K Is for Killer

by Sue Grafton

  The interior of the building seemed quiet at first. Fluorescent lights glowed against the polished tile floors. The corridor was deserted. From one of the rear offices, I picked up the strains of a country music station. I could hear someone banging on a pipe, but the sound came from deep in the bowels of the building. I moved quickly down the hallway, glancing left into Roger's office. The lights were on, but he was nowhere to be seen. I heard footsteps approaching. A fellow in coveralls and a baseball cap came around the corner, moving in my direction. He seemed to take my presence for granted, though he took his cap off politely at the sight of me. His hair was a mass of curly gray mashed into a cap-shaped line around his head. "Can I help you with something?"

  "I'm looking for Roger."

  The fellow pointed down. "That's him you hear whumping on the sample lines." He was in his fifties, with a wide face, and a dimple in his chin. Nice smile. He reached out a hand and introduced himself. "I'm Delbert Squalls."

  "Kinsey Millhone," I said. "Could you let Roger know I'm here? It's urgent."

  "Sure, no problem. Actually, I'm just on my way down. Whyn't you follow me?"

  "Thanks."

  Squalls retraced his steps and opened the glass-paneled door into the area I'd seen before: multicolored pipes, a wall of dials and gauges. I could see the gaping hole in the floor. Orange plastic cones had been set across one end, warning the unwary about the dangers of tumbling in.

  I said, "How many guys you have working tonight?"

  "Lemme see. Five, counting me. Come on this way. You're not claustrophobic, I hope."

  "Not a bit," I lied, following him as he crossed to the opening. On my previous visit, I'd seen a moving river of black water down there, silent, smelling of chemicals, looking like nothing I'd ever seen before. Now I could see lights and the bleak walls of concrete, discolored in places where the water had passed. I felt the need to swallow. "Where'd all the water go?" I asked.

  "We shut the sluice gates, and then we have a couple of big basins it drains into," he said conversationally. "Takes about four hours. We do this once a year. We got some postaeration sample lines in the process of repair. They'd almost completely corroded. Been clogged for months until this shutdown. We got ten hours to get the work done, and then back she comes."

  A series of metal rungs affixed to the wall formed a ladder, leading down into the channel. The banging had stopped. Delbert turned around and edged his foot down into the opening and then proceeded to descend. Tink, tink, tink went the soles of his shoes on the metal rungs as he sank from sight. I moved forward, turning myself. Then I descended as he had to the tunnel below.

  Once we reached bottom, we were twelve feet underground, standing in the influent channel through which millions of gallons of water had passed. Down here it was always night, and the only moon shone in the form of a two-hundred-watt bulb. The passage smelled damp and earthy. I could see the sluice gate at the dark end of the tunnel, streaks of sediment on the floor. This felt like spelunking, not a passion of mine. I spotted Roger, with his back to us, working on an overhead line. He was standing on a ladder about fifteen feet away, the big lightbulb, in a metal guard, hooked on the pipe near his face. He wore blue coveralls and black rubber hip boots. I could see a denim jacket tucked across the ladder's brace. It was chilly down here, and I was glad I had my jacket.

  Roger didn't turn. "That you, Delbert?" he said over his shoulder.

  "That's me. I brought a friend of yours. A Miss... what is it, Kenley?"

  "It's Kinsey," I corrected.

  Roger turned. The light glittered in his eyes and bleached all the color from his flesh. "Well. I was expecting you," he said.

  Delbert had his hands on his hips. "You need some help with that?"

  "Not really. Why don't you find Paul and give him a hand?"

  "Will do."

  Delbert started up the ladder again, leaving us alone. His head disappeared, back, hips, legs, boots. It was very quiet. Roger came down from the ladder he was on, wiping his hands on a rag, while I stood there trying to decide how to go about this. I saw him pick up the jacket and check a pocket in front.

  "This is not what you think," I said. "Listen, Lorna was getting married the weekend she was murdered. Earlier this week a fellow picked me up in a limo with a couple of flunkies in bulging overcoats..." I felt my voice trail off.

  He had something in his hand about the size of a walkie-talkie: black plastic housing, a couple of buttons on the front. "You know what this is?"

  "Looks like a taser gun."

  "That's right." He pressed a button, and two tiny probes shot out on electrical wires that carried a hundred and twenty thousand volts. The minute the probes touched me I was down, my whole body numb. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. After a few seconds, my brain started to work. I knew what had happened, I just didn't know what to do about it. Of all the responses I'd imagined him making, this was not on the list, I lay on my hack like a stone, trying to find a way to heave oxygen into my lungs. None of my extremities responded to cues. In the meantime, Roger patted me down, coming up with my gun, which he tucked in the pocket of his coveralls.

  I was making a sound, but it probably wasn't very loud. He moved to the wall and climbed the ladder. I thought he was going to leave me down there. Instead he flipped the trap door so that it came down on the hole. "Thought we might like a little privacy," he said as he descended. He found a plastic bucket that had been tossed to one side. He turned it upside down and took a seat not that far from me. He leaned close. Mildly he said, "Fuck with me, I'll smother you with this jacket. Weak as you are, it's not going to leave any marks."

  That's what he did with Lorna, I thought. Shot her with a stun gun, put a pillow across her face. Wouldn't have taken long. I felt like a baby in the early stages of development, moving my limbs randomly in an attempt to turn. Grunting, I managed to roll over on my side. I lay there breathing, looking at the wet pavement from the corner of my eye. My cheek rested on something gritty: anthracite, sludge, small shells. I collected myself, inching my right arm up under me. I heard the trap door open, and Delbert Squalls called down, "Roger?"

  "Yes?"

  "Guy up here to see you."

  "Oh, hell," he breathed. And then to Delbert, "Tell him I'll be right there."

  I rolled an eye at him, unable to speak, and saw a grimace of impatience cross his face. He got his arms under me and hauled me into a sitting position, propping me against the wall. Like a rag doll, I sat with my legs straight out in front of me, feet tilted together, my shoulders slumped. At least I was breathing. Above me, I could hear someone walking around. I wanted to warn him. I wanted to tell him he was making a terrible mistake. While I made grunting noises, Roger was going up the ladder, his feet going tink, tink, tink, head and shoulders disappearing. I felt tears fill my eyes. My limbs were deadened from the electrical jolt. I tried moving my arms, but the result was the same ineffectual feeling as discovering your extremities "asleep." I began to flex one fist, trying to get the blood to circulate. My whole body felt oddly anesthetized. I listened, straining, but heard nothing. I struggled and finally managed to topple sideways, turning over on my hands and knees, where I remained, breathing hard, until I could gain my feet. I don't know how long it took. All was silence above. I reached for the ladder and clung to the closest rung. After a moment, I began my ascent.

  By the time I climbed out, there was no sign of anyone in the corridor. I forced myself forward. I'd begun to navigate better, but my arms and legs still felt oddly disconnected. I reached his office, where I peered in the door, leaning on the frame. There was no sign of him. My gun had been placed neatly in the center of his blotter. I crossed to the desk and picked it up, tucking it into the small of my back again.

  I left the office, moving into the reception area. Delbert Squalls was sitting at the desk, leafing through the telephone book, probably ordering pizzas for the night crew. He looked up as I passed.

  I said, "Where'd Roger g
o?"

  "Don't tell me he left you down there? Man's got no manners. You just missed him. He took off with that guy in the overcoat. Said he'd be right back. You want to leave him a note?"

  "I don't think that's necessary."

  "Oh. Well, suit yourself." He went back to his search.

  "Good night, Delbert."

  " 'Night. Have a good evening," he said, reaching for the phone.

  I emerged from the building into the chill night air. The wind had picked up again, and the sky, though cloudless, bore the fragrance of a distant rain heading in this direction. There was no moon, and the stars looked as though they'd been blown up against the mountains.

  I went down the stairs to the slot where my car was parked. I let myself into the VW and turned the key in the ignition, pulling out onto the road that led back to town. As I crossed the intersection, I thought I caught sight of a limousine slipping into the dark.

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Roger Bonney hasn't been seen since that night. Only a few people understand what really happened to him. I spent a long time in conversation with Lieutenant Dolan and Cheney Phillips and, for once, I told the truth. Given the enormity of what I'd done, I felt I had to accept the responsibility. In the end, after much consideration, they decided no purpose would be served in pursuing the matter. They did go through the motions of a missing persons investigation, but nothing came of it. And so it rests.

  Now, in the dead of night, I ponder the part I played in Lorna Kepler's story, in the laying to rest of those ghosts. Homicide calls up in us the primitive desire to strike a like blow, an impulse to inflict a pain commensurate with the pain we've been dealt. For the most part, we depend upon judicial process to settle our grievances. Perhaps we've even created the clumsy strictures of the courts to keep our savageries in check. The problem is that so often the law seems pale in its remedies, leaving us restless and unfulfilled in our craving for satisfaction. And then what?

  As for me, the question I'm left with is simple and haunting: Having strayed into the shadows, can I find my way back?

  Respectfully submitted,

  Kinsey Millhone