more</div><div>intently than ever the bird had done, Billy said, “Sometimes psychopathic</div><div>killers keep souvenirs to remind them of their victims.”</div><div>As though Billy’s comment had been no stranger than a reference to the</div><div>heat, Ivy paused for a sip of tea, then returned to shelling.</div><div>He suspected that nothing anyone said to Ivy ever elicited a reaction of</div><div>surprise, as if she always knew what the words would be before they were</div><div>spoken.</div><div>“I heard about this case,” he continued, “where a serial killer cut off the</div><div>face of a victim and kept it in a jar of formaldehyde.”</div><div>Ivy scooped nut shells from the table and put them in the waste can beside</div><div>her chair. She didn’t drop them, but placed them in the can in such a way that</div><div>they did not rattle.</div><div>By watching Ivy, Billy could not tell if she had previously heard of the</div><div>face thief or if instead this was news to her.</div><div>“If you came upon that faceless body, what would you read from it? Not</div><div>about the future, but about him, the killer.”</div><div>“Theater,” she said without hesitation.</div><div>“I’m not sure what you mean.”</div><div>“He likes theater.”</div><div>“Why do you say that?”</div><div>“The drama of cutting off a face,” she said.</div><div>“I don’t make that connection.”</div><div>From the shallow dish she took a cherry.</div><div>“The theater is deception,” she said. “No actor plays himself.”</div><div>Billy could only say, “All right,” and wait.</div><div>She said, “In every role, an actor wears a false identity.”</div><div>183</div><div>She put the cherry in her mouth. A moment later, she spit the pit into the</div><div>palm of her hand, and swallowed the fruit.</div><div>Whether she meant to imply that the pit was the ultimate reality of the</div><div>cherry, that was what he inferred.</div><div>Again, Ivy met his eyes. “He didn’t want the face because it was a face. He</div><div>wanted it because it was a mask.”</div><div>Her eyes were more beautiful than readable, but he did not think that her</div><div>insight chilled her as it did him. Maybe when you spent your life listening for</div><div>the voices of the dead, you didn’t chill easily.</div><div>He said, “Do you mean sometimes, when he’s alone and in the mood, he</div><div>takes it out of the jar and wears it?”</div><div>“Maybe he does. Or maybe he just wanted it because it reminded him of</div><div>an important drama in his life, a favorite performance.” Performance.</div><div>That word had been impressed upon him by Ralph Cottle. Ivy might have</div><div>repeated it knowingly, or in all innocence. He could not tell.</div><div>She continued to meet his eyes. “Do you think every face is a mask,</div><div>Billy?”</div><div>“Do you?”</div><div>“My deaf grandmother, as gentle and kind as any saint, still had her</div><div>secrets. They were innocent, even charming secrets. Her mask was almost as</div><div>transparent as glass—but she still wore one.”</div><div>He didn’t know what she was telling him, what she meant for him to infer</div><div>from what she had said. He did not believe that asking her directly would result</div><div>in a more straightforward answer.</div><div>Not that she necessarily meant to deceive. Her conversation was frequently</div><div>more allusive than straightforward, not by intention but because of her nature.</div><div>Everything she said sounded as limpid as a bell note to the ear—yet was</div><div>sometimes Semi opaque to interpretation.</div><div>Often her silences seemed to say more than the words she spoke, as might</div><div>make sense for a girl raised by the loving deaf.</div><div>If he read her half well, Ivy was not deceiving him in any way. But then</div><div>why had she just suggested that every face, her own included, was a mask?</div><div>If Ivy visited Barbara only because Barbara had once been kind to her, and</div><div>if she took photographs of dead things to Whispering Pines only because she</div><div>took them everywhere, the photo of the mantis had no relationship to the trap</div><div>in which Billy found himself, and she had no knowledge of the freak.</div><div>184</div><div>In which case, he could get up, go, and do what urgently needed to be</div><div>done. Yet he remained at the table.</div><div>Her eyes had lowered once more to the pistachios, and her hands had</div><div>returned to the quiet, useful work of shelling.</div><div>“My grandmother was deaf from birth,” Ivy said. “She’d never heard a</div><div>word spoken and didn’t know how to form them.”</div><div>Watching her nimble fingers, Billy suspected that Ivy’s days were filled</div><div>with useful work—tending to her garden, maintaining this fine house in its</div><div>current state of spotless perfection, cooking—and that she avoided idleness at</div><div>all costs.</div><div>“She’d never heard anyone laugh, either, but she knew how to do that, all</div><div>right. She had a beautiful and infectious laugh. I never heard her cry until I was</div><div>eight.”</div><div>Billy understood Ivy’s compulsive industry as a reflection of his own, and</div><div>sympathized. Quite apart from the question of whether or not he could trust</div><div>her, he liked her.</div><div>“When I was much younger,” Ivy said, “I didn’t fully understand what it</div><div>meant that my mother had died in childbirth. I used to think that somehow I</div><div>had killed her and was responsible.”</div><div>In the window, the raven stretched its wings again, as silently as it had</div><div>done before.</div><div>“I was eight when I realized I had no guilt,” Ivy said. “When I signed my</div><div>realization to my grandmother, I saw her cry for the first time. This sounds</div><div>funny, but I had assumed when she cried, it would be the weeping of a perfect</div><div>mute, nothing but tears and wrenching spasms of silence. But her sobs were as</div><div>normal as her laugh. As far as those two sounds were concerned, she was not a</div><div>woman apart from those who could hear and speak; she was one of their</div><div>community.”</div><div>Billy had thought that Ivy mesmerized men with her beauty and sexuality,</div><div>but the spell she cast had a deeper source.</div><div>He knew what he intended to reveal only as he heard the words come</div><div>forth: “When I was fourteen, I shot my mother and father.”</div><div>Without looking up, she said, “I know.”</div><div>“Dead.”</div><div>“I know. Have you ever thought that one of them might want to speak to</div><div>you through the wall?”</div><div>185</div><div>“No. I never have. And, God, I hope they never do.”</div><div>She shelled, he watched, and in time she said, “You need to go.”</div><div>By her tone, she meant that he could stay but understood that he needed to</div><div>leave.</div><div>“Yes,” he said, and rose from his chair.</div><div>“You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Billy?”</div><div>“No.”</div><div>“That’s a lie.”</div><div>“Yes.”</div><div>“And that’s as much as you’ll tell me.”</div><div>He said nothing.</div><div>“You came here looking for something. Did you find it?”</div><div>“I’m not sure.”</div><div>“Sometimes,” she said, “you can listen so hard for the faintest of sounds</div><div>that you don’t even hear the louder ones.”</div><div>He thought about that for a moment and then said, “Will you see me to the</div><div>door?”</div><div>“You know the way now.”</div><div>“You should lock up behind me.”</div><div>“The door latches when you close it.”</div><div>“That’s not good enough. Before dark, you should engage the deadbolts.</div><div>And close those windows.”</div><div>“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said. “I never have been.”</div><div>“I always have been.”</div><div>“I know,” she said. “For twenty years.”</div><div>On his way out, Billy made less noise on the hardwood floors than he had</div><div>done on his way in. He closed the front door, tested the latch, and followed the</div><div>arbor-shaded walkway to the street, leaving Ivy Elgin with her tea and</div><div>pistachios, with the watchful raven at her back, in the hush of the kitchen</div><div>where the clock had no hands.</div><div>186</div><div>Chapter 44</div><div>Steve Zillis rented a single-story house of no distinguishing architecture on</div><div>a street where the bonding philosophy among the neighbors seemed to be</div><div>neglect of property.</div><div>The only well-maintained residence was immediately north of Zillis’s</div><div>place. Jackie O’Hara’s friend, Celia Reynolds, lived there.</div><div>She claimed to have seen Zillis in a rage chopping chairs, watermelons,</div><div>and mannequins in his backyard.</div><div>The attached garage stood on the south side of his house, out of Celia</div><div>Reynolds’s line of sight. Having driven with frequent glances at his mirrors</div><div>and having seen no tail, Billy parked boldly in the driveway.</div><div>Between Zillis and his southern neighbor rose a wall of eighty-foot,</div><div>untrimmed eucalyptus trees that provided privacy.</div><div>When Billy got out of the Explorer, the extent of his disguise was a blue</div><div>baseball cap. He had pulled it low on his forehead.</div><div>His toolbox gave him legitimacy. A man with a toolbox, moving with</div><div>purpose, is assumed to be a repairman, and excites no suspicion.</div><div>As a bartender, Billy had a well-known face in certain circles. But he</div><div>didn’t expect to be in the open for long.</div><div>He walked between the fragrant eucalyptus trees and the garage. As he</div><div>hoped, he found a man-size side door.</div><div>In keeping with the property neglect and the cheap rent, only a simple</div><div>lockset secured that entrance. No deadbolt.</div><div>Billy used his laminated driver’s license to loid the latch bolt. He took his</div><div>toolbox into the hot garage and turned on a light.</div><div>On his way from Whispering Pines to Ivy Elgin’s house, he had driven</div><div>past the tavern. Steve’s car had been parked in the lot.</div><div>Zillis lived alone. The way was clear.</div><div>Billy opened the garage, drove the SUV inside, closed the door. He</div><div>proceeded casually, not as if in a hurry to get out of sight.</div><div>Wednesday nights were usually busy at the tavern. Steve wouldn’t be</div><div>home until after two o’clock Thursday morning.</div><div>187</div><div>Nevertheless, Billy couldn’t afford to take seven hours to get into the</div><div>house and search it. Elsewhere, two dead bodies salted with evidence against</div><div>him needed to be disposed of long before dawn.</div><div>Festooned with webs and dust, the garage was free of clutter. In ten</div><div>minutes, he found spiders but no spare key to the inner door.</div><div>He wanted to avoid signs of forced entry; however, picking a lock isn’t as</div><div>easy as it appears to be in movies. Neither is seducing a woman or killing a</div><div>man, or anything else.</div><div>Having installed new locks in his house, Billy had not only learned to do</div><div>the work correctly but also learned how often it is done badly. He hoped for</div><div>sloppy workmanship—and found it.</div><div>Perhaps the door had been hung to swing from the wrong side. Rather than</div><div>rehang it to match the lockset, they had installed the lockset in reverse, with the</div><div>interior face turned to the garage.</div><div>Instead of an unremovable escutcheon, he was offered one with two</div><div>spanner screws. The keyhole plug had a grip ring for extraction.</div><div>In less time than he had spent searching for a spare key, he opened the</div><div>door. Before proceeding, he put the lock back together. He cleaned up all</div><div>evidence of what he had done and wiped all his prints off the door hardware.</div><div>He returned the tools to the box—and took from it his revolver. To</div><div>facilitate a hasty exit, he put the tools in the Explorer.</div><div>In addition to the toolbox, he had brought a box of disposable latex gloves.</div><div>He slipped his hands into a pair.</div><div>Now, with an hour of daylight remaining, he toured the house, switching</div><div>on lamps and ceiling fixtures as he went.</div><div>Many of the shelves in the pantry were bare. Steve’s provisions were a</div><div>cliché of bachelorhood: canned soups, canned stews, potato chips, corn chips,</div><div>Cheez Doodles.</div><div>The dirty dishes and pots heaped in the sink outnumbered clean items in</div><div>the cabinets, most of which were empty.</div><div>In a drawer, he found a collection of spare keys for a car, for padlocks,</div><div>perhaps for the house. He tried a few in the back door and found one that</div><div>worked. He pocketed that spare before returning the other keys to the drawer.</div><div>Steve Zillis scorned furniture. In the dinette off the kitchen, the single</div><div>chair did not match the scarred Formica table.</div><div>188</div><div>The living room contained only a lumpy sofa, a cracked-leather ottoman,</div><div>and a TV with DVD player on a wheeled stand. Magazines were stacked on the</div><div>floor, and near them were a discarded pair of dirty socks.</div><div>Except for the lack of posters, the decor was that of a dorm room.</div><div>Enduring adolescence was pathetic but not criminal.</div><div>If a woman ever visited, she wouldn’t return—or sleep over.</div><div>Being able to tie knots in a cherry stem with your tongue was not enough</div><div>to ensure a life of torrid romance.</div><div>The spare bedroom contained no furniture, but four mannequins. They</div><div>were all female, naked, wigless, bald. Three had been altered.</div><div>One lay on its back, on the floor, in the center of the room. It gripped two</div><div>steak knives. Each knife had been driven into its throat, as if it had twice</div><div>stabbed itself.</div><div>A hole had been drilled between its legs. Also between its legs was a</div><div>spear-point stave from a wrought-iron fence. The sharp end of the stave had</div><div>been inserted in the crudely formed vagina.</div><div>Instead of feet, the mannequin had another pair of hands at the ends of its</div><div>legs. Both legs were bent to allow the additional hands to grip the iron stave.</div><div>A third pair of hands grew by the wrists from the breasts. They grasped at</div><div>the air, seeking and eager, as though the mannequin were insatiable.</div><div>189</div><div>Chapter 45</div><div>In more than a few houses, if you could prowl at leisure, you might</div><div>discover evidence of perversity, kinky secrets.</div><div>Because such care had been taken in their alteration, so much time</div><div>expended, these mannequins seemed to represent more than that. This was an</div><div>expression not of desire but of a ravenous craving, of a rapacious need that</div><div>could never be fully satisfied.</div><div>A second mannequin sat with its back to a wall, legs splayed. Its eyes had</div><div>been cut out. Teeth had been inserted in their place.</div><div>These appeared to be animal teeth, perhaps those of reptiles and perhaps</div><div>real. Hooked fangs and snaggled incisors.</div><div>Each tooth had been meticulously glued in the rim of the socket. Each</div><div>cluster appeared to have been designed with much thought as to the most</div><div>fearsome, bristling arrangement.</div><div>The mouth had been cut open, carved wide. Wicked, inhuman teeth filled</div><div>the mannequin’s maw.</div><div>Like the petals of a Venus flytrap, the ears were rimmed with poised teeth.</div><div>Teeth sprouted from the nipples and from the navel. A crafted vagina</div><div>featured more fangs than the other orifices.</div><div>Whether this macabre figure represented a fear of all-devouring</div><div>womanhood, whether instead it was being devoured by its own hunger, Billy</div><div>didn’t know, didn’t care.</div><div>He just wanted to get out of here. He had seen enough. Yet he continued to</div><div>look.</div><div>The third mannequin also sat with its back to a wall. Its hands rested in its</div><div>lap, holding a bowl. The bowl was actually the top of its skull, which had been</div><div>sawn off.</div><div>Photographs of male genitalia overflowed the bowl. Billy did not touch</div><div>them, but he could see enough to suspect that every picture featured the same</div><div>genitalia.</div><div>A bouquet of similar photos, scores of them, bloomed from the top of the</div><div>open skull. Still more blossomed from the mannequin’s mouth.</div><div>Evidently Steve Zillis had spent a lot of time taking snapshots of himself</div><div>from various angles, in various states of arousal.</div><div>190</div><div>Billy’s latex gloves served a purpose besides guarding against leaving</div><div>fingerprints. Without them, he would have been sickened by the need to touch</div><div>doorknobs, light switches, anything in the house.</div><div>The fourth mannequin had not yet been mutilated. Zillis probably</div><div>hungered to get at her.</div><div>During his shift at the tavern, drawing beers from the tap, telling jokes,</div><div>doing his tricks, these were the thoughts behind the radiant smile.</div><div>Steve’s bedroom proved to be as sparsely furnished as the rest of the</div><div>house. The bed, a nightstand, a lamp, a clock. No art on the walls, no</div><div>knickknacks, no memorabilia.</div><div>The bedclothes were in disarray. One pillow lay on the floor.</div><div>A corner of the room evidently served in place of a laundry hamper.</div><div>Rumpled shirts, khakis, jeans, and dirty underwear were heaped as Steve had</div><div>tossed them.</div><div>A search of the bedroom and closet turned up another disturbing</div><div>discovery. Under the bed were a dozen pornographic videos, the covers of</div><div>which depicted naked women in handcuffs, in chains, some gagged, some</div><div>blindfolded, cowering women threatened by sadistic men.</div><div>These weren’t homemade videos. They were professionally packaged and</div><div>probably available in any adult-video shop, whether brick-and-mortar or</div><div>online.</div><div>Billy put them back where he had found them, and he considered whether</div><div>he had discovered enough to warrant calling the police.</div><div>No. Neither the mannequins nor the pornography proved that Steve Zillis</div><div>had ever harmed a real human being, only that he nurtured a sick and vivid</div><div>fantasy life.</div><div>Meanwhile, a dead man was wrapped for disposal and stowed behind the</div><div>sofa in Billy’s house.</div><div>If he became a suspect in the murder of Giselle Winslow in Napa or if</div><div>Lanny Olsen’s body was found and Billy became a suspect in that murder, he</div><div>would at the very least be put under surveillance. He would lose his freedom of</div><div>action.</div><div>If they found Cottle’s body, he would be arrested.</div><div>No one would understand or believe the threat against Barbara. They</div><div>would not take his warnings seriously. When you were a prime suspect, what</div><div>191</div><div>the police wanted to hear from you was what they expected to hear from you,</div><div>which was a confession.</div><div>He knew how it worked. He knew exactly how it worked.</div><div>During the twenty-four hours or the forty-eight hours—or the week, the</div><div>month, the year—that it took to establish his innocence, if he ever could</div><div>establish it, Barbara would be vulnerable, without a guardian.</div><div>He had been drawn in too deep. Nobody could save him except he himself.</div><div>If he found the face in a jar of formaldehyde and other grisly souvenirs, he</div><div>might be able to nail Zillis for the authorities. But nothing less would convince</div><div>them.</div><div>Like most California houses, this one didn’t have a basement, but it did</div><div>have an attic. The hall ceiling featured a trapdoor with a dangling rope handle.</div><div>When he pulled the trap down, an accordion ladder unfolded from the back</div><div>of it.</div><div>He heard something behind him. In his mind, he saw a mannequin with</div><div>teeth in its eye sockets, reaching toward him.</div><div>He pivoted, clawing for the gun under his belt. He was alone. He had</div><div>probably heard just a settling noise, an old house easing itself at the insistence</div><div>of gravity.</div><div>At the top of the ladder, he found a light switch set in the frame of the trap.</div><div>Two bare bulbs, dimmed by dust, illuminated a raftered space empty of</div><div>everything except the smell of wood rot.</div><div>Evidently the freak was canny enough to keep his incriminating souvenirs</div><div>elsewhere.</div><div>Billy suspected that Zillis stayed in this rental house but did not in the</div><div>truest sense live here. With its minimum of furniture and utter lack of</div><div>decorative items, the place had the feeling of a way station. Steve Zillis had no</div><div>roots here. He was just passing through.</div><div>He had worked at the tavern for five months. Where had he been between</div><div>the University of Colorado at Denver, five and a half years ago, when Judith</div><div>Kesselman had disappeared, and this place?</div><div>Across the World Wide Web, his name had been linked to only one</div><div>disappearance, and to no murders at all. Googled, Billy himself would not</div><div>appear that clean.</div><div>192</div><div>But if you had a list of the towns in which Steve Zillis had settled for a</div><div>while, if you researched murders and disappearances that occurred in those</div><div>communities, the truth might be clearer.</div><div>The most successful serial killers were the vagabonds, roamers who</div><div>covered a lot of ground between their homicidal frenzies. When clusters of</div><div>killings were separated by hundreds of miles and scores of jurisdictions, they</div><div>were less likely to be connected; patterns in landscape, visible from an</div><div>airplane, are seldom discernible to a man on foot.</div><div>An itinerant bartender who’s a good mixologist, who’s outgoing and able</div><div>to charm the customers, can get work anywhere. If he applies to the right</div><div>places, he won’t often be asked for a formal employment history, only for a</div><div>social-security card, a driver’s license, and an all-clean report from the state</div><div>liquor-control board. Jackie O’Hara, typical of his breed, didn’t phone an</div><div>applicant’s former employers; he made hiring decisions based on gut instinct.</div><div>Billy turned out the lights as he left the house. He used the spare key to</div><div>lock up after himself, and he pocketed it again because he expected to return.</div><div>193</div><div>Chapter 46</div><div>The dying sun spilled fierce bloody light on the dimensional mural under</div><div>construction across the highway from the tavern.</div><div>As Billy drove past on his way home to collect Cottle’s body, this</div><div>scintillant display seized his attention. It captured him so completely that he</div><div>pulled to the shoulder of the road and stopped.</div><div>Outside the large yellow-and-purple tent in which the artists and artisans</div><div>of the project regularly met for lunch, for progress meetings, and for receptions</div><div>in honor of various art- and academic-world dignitaries, they assembled now to</div><div>assess this fleeting work of nature.</div><div>Parked near the tent, the giant yellow-and-purple motor home, built on a</div><div>bus chassis and emblazoned with the name Valis, offered much chrome and</div><div>steel in which the sun could reveal a latent fire. The tinted windows glowed a</div><div>crimson bronze, sullen and smoky, yet incandescent.</div><div>Neither the festive tent nor the rock-star motor home, nor the glamorous</div><div>artists and artisans enjoying the effects of sunset were what brought Billy to a</div><div>stop.</div><div>At first he would have said that the scarlet-and-gold brightness of the</div><div>spectacle was the primary thing that arrested him. This self-conscious analysis,</div><div>however, missed the truth.</div><div>The construction was pale gray, but reflections of the sun’s fury blazed in</div><div>the glossy enamel. This glistering glaze and the heat shimmering the air as it</div><div>rose off the hot painted surfaces combined to create the illusion of the mural</div><div>afire.</div><div>And briefly this seemed to be what pulled Billy to the side of the highway:</div><div>this clairvoyant vision of the blazing construct, which would indeed be razed</div><div>after it had been completed.</div><div>Here was an eerie foretelling by a fluke of seasonal light and atmospheric</div><div>conditions. The fire to come. And even the ultimate ashes could be glimpsed as</div><div>a grayness underlying the phantom flames.</div><div>As the intensity of these pyrotechnics increased simultaneously with the</div><div>distillation of the sun’s last light, a truer reason for the hypnotic power of the</div><div>scene grew clear to Billy. What riveted him was the great figure caught in the</div><div>stylized machinery, the man struggling to survive among the giant grinding</div><div>wheels, the tearing gears, the hammering pistons.</div><div>194</div><div>During the weeks of construction, as the mural had been crafted and</div><div>refined, the man in the machine had always appeared to be trapped by it, just as</div><div>the artist intended. He had been a victim of forces larger than himself.</div><div>Now by the peculiar grace of the setting sun, the man didn’t appear to be</div><div>burning as did the machine shapes around him. He was luminous, yes, but</div><div>uniquely so, luminous and solid and strong, not being consumed by the flames</div><div>but impervious to them.</div><div>Nothing about the phantasmagoric machine made engineering sense. A</div><div>mere assemblage of symbols of machines, it had no functional purpose.</div><div>A machine without productive function is without meaning. It can not</div><div>serve even as a prison.</div><div>The man could step out of the machine whenever he wished. He was not</div><div>trapped. He only believed himself to be imprisoned, a belief born of selfindulgent</div><div>despair and herewith revealed as fallacious. The man must walk</div><div>away from meaninglessness, find meaning, and from meaning at last take upon</div><div>himself a worthwhile purpose.</div><div>Billy Wiles was not a man given to epiphanies. He had spent his life</div><div>fleeing them. Insight and pain were all but synonymous to him.</div><div>He recognized this as an epiphany, however, and he did not flee from it.</div><div>Instead, as he drove back onto the highway and continued homeward into the</div><div>darkling twilight, he climbed a mental stairway of ascending implications,</div><div>came to a turning in the stair, and climbed, and came to another turning.</div><div>He could not foresee what he would make of this sudden intuitive</div><div>perception. He might not be man enough to make anything worthwhile of it,</div><div>but he knew that he would make something.</div><div>When he arrived home under an indigo sky with one thin smear of</div><div>evidence remaining in the west, Billy drove off the driveway, onto the back</div><div>lawn. He parked with the tailgate near the porch steps, to facilitate the loading</div><div>of Ralph Cottle.</div><div>He could not be seen from the county road or from the property of the</div><div>nearest neighbor. Getting out of the SUV, he heard the first hoot of a night owl.</div><div>Only the owl would see him, and the stars.</div><div>Inside, he took the stepladder out of the pantry and checked the video-disk</div><div>recorder in the cabinet above the microwave. Replayed at high speed in the</div><div>review screen, the security recording revealed that no one had entered the</div><div>house in Billy’s absence, at least not through the kitchen.</div><div>He hadn’t expected to see anyone. Steve Zillis was working at the tavern.</div><div>195</div><div>After putting away the stepladder, he dragged Cottle through the house,</div><div>onto the back porch and down the steps, using the rope handle that he had</div><div>fashioned around the tarp-wrapped corpse. Loading Cottle into the back of the</div><div>Explorer required more patience and muscle than Billy had expected.</div><div>He gazed across the dark yard at the black woods, the regimented ranks of</div><div>sentinel trees. He did not have a sense of being watched. He felt deeply alone.</div><div>Although locking the house seemed pointless, he locked it and then drove</div><div>the Explorer to the garage.</div><div>At the sight of his table saw and drill press and tools, Billy irrationally</div><div>wanted to turn from the crisis at hand. He wanted to smell fresh-cut wood,</div><div>experience the satisfaction of a well-made dovetail joint.</div><div>In recent years, he had built so much for the house, for himself, all for</div><div>himself. If now he were to build for others, with what would he begin except</div><div>with what was needed: coffins. He had built for himself a career in coffins.</div><div>Grimly, he stowed another plastic tarp, a coil of sturdy rope, strapping</div><div>tape, a flashlight, and other needed items in the Explorer. He added a few</div><div>folded moving blankets and a couple of empty cardboard boxes atop and</div><div>around the wrapped corpse to disguise its telltale shape.</div><div>Before Billy lay a long night of death and graveyard work, and he was</div><div>afraid not solely of the homicidal freak but of many things in the darkness</div><div>ahead. Darkness conjures infinite terrors in the mind, but it is true—and he</div><div>took hope from this—it is true that darkness also reminds us of light. The light.</div><div>Regardless of what waited in the hours immediately ahead, he did believe that</div><div>he would live in the light again.</div><div>196</div><div>Chapter 47</div><div>Four hours of sleep facilitated by Vicodin and Elephant beer had not been</div><div>sufficient rest.</div><div>More than twelve active hours had passed since Billy had rolled out of</div><div>bed. He still had physical resources, but the wheels of his mind, so long racing,</div><div>were not spinning as fast as they had been, as fast as he needed them to spin.</div><div>Confident that the Explorer did not look like the death wagon that it was,</div><div>he stopped at a convenience store. He bought Anacin for a swelling headache</div><div>and a package of No-Doz caffeine tablets.</div><div>He’d eaten two English muffins for breakfast and later a ham sandwich.</div><div>He was in a calorie deficit, and shaky.</div><div>The store offered vacuum-packaged sandwiches and a microwave in which</div><div>to heat them. For some reason, just the thought of meat stirred a billowing</div><div>sensation in his stomach.</div><div>He bought six Hershey’s bars for sugar, six Planters Peanut Bars for</div><div>protein, and a bottle of Pepsi to wash down the No-Doz.</div><div>Referring to all the candy, the cashier said, “Is it Valentine’s Day in July</div><div>or something?”</div><div>“Halloween,” Billy said.</div><div>Sitting in the SUV, he took the Anacin and the No-Doz.</div><div>On the passenger’s seat lay the newspaper he’d bought in Napa. He’d not</div><div>yet found time to read the story about the Winslow murder.</div><div>With the newspaper were a few Denver Post articles downloaded from the</div><div>library computer. Judith Kesselman, gone missing forever.</div><div>As he ate a Hershey’s bar, a Planters, he read the printouts. University,</div><div>public, and police officials were quoted. Everyone except the police expressed</div><div>confidence that Judith would be found safe.</div><div>The cops were guarded in their statements. Unlike the academics,</div><div>bureaucrats, and politicians, they avoided bullshit. They were the only ones</div><div>who sounded as if they truly cared about the young woman.</div><div>The officer in charge of the investigation was Detective Ramsey Ozgard.</div><div>Some of his colleagues called him Oz.</div><div>Ozgard had been forty-four at the time of the disappearance. At that point</div><div>in his career, he’d received three citations for bravery.</div><div>197</div><div>At fifty, he was probably still on the force, a likelihood supported by the</div><div>only other personal information about him in the articles. When he was thirtyeight,</div><div>Ramsey Ozgard had been shot in the left leg. He had been approved for</div><div>permanent disability. He had turned it down. He did not limp.</div><div>Billy wanted to talk to Ozgard. To do so, however, he could not use his</div><div>real name or his phone.</div><div>As the candy, Pepsi, and No-Doz began to lubricate the flywheels of his</div><div>mind, Billy drove to Lanny Olsen’s place.</div><div>He did not park at the church and walk from there, as he’d done before.</div><div>When he arrived at the isolated house at the end of the lane, he drove across the</div><div>ascending backyard, past the pistol range with the hay-bale-and-hillside</div><div>backstop.</div><div>Lawn gave way to wild grass, to brambles and sparse brush. The terrain</div><div>grew stony and furrowed.</div><div>He stopped two-thirds of the way up the slope, put the Explorer in park,</div><div>and engaged the emergency brake.</div><div>He could have benefited from the headlights. This high on the hillside,</div><div>however, they could be seen from the residences down near the county road.</div><div>Worried about attracting attention and inspiring curiosity, he switched off</div><div>the lights. He killed the engine.</div><div>On foot, using a flashlight, he quickly found the vent hole, twenty feet</div><div>from the SUV.</div><div>Before vineyards, before the arrival of Europeans, before the ancestors of</div><div>American Indians had crossed a land or ice bridge from Asia, volcanoes shaped</div><div>this valley. They had defined its future.</div><div>The old Rossi winery, now the aging cellars for Heitz, and other buildings</div><div>in the valley were built of rhyolite, the volcanic form of granite, quarried</div><div>locally. The knoll on which the Olsen house stood was largely basalt, another</div><div>volcanic stone, dark and dense.</div><div>When an eruption is exhausted, it sometimes leaves lava pipes, long</div><div>tunnels through surrounding stone. Billy didn’t know enough volcanology to</div><div>conclude whether the dormant vent on this knoll was such a pipe or was a</div><div>fumarole that had expelled fiery gases.</div><div>He knew, however, that the vent was four feet wide at the mouth—and</div><div>immeasurably deep.</div><div>198</div><div>This property was intimately familiar to Billy, because when he had been</div><div>fourteen and alone, Pearl Olsen had given him a home. She never feared him,</div><div>as some had. She knew the truth when she heard it. Her good heart opened to</div><div>him, and in spite of her recurring cancer, she raised him as if he were her son.</div><div>The twelve-year difference in Billy’s age and Lanny’s meant they were</div><div>never like brothers, although they lived in the same house. Besides, Lanny had</div><div>always been self-contained and when not on duty with the sheriff’s department</div><div>had lost himself in his cartooning.</div><div>The two of them had been friendly enough. And occasionally Lanny could</div><div>be an engaging honorary uncle.</div><div>On one such day, Lanny had involved Billy in an attempt to determine the</div><div>depth of the vent.</div><div>Although no young children played on the brambly knoll, Pearl worried</div><div>for the safety of even imaginary tykes. Years earlier, she’d had a redwood</div><div>frame bolted to the stone rim of the vent. A redwood lid was screwed to the</div><div>frame.</div><div>After removing the lid, Lanny and Billy began their research with a</div><div>handheld police spotlight powered off a pickup-truck engine. The beam</div><div>illuminated the walls to about three hundred feet but could not find the bottom.</div><div>Past the mouth, the shaft widened to between eight and ten feet. The walls</div><div>were undulant, whorled, and strange.</div><div>They tied one pound of brass washers to the end of a length of binder</div><div>twine and lowered them into the center of the hole, listening for the distinctive</div><div>ring of the discs meeting the vent floor. They only had a thousand feet of</div><div>twine, which proved inadequate.</div><div>Finally they dropped steel ball bearings into the abyss, timing their fall to a</div><div>first impact, using textbook formulae to calculate distance. No bearing ever hit</div><div>short of fourteen hundred feet.</div><div>The bottom did not lie at fourteen hundred feet.</div><div>After that long vertical drop, the vent apparently descended further at an</div><div>angle, perhaps more than once changing direction, too.</div><div>After the hard clack of the initial strike, each bearing ricocheted from wall</div><div>to wall, rattling on, the noise never suddenly coming to a stop but always</div><div>fading, fading until it dwindled into silence.</div><div>Billy guessed that the lava pipe was miles long and descended at least a</div><div>few thousand feet under the floor of the valley.</div><div>199</div><div>Now, by the glow of the flashlight, he used a battery-powered screwdriver</div><div>to extract the twelve Phillips-head steel screws that held the redwood lid—a</div><div>more recent one than they had removed almost twenty years ago. He slid the</div><div>lid aside.</div><div>No draft rose out of the hole. Billy could smell nothing but a faint cindery</div><div>scent, and under that the vaguest hint of salt, a whiff of lime.</div><div>Grunting with the effort, he hauled the dead man out of the SUV and</div><div>dragged him to the vent.</div><div>He wasn’t concerned about the trail he left through the brush or about the</div><div>trail the Explorer had left. Nature was resilient. In a few days, the disturbance</div><div>would not be obvious.</div><div>Although the dead man might not have approved, given his status as a</div><div>former member of the Society of Skeptics, Billy murmured a brief prayer for</div><div>him before shoving his body into the hole.</div><div>Ralph Cottle made a lot more noise going down than had any of the ball</div><div>bearings. The first few impacts sounded bone-shattering.</div><div>Then the slippery tarp produced an eerie whistling sound as the tunnel</div><div>angled from the vertical and the plastic-wrapped mummy slid at increasing</div><div>velocity into the depths, perhaps spiraling around the walls of the lava tube as a</div><div>bullet spirals along the grooved barrel of a gun.</div><div>200</div><div>Chapter 48</div><div>Billy parked the explorer on the lawn behind the garage, where it could not</div><div>be seen by any motorist who might use the dead end of the lane as a</div><div>turnaround. He worked his hands into latex gloves.</div><div>With the spare key that he had taken from the hole in the oak stump little</div><div>more than nineteen hours earlier, he let himself into the house through the back</div><div>door.</div><div>He had with him the tarp, the strapping tape, the rope. And of course the</div><div>.38 revolver.</div><div>As Billy moved forward through the ground floor, he turned on lights.</div><div>Wednesday and Thursday were Lanny’s days off, so he might not be</div><div>thought missing for another thirty-six hours. If a friend dropped by</div><div>unannounced for a visit, however, saw lights in the house, but could not get an</div><div>answer to the doorbell, trouble would follow.</div><div>Billy intended to do what needed to be done as quickly as possible and get</div><div>out, turning the lights off after himself.</div><div>The cartoon hands, pointing the way to the corpse, were still taped to the</div><div>walls. He would remove them later, as part of the cleanup.</div><div>If Lanny’s body had been salted with evidence pointing to Billy, as Cottle</div><div>said that Giselle Winslow’s had been, none of it could be used in a court of law</div><div>if Lanny lay forever at rest a mile or more under the earth.</div><div>Billy realized, as he eliminated planted evidence incriminating himself, he</div><div>also would be destroying any evidence of the killer’s guilt that the freak might</div><div>unintentionally have left. He was doing cleanup for both of them.</div><div>The cunning with which this trap had been designed and the early choices</div><div>that Billy had made as the performance unfolded had virtually ensured that he</div><div>would come to this juncture and would have to proceed as he was proceeding</div><div>now.</div><div>He didn’t care. Nothing mattered but Barbara. He had to stay free to</div><div>protect her, because no one else would.</div><div>If Billy came under suspicion in a homicide, John Palmer would lock him</div><div>down fast and tight. The sheriff would seek vindication in the conviction of</div><div>Billy for murder, and if he got that conviction, he would use it to try to rewrite</div><div>history, as well.</div><div>201</div><div>They could hold him on suspicion alone. He wasn’t sure how long.</div><div>Certainly for forty-eight hours.</div><div>By then Barbara would be dead. Or missing, gone, like Judith Kesselman,</div><div>music student, dog fancier, walker on beaches.</div><div>The performance would be concluded. Maybe the freak would have</div><div>another face in another jar.</div><div>Past, present, future, all time eternally present in the here and now, and</div><div>racing—he swore he could hear the hands on his watch whirring—and so he</div><div>hurried to the stairs and climbed.</div><div>Even before arriving at this house, he’d feared that he would not find</div><div>Lanny’s body in the bedroom armchair where he had last seen it. Another</div><div>move in the game, one more twist in the performance.</div><div>When he reached the top of the stairs, he hesitated, stopped by that same</div><div>dread. He hesitated again at the doorway to the master bedroom. Then he</div><div>crossed the threshold and switched on the light.</div><div>Lanny sat in the chair with the book in his lap, the photograph of Giselle</div><div>Winslow tucked in the book.</div><div>The corpse didn’t look good. Perhaps delayed somewhat by the air</div><div>conditioning, visible decomposition had not yet occurred, but blood vessels in</div><div>his face had begun to be revealed as a faint green marbling.</div><div>Lanny’s eyes shifted to follow Billy across the room, but that was just a</div><div>trick of the light.</div><div>202</div><div>Chapter 49</div><div>After spreading the polyurethane tarp on the floor but before proceeding</div><div>further, Billy sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. Careful not to</div><div>make the error that he had claimed to have made earlier in the day, he keyed in</div><div>411. From directory assistance he obtained the area code for Denver.</div><div>Even if Ramsey Ozgard continued to serve as a detective with the Denver</div><div>Police Department, he might not live within the city. He might be in one of</div><div>several suburbs, in which case locating him would be too difficult. His home</div><div>number might also be unlisted.</div><div>When Billy called directory assistance in Denver, he got lucky. He was</div><div>overdue for some luck. They had a listing for Ozgard, Ramsey G., in the city.</div><div>It was 10:54 in Colorado, but the hour might make the call seem more</div><div>urgent and therefore more credible.</div><div>A man answered on the second ring, and Billy said, “Detective Ozgard?”</div><div>“Speaking.”</div><div>“Sir, this is Deputy Lanny Olsen of the Napa County Sheriff’s</div><div>Department, here in California. First, I want to apologize for disturbing you at</div><div>this hour.”</div><div>“I’m a lifelong insomniac, Deputy, and now I have like six hundred</div><div>channels on the TV, so I’ll be watching reruns of Gilligan’ Island or some</div><div>damn thing until three in the morning. What’s up?”</div><div>“Sir, I’m calling you from my home about a case you handled some years</div><div>back. You might want to ring the watch commander in our north-county</div><div>substation to confirm that I’m with the department, and get my home number</div><div>from them for callback.”</div><div>“I’ve got caller ID,” Ozgard said. “I can see who you are good enough for</div><div>now. If what you want from me seems at all sticky, then I’ll do what you say.</div><div>But right now let’s go for it.”</div><div>“Thank you, sir. There’s a missing-person’s case of yours that might have</div><div>some pertinence to a situation here. About five and a half years ago—”</div><div>“Judith Kesselman,” said Ozgard.</div><div>“You jumped right to it.”</div><div>“Deputy, don’t tell me you found her. At least don’t tell me you found her</div><div>dead.”</div><div>203</div><div>“No, sir. Neither dead or alive.”</div><div>“God help her, I don’t expect alive,” Ramsey said. “But it’s going to be a</div><div>miserable day when I know for sure she’s dead. I love that girl.”</div><div>Surprised, Billy said, “Sir?”</div><div>“I never met her, but I love her. Like a daughter. I’ve learned so much</div><div>about Judi Kesselman that I know her better than a lot of people who’ve</div><div>actually in my life.”</div><div>“I see.”</div><div>“She was a wonderful young woman.”</div><div>“That’s what I hear.”</div><div>“I talked to so many of her friends and family. Not a bad word about her</div><div>from anyone. The stories of things she did for others, her kindnesses… y know</div><div>how sometimes a vie haunts you, how you can’t be entirely objective?”</div><div>“Sure,” Billy said.</div><div>“I’m haunted by this one,” Ozgard said. “She was a great letter writer.</div><div>Once someone entered her life, she held on to them, she didn’t forget them, she</div><div>stayed in touch. I read hundreds of Judi’s letters, Deputy Olsen, hundreds.”</div><div>“So you let her in.”</div><div>“You can’t help it with her, she walks right in. They were the letters of a</div><div>woman who embraced people, who just gave her heart to everyone. Luminous</div><div>letters.”</div><div>Billy found himself staring at the bullet hole in Lanny Olsen’s forehead.</div><div>He looked toward the open door to the upstairs hall.</div><div>“We’ve got a situation here,” he said. “I can’t spell it out in detail at this</div><div>time, because we’re still working the evidence and we aren’t ready to bring</div><div>charges.”</div><div>“I understand,” Ozgard assured him.</div><div>“But there’s a name I want to run by you, see if it rings three cherries with</div><div>you.”</div><div>“The hairs are up on the back of my neck,” Ozgard said. “That’s how bad I</div><div>want this to be something.”</div><div>“I Googled our guy, and the only thing I got was this one hit regarding the</div><div>Kesselman disappearance, and even that was less than nothing.”</div><div>“So Google me,” said Ozgard.</div><div>204</div><div>“Steven Zillis.”</div><div>In Denver, Ramsey Ozgard let out his pent-up breath with a hiss.</div><div>“You remember him,” Billy said.</div><div>“Oh yeah.”</div><div>“He was a suspect?”</div><div>“Not officially.”</div><div>“But you personally felt…”</div><div>“He made me uneasy.”</div><div>“Why?”</div><div>Ozgard was silent. Then: “Even a man you wouldn’t want to share a beer</div><div>with, wouldn’t want to shake hands with—his reputation isn’t to be taken</div><div>lightly.”</div><div>“This is background, off the record,” Billy assured him. “You tell me as</div><div>much as makes you comfortable and just how big a spoonful of salt I should</div><div>take with it.”</div><div>“The thing is, for the entire day when Judi had to have been snatched—if</div><div>she was snatched, and I believe she was—for that entire day, for the whole</div><div>twenty-four-hour window and then some, Zillis had an alibi you couldn’t crack</div><div>with a nuke.”</div><div>“You tried.”</div><div>“Believe it. But even if he hadn’t had an alibi, there wasn’t any evidence</div><div>pointing his way.”</div><div>“Then why did he make you uneasy?”</div><div>“He was too forthcoming.”</div><div>Billy didn’t say anything, but he was disappointed. He was in the market</div><div>for certainty, and Ozgard didn’t have any to sell.</div><div>Sensing that disappointment, the detective expanded on what he had said.</div><div>“He came to me before he was even on my scope. Fact is, he might never have</div><div>been on my scope if he hadn’t come to me. He wanted so much to help. He</div><div>talked and talked. He cared about her too much, like she was a beloved sister,</div><div>but he had only known her a month.”</div><div>“You said she was exceptional at relationships, she embraced people, they</div><div>bonded with her.”</div><div>205</div><div>“According to her best friends, she didn’t even know Zillis that well. Only</div><div>casually.”</div><div>Reluctantly playing the devil’s advocate, Billy said, “He could have felt</div><div>closer to her than she did to him. I mean, if she had that kind of magnetism,</div><div>that appeal…”</div><div>“You would have had to see him, the way he was with me,” Ozgard said.</div><div>“It’s like he wanted me to wonder about him, to check him out and find the</div><div>airtight alibi. And after I did, there was this smugness about him.”</div><div>Remarking on the quiet revulsion in Ozgard’s voice, Billy said, “You’re</div><div>still hot.”</div><div>“I am hot. Zillis—he’s coming back to me, the way he was. For a while,</div><div>before he finally faded away, he kept trying to help, calling up, dropping by,</div><div>offering ideas, and you had this feeling it was all mockery, he was just</div><div>performing.”</div><div>“Performing. I have a feeling like that, too,” Billy said, “but I really need</div><div>more.”</div><div>“He’s a prick. That doesn’t mean he’s anything worse, but he is a selfsatisfied</div><div>prick. The little prick even started acting like we were pals, him and</div><div>me. Potential suspects, they just never do that. It’s not natural. Hell, you know.</div><div>But he had this easy, jokey way about him.”</div><div>“ ‘How’re they hangin’, Kemosabe.’”</div><div>“Shit, does he still say that?” Ozgard asked.</div><div>“He still does.”</div><div>“He’s a prick. He covered it with this goofy charm, but he’s a prick, all</div><div>right.”</div><div>“So he was all over you, and then he just faded away.”</div><div>“The whole investigation faded away. Judi was gone like she’d never</div><div>existed. Zillis dropped out of school at the end of that year, his sophomore</div><div>year. I never saw him again.”</div><div>“Well, he’s here now,” Billy said.</div><div>“I wonder where he’s been in between.”</div><div>“Maybe we’ll find out.”</div><div>“I hope you find out.”</div><div>“I’ll be back to you,” Billy said.</div><div>206</div><div>“Any hour on this one, anytime. You have tin in your blood, Deputy?”</div><div>Billy didn’t get it for a moment, and then he almost forgot who he was</div><div>supposed to be, but he came back with the right answer: “Yeah. My dad was a</div><div>cop. He was buried in his uniform.”</div><div>“My dad and my grandfather,” Ozgard said. “I’ve got so much tin in my</div><div>blood it rattles in my veins, I don’t even need the badge for people to know</div><div>what I am. But Judith Kesselman, she’s in my blood as bad as the tin. I want</div><div>her to be at rest with some respect, not just… not just dumped somewhere.</div><div>Christ knows, there’s not much justice, but there has to be some in this case.”</div><div>After hanging up, Billy could not for a moment move from the edge of the</div><div>bed. He sat staring at Lanny, and Lanny seemed to stare at him.</div><div>Ramsey Ozgard was in life, all the way in the tides, swimming, not</div><div>treading carefully along the shore. Immersed in the life of his community,</div><div>committed to it.</div><div>Billy had heard the detective’s commitment coming down the line from</div><div>Denver, as fresh to the senses as if the two of them had been in the same room.</div><div>Hearing it, Billy had been stung by the realization of how complete his own</div><div>withdrawal had been. And how dangerous.</div><div>Barbara had begun to reach him; then vichyssoise. Life packed a clever</div><div>one-two punch: cruelty and absurdity.</div><div>He was in the tides now, but not by choice. Events had thrown him in</div><div>deep, swift water.</div><div>The weight of twenty years of guarded emotions, of studied avoidance, of</div><div>defensive reclusiveness, encumbered him. Now he was trying to learn to swim</div><div>again, but a riptide seemed to be sweeping him farther from any community,</div><div>toward greater isolation.</div><div>207</div><div>Chapter 50</div><div>As though he knew where he would be going, down the lava tube without</div><div>benefit of mourners or memorial, Lanny didn’t want to be wrapped.</div><div>The shooting had not taken place in this room, so no blood or brains</div><div>stained the walls or furniture. Because he wanted Lanny to vanish in such a</div><div>way that would engender the most uncertainty and therefore would not</div><div>instigate an immediate and intense homicide investigation, Billy hoped to keep</div><div>everything clean.</div><div>From the linen closet, he fetched an armload of fluffy towels. Lanny still</div><div>used the same detergent and fabric softener that Pearl had used. Billy</div><div>recognized the distinctive, clean fragrance.</div><div>He draped the towels over the arms and the back of the chair in which the</div><div>cadaver sat. If anything remained to be spilled from the exit wound in the back</div><div>of the skull, the carefully layered towels would catch it.</div><div>He had brought from home a plastic bag used as a liner for small bathroom</div><div>waste cans. Avoiding the filmy protuberant eyes, he pulled the bag over the</div><div>dead man’s head and with adhesive tape sealed it as best he could around the</div><div>neck—further insurance against a spill.</div><div>Although he knew that no one could be driven mad by grisly work, knew</div><div>that the horror came after the madness, not before, he wondered how much</div><div>more he could traffic with the dead before his every dream, if not his waking</div><div>hours, would be a howling bedlam.</div><div>Lanny came out of the chair onto the tarp readily enough, but then he</div><div>became uncooperative. He lay on the floor in the position of a man sitting in a</div><div>chair; and his legs couldn’t be pulled straight.</div><div>Rigor mortis. The corpse was stiff and would largely remain so until</div><div>decomposition advanced far enough to soften the tissues that rigor mortis made</div><div>rigid.</div><div>Billy had no idea how long that would be. Six hours, twelve? He couldn’t</div><div>wait around to see.</div><div>He struggled to wrap Lanny in the tarp. At times the dead man’s resistance</div><div>seemed conscious and stubborn.</div><div>The final package was awkward but adequately sealed. He hoped the rope</div><div>handle would hold.</div><div>208</div><div>The towels were spotless. He folded them and returned them to the linen</div><div>closet.</div><div>They didn’t seem to smell as good as they had earlier.</div><div>Lanny to the head of the stairs proved easy, but Lanny down the first flight</div><div>was a hard thing to hear. In its half-fetal position, the body rapped and knocked</div><div>step by step, managing to sound bony and gelatinous at the same time.</div><div>At the landing, Billy reminded himself that Lanny had betrayed him in an</div><div>attempt to save a job and pension, and that they were both here because of that.</div><div>This truth, while inescapable, didn’t make the descent of the final flight of</div><div>steps any less disturbing.</div><div>Getting the body along the lower hall, through the kitchen, and across the</div><div>back porch was easy enough. Then more steps, just a short flight, and they</div><div>were in the yard.</div><div>He considered loading the body in the Explorer and driving it as close to</div><div>the ancient vent as possible. The distance was not great, however, and dragging</div><div>Lanny all the way to his final resting place seemed to require no more exertion</div><div>than to heave him into the SUV and wrestle him out again.</div><div>Like a banked furnace, the land now returned the stored heat of the day,</div><div>but at last a faint breeze came down out of the stars.</div><div>En route, the sloping yard and the swath of tall grass and knee-high brush</div><div>beyond proved longer than he had imagined it would be from the foot of the</div><div>porch steps. His arms began to ache, his shoulders, his neck.</div><div>The hook wounds, which had not recently bothered him, began to throb</div><div>with new heat.</div><div>Somewhere along the way, he realized that he was crying. This scared</div><div>him. He needed to remain tough.</div><div>He understood the source of the tears. The nearer that he drew to the lava</div><div>pipe, the less Billy was able to regard his burden as an incriminating cadaver.</div><div>Neither anointed nor eulogized, this was Lanny Olsen, the son of the good</div><div>woman who had opened her heart and her home to an emotionally devastated</div><div>fourteen-year-old boy.</div><div>Now in the starlight, to Billy’s dark-adapted eyes, the knob of rock</div><div>embracing the lava pipe looked increasingly like a skull.</div><div>No matter what lay ahead, whether a mountain of skulls or a vast plain of</div><div>them, he could not go back, and he certainly could not bring Lanny to life</div><div>again, for he was only Billy Wiles, a good bartender and a failed writer. There</div><div>209</div><div>were no miracles in him, only a stubborn hope, and a capacity for blind</div><div>perseverance.</div><div>So in the starlight and the hot breeze, he came to the place of the skull.</div><div>There, he didn’t delay, not even to catch his breath, but pushed the wrapped</div><div>cadaver into the hole.</div><div>He lay against the redwood frame, peering into the bottomless blackness,</div><div>listening to the long descent of the body, the only way he could bear witness.</div><div>When silence came, he closed his eyes against the dark below and said, “It</div><div>is finished.”</div><div>Of course only this task was finished, and others lay ahead of him, perhaps</div><div>some as bad, though surely none worse.</div><div>He had left the flashlight and the power screwdriver on the ground beside</div><div>the lava pipe. He slid the redwood lid into place, fished the steel screws out of</div><div>his pockets, and secured the cover.</div><div>Sweat had washed the last tears from his face by the time that he returned</div><div>to the house.</div><div>Behind the garage, he left the screwdriver and the flashlight in the</div><div>Explorer. The latex gloves were torn. He stripped them off, stuffed them into</div><div>the SUV’s litter bag, and drew on a fresh pair.</div><div>He returned to the house to inspect it from top to bottom. He dared leave</div><div>nothing behind to indicate that either he or a dead body had been there.</div><div>In the kitchen, he could not decide what to do about the rum, cola, sliced</div><div>lime, and other items on the table. He gave himself time to think about them.</div><div>Intending to start upstairs, in the master bedroom, he followed the roseflowered</div><div>runner along the hallway to the front of the house. As he approached</div><div>the foyer, he grew aware of an unexpected brightness to his right, beyond the</div><div>living-room archway.</div><div>The revolver in his hand suddenly became less a burdensome weight than</div><div>an essential tool.</div><div>On his first pass through the house, on his way upstairs to see if Lanny’s</div><div>body remained in the bedroom armchair, Billy had switched on the overhead</div><div>fixture in the living room, but only that. Now every lamp was aglow.</div><div>Sitting on a sofa, facing the archway, a testament to unreason and the</div><div>durability of thrift-shop clothes, sat Ralph Cottle.</div><div>210</div><div>Chapter 51</div><div>Ralph Cottle had incredibly shed his plastic shroud, improbably ascended</div><div>from thousands of feet beneath the valley floor, impossibly let himself into the</div><div>Olsen house, just forty minutes after whistling down the lava pipe, and all</div><div>while remaining dead and a registered skeptic.</div><div>So disorienting was the sight of Cottle that for an instant Billy believed the</div><div>man had to be alive, that somehow he had never been dead, but in the next</div><div>instant he realized that the first body he had dropped into the volcanic vent had</div><div>not been Cottle, that the filling of the corpse burrito had been replaced.</div><div>Billy heard himself say “Who?” by which he meant to ask who could have</div><div>been in the tarp, and he began to turn toward the hallway behind him, intending</div><div>to shoot anyone there, no questions asked.</div><div>A lead-shot sap, or something rather like it, expertly rapped him at</div><div>precisely the right point above the back of the neck, at the base of the skull,</div><div>inducing less pain than color. Brilliant but brief electric-blue and magma-red</div><div>coruscations fanned through his head and dazzled on the backs of his</div><div>descending eyelids.</div><div>He never felt the floor come up to meet him. For what seemed like hours,</div><div>he dropped in free fall through a lightless lava pipe, wondering how the dead</div><div>amused themselves in the cold heart of an extinguished volcano.</div><div>The darkness seemed to want him more than the light, for he woke in fits</div><div>and starts, repeatedly plucked back into the depths just as he floated to the</div><div>surface of consciousness.</div><div>Twice, a demanding voice spoke to him, or twice that he heard. Both times</div><div>he understood it, but only the second time was he able to respond.</div><div>Even dazed and confused, Billy warned himself to listen to the voice, to</div><div>remember the pitch and the timbre, so he could identify it later. Identification</div><div>would be difficult because it didn’t sound much like a human voice; rough,</div><div>strange, distorted, it insistently posed a question. “Are you prepared for your</div><div>second wound?”</div><div>Following the repetition, Billy discovered that he was able to answer:</div><div>“No.”</div><div>Finding his voice, worried that it sounded so wheezy, he also found the</div><div>power to open his eyes.</div><div>211</div><div>Although his vision was blurred and clearing too slowly, he could see the</div><div>man in the ski mask and dark clothes standing over him. The freak’s hands</div><div>were clad in supple black leather, and he needed both to hold a futuristic</div><div>handgun.</div><div>“No,” Billy said again.</div><div>He lay on his back, half on the rose-flowered runner, half on the dark</div><div>wood floor, his right arm across his chest, his left flung out to his side, the</div><div>revolver in neither hand.</div><div>As the last of the blur washed out of his vision, Billy saw that the handgun</div><div>did not, after all, provide proof of a time traveler or of an extraterrestrial</div><div>visitor. It was just one of those portable nail guns not limited to the length of a</div><div>compressor hose.</div><div>His left hand lay palm-up on the floor, and the man in the mask nailed it to</div><div>the hardwood.</div><div>212</div><div>PART 3</div><div>ALL YOU HAVE IS HOW YOU LIVE</div><div>Chapter 52</div><div>Pain and fear muddle reason, fog the mind.</div><div>Punctured flesh punched a scream from Billy. A paralytic haze of terror</div><div>slowed his thoughts as he realized he was pinned to the floor, immobilized in</div><div>the presence of the freak.</div><div>Pain can be endured and defeated only if it is embraced. Denied or feared,</div><div>it grows in perception if not in reality.</div><div>The best response to terror is righteous anger, confidence in ultimate</div><div>justice, a refusal to be intimidated.</div><div>Those thoughts didn’t march now in orderly fashion through his mind.</div><div>They were truths held in his adapted unconscious, based on hard experience,</div><div>and he acted on them as if they were instincts born in blood and bone.</div><div>When he’d fallen, he dropped the revolver. The freak didn’t appear to have</div><div>it. The weapon might be within reach.</div><div>Billy rolled his head, searching the hallway. With his free hand, he felt the</div><div>floor along his right side.</div><div>The freak threw something in Billy’s face.</div><div>He flinched, expecting more pain. Just a photograph.</div><div>He couldn’t see the image. He shook his head to cast the photo off his</div><div>face. The picture flipped onto his chest, where suddenly he thought the freak</div><div>would spike it.</div><div>No. Carrying the nail gun, the killer walked away along the hall, toward</div><div>the kitchen. One nail well placed. His work here was done.</div><div>Get an image of him. Freeze it in memory. Approximate height, weight.</div><div>Big in the shoulders or not? Wide or narrow in the hips?</div><div>Anything distinctive in the walk, graceful or not?</div><div>213</div><div>Pain, fear, swimming vision, but most of all the extreme angle of view—</div><div>Billy flat on his back; the killer on his feet—defeated an attempt to build a</div><div>physical profile of the man in the few seconds that he was in sight.</div><div>The freak disappeared into the kitchen. He moved around out there,</div><div>making noise. Looking for something. Doing something.</div><div>Billy spotted the crisp shine of machined steel on the dark hardwood floor</div><div>of the foyer—the revolver. The weapon lay behind him and beyond his reach.</div><div>Having been to the place of the skull, having consigned Lanny to the lava</div><div>pipe, Billy had exhausted his capacity for dread, or thought that he had until he</div><div>realized that he must test the nail to see how securely it fixed him to the floor.</div><div>He was loath to move his hand.</div><div>The pain was constant but tolerable, bad but not as terrible as he might</div><div>have imagined. Trying to move the hand, however, trying to pry loose the</div><div>spike, would be like chewing taffy with an abscessed tooth.</div><div>He wasn’t only loath to move his hand, but also to look at it. Although he</div><div>knew the image conjured in his mind had to be worse than the reality, his</div><div>stomach clenched as he turned his head and focused on his wound.</div><div>Except for an excess of fingers, the white latex surgical glove made his</div><div>hand look like Mickey Mouse’s hand, like the cartoon hands taped to the walls</div><div>and pointing the way to the chair where Lanny had been posed with one of his</div><div>mother’s books. The cuff of the glove even had a little roll to it.</div><div>A spidery crawling at his wrist proved to be a trickling thread of blood,</div><div>which robbed the moment of even dark comedy.</div><div>He expected the bleeding to be much worse than this. The nail obstructed</div><div>flow. When he extracted it…</div><div>Holding his breath, Billy listened. No noise in the kitchen. Apparently the</div><div>killer had gone.</div><div>He didn’t want the freak to hear him scream again, didn’t want to give him</div><div>that satisfaction.</div><div>The nail. The head had not been driven flat to the flesh. About threequarters</div><div>of an inch of shank separated the nailhead from his palm. He could see</div><div>the gripper marks in the steel.</div><div>He had no way of knowing the length of the nail. Judging by its diameter,</div><div>he estimated that it measured at least three inches from head to point.</div><div>Subtracting both the portion that stood above his palm and the portion that</div><div>passed through it, as much as an inch and a half might be embedded in the</div><div>214</div><div>floor. After it penetrated the surface hardwood and the subflooring, little of the</div><div>nail would remain to grip a joist.</div><div>If it was four inches long, however, it might be securely wedged in a joist.</div><div>Getting loose would be one inch nastier.</div><div>Houses were well put together in the days when this one had been built.</div><div>Either two-by-fours or two-by-sixes, most likely set twelve inches center-tocenter,</div><div>supported the subfloor.</div><div>Nevertheless, his odds were good. In every fourteen inches of floor width,</div><div>only four inches were underlaid by joists.</div><div>Hammer ten nails into the floor at random, and three would find joists. The</div><div>other seven would penetrate the empty spaces between timbers.</div><div>When he tried to cup his left hand to test its flexibility, he throttled an</div><div>involuntary howl of pain into a snarl. He couldn’t choke it off entirely.</div><div>No laughter came from the kitchen, supporting his suspicion that the freak</div><div>had gone.</div><div>Suddenly Billy wondered if, before leaving, the killer had dialed 911.</div><div>215</div><div>Chapter 53</div><div>As still and attentive as only a corpse can be, Ralph Cottle sat sentinel on</div><div>the sofa.</div><div>The killer had crossed the dead man’s right leg over his left and had</div><div>arranged his hands in his lap to give him a casual posture. He seemed to be</div><div>waiting patiently for his host to appear with a tray of cocktails—or for</div><div>Sergeants Napolitino and Sobieski.</div><div>Although Cottle had not been mutilated or tricked up with props, Billy</div><div>thought of the macabre mannequins arranged with such care in Steve Zillis’s</div><div>house.</div><div>Zillis was tending bar. Billy had seen his car there earlier, when he had</div><div>stopped across the highway from the tavern to watch the setting sun blaze in</div><div>the giant mural.</div><div>Cottle later. Zillis later. Now the nail.</div><div>Carefully, Billy turned on his left side to face the pierced hand.</div><div>With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he gripped the head of the</div><div>nail. He tried gently to wiggle it back and forth, hoping to detect some play in</div><div>it, but the nail felt rigid, deeply seated.</div><div>If the head had been small, he might have tried to slide his hand up the</div><div>shank and pull it loose, leaving the nail in the floor.</div><div>The head was broad. Even if he could have tolerated the pain of twisting it</div><div>backward through his hand, he would have done unthinkable damage in the</div><div>process.</div><div>When he worked the nail more forcefully, pain tried to make a child of</div><div>him. He ground the pain between his teeth, ground it so hard that his molars</div><div>creaked in his jaws.</div><div>The nail did not creak in the wood, however, and it seemed that he would</div><div>lose his teeth before extracting that spike. Then it moved.</div><div>Between his pinched thumb and finger, the nail loosened, not much but</div><div>perceptibly. As it moved in the wood of the floor, it moved also in the flesh of</div><div>his hand.</div><div>Pain was a light. Like chain lightning, it flared within him, flashed and</div><div>flared.</div><div>216</div><div>He felt the shank grinding against bone. If the nail had cracked or chipped</div><div>a bone, he would need medical attention sooner than later.</div><div>Although air-conditioned, the house had not previously seemed cold. Now</div><div>sweat seemed to turn to ice on his skin.</div><div>Billy worked the nail, and the light of pain inside him grew brighter,</div><div>brighter, until he thought that he must be translucent now, that the light would</div><div>be visible, shining forth from him, if anyone but Cottle were there to see.</div><div>Although the odds were against a random nail finding a joist, this one had</div><div>pierced not merely the flooring and the subflooring but also hard timber. The</div><div>first grim truth of desperation roulette: You play the red, and the black comes</div><div>up.</div><div>The nail came loose, and in a rush of triumph and rage, Billy almost threw</div><div>it away from him, into the living room. Had he done so, he would have had to</div><div>go find it because his blood was on the shank.</div><div>He put it on the floor beside the hole that it had made.</div><div>The blaze of pain darkened to throbbing embers, and he found that he</div><div>could get to his feet.</div><div>His left hand bled from the entry and exit points, but not in a gush. He had</div><div>been pierced, after all, not drilled, and the wound was not wide.</div><div>Cupping his right hand under his left to avoid dripping blood on the</div><div>hallway runner and the flanking wood floor, he hurried into the kitchen.</div><div>The killer had left the back door open. He wasn’t on the porch, probably</div><div>not in the yard, either.</div><div>At the sink, Billy cranked a faucet and held his left hand under the spout</div><div>until it grew half numb from the cold water.</div><div>Soon the stream of blood diminished to an ooze. Pulling paper towels off a</div><div>dispenser, he wound several layers around his hand.</div><div>He stepped onto the back porch. He held his breath, listening not for the</div><div>killer but for approaching sirens.</div><div>After a minute, he decided there had not been a 911 call this time. The</div><div>freak, the performer, prided himself on his cleverness; he would not repeat a</div><div>trick.</div><div>Billy returned to the front of the house. He saw the photograph, which the</div><div>killer had thrown in his face and which he had forgotten, and he plucked it off</div><div>the hallway floor.</div><div>217</div><div>She was a pretty redhead. Facing the camera. Terrified.</div><div>She would have had a nice smile.</div><div>He had never seen her before. That didn’t matter. She was somebody’s</div><div>daughter. Somewhere people loved her. Waste the bitch.</div><div>Those words, echoing in memory, nearly dropped Billy to his knees.</div><div>For twenty years, his emotions had not merely been restrained. Some of</div><div>them had been denied. He had allowed himself to feel only what seemed safe</div><div>to feel.</div><div>He had permitted himself anger only in moderation, and he had not</div><div>indulged hatred whatsoever. He had been afraid that by admitting to one drop</div><div>of hatred, he might unleash furious torrents that would destroy him.</div><div>Restraint in the face of evil, however, was no virtue, and to hate this</div><div>homicidal freak was no sin. This was a righteous passion, more vehement than</div><div>abhorrence, brighter even than the pain that had seemed to make of him an</div><div>incandescent lamp.</div><div>He picked up the revolver. Leaving Cottle to his own devices in the living</div><div>room, Billy climbed the stairs, wondering if when he returned he would find</div><div>the dead man still on the sofa.</div><div>218</div><div>Chapter 54</div><div>In Lanny’s bathroom medicine cabinet, Billy found alcohol, an unopened</div><div>package of liquid bandage, and an array of pharmacy bottles with caps that all</div><div>warned CAUTION! NOT CHILD RESISTANT.</div><div>The nail, having been clean, had not itself been an agent of infection. But</div><div>it might have carried bacteria from the surface of the skin into the wound.</div><div>Billy poured alcohol in his cupped left hand, hoping it would seep into the</div><div>puncture wound. After a moment, the stinging began.</div><div>Because he had been careful not to flex his hand more than necessary, the</div><div>bleeding had already nearly stopped. The alcohol did not restart it.</div><div>This was imperfect sterilization. He had neither the time nor the resources</div><div>to do a better job.</div><div>He painted liquid bandage on both the entrance and exit wounds. This</div><div>would help prevent filth from working into the puncture.</div><div>More important, the liquid bandage—which dried into a flexible rubbery</div><div>seal—should inhibit further bleeding.</div><div>The plethora of pharmacy bottles each contained a few tablets or capsules.</div><div>Evidently Lanny had been a bad patient who never quite finished a course of</div><div>medication, but always reserved a portion with which to treat himself in the</div><div>future.</div><div>Billy found two prescriptions for an antibiotic—Cipro, 500 mg. One bottle</div><div>contained three tablets, the other five.</div><div>He combined all eight into one bottle. He peeled the label off and threw it</div><div>in the waste can.</div><div>More than infection, he worried about inflammation. If his hand swelled</div><div>and stiffened, he would be at a disadvantage in whatever confrontation might</div><div>be coming.</div><div>Among the medications, he discovered Vicodin. It would not prevent</div><div>inflammation but would relieve pain if that grew worse.