by Dean Koontz
At 5:30, after Laurenski had gotten the law enforcement machinery moving, he and Joshua used the telephone to track down a judge. They found one, Judge Julian Harwey, who was fascinated by the Frye story. Harwey understood the necessity of retrieving the corpse and putting it through an extensive battery of tests for identification purposes. If the second Bruno Frye was apprehended, and if he somehow managed to pass a psychiatric examination, which was highly unlikely but not altogether impossible, then the prosecutor would need physical proof that there had been identical twins. Harwey was willing to sign an exhumation order, and by 6:30, the sheriff had that paper in hand.
“The workmen at the cemetery won’t be able to open the grave in the dark,” Laurenski said. “But I’ll have them out there digging at the crack of dawn.” He made a few more phone calls, one to the director of the Napa County Memorial Park where Frye was buried, another to the county coroner who could conduct the exhumation of the body as soon as it was delivered to him, and one to Avril Tannerton, the mortician, to arrange for him to transport the corpse to and from the coroner’s pathology lab.
When Laurenski finally got off the telephone, Joshua said, “I imagine you’ll want to search the Frye house.”
“Absolutely,” Laurenski said. “We want to find proof that more than one man was living there, if we can. And if Frye really had murdered other women, maybe we’ll turn up some evidence. I think it would be a good idea to go through the house on the cliff, too.”
“We can search the new house as soon as you like,” Joshua said. “But there’s no electricity in the old place. That one will have to wait until daylight.”
“Okay,” Laurenski said. “But I’d like to have a look at the vineyard house tonight.”
“Now?” Joshua asked, getting up from the railback bench.
“None of us has had dinner,” Laurenski said. Earlier, before they had told him even half of what they’d learned from Dr. Rudge and Rita Yancy, the sheriff had called his wife to tell her he wouldn’t be home until very late. “Let’s get a bite to eat at the coffee shop around the corner. Then we can head on out to Frye’s place.”
Before they left for the restaurant, Laurenski told the night receptionist where he would be and asked her to let him know immediately if word came in that the Los Angeles police had arrested the second Bruno Frye.
“It’s not going to be that easy,” Hilary said.
“I suspect she’s right,” Tony said. “Bruno has concealed an incredible secret for forty years. He may be crazy, but he’s also clever. The LAPD isn’t going to lay hands on him that fast. They’ll have to play a lot of cat-and-mouse before they finally nail him.”
When night had begun to fall, Bruno had closed the attic shutters again.
Now there were candles on each nightstand. There were two candles on the dresser. The flickering yellow flames made shadows dance on the walls and ceiling.
Bruno knew that he should already be out looking for Hilary-Katherine, but he could not find the energy to get up and go. He kept putting it off.
He was hungry. He suddenly realized that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. His stomach was growling.
For a while, he sat on the bed, beside the staring corpse, and he tried to decide where he should go to get some food. A few of the cans in the pantry hadn’t swelled up, hadn’t burst, but he was sure that everything on those shelves was spoiled and poisonous. For almost an hour, he struggled with the problem, trying to think of where he could go to get something to eat and still be safe from Katherine’s spies. They were everywhere. The bitch and her spies. Everywhere. His state of mind was still best described as confused, and even though he was hungry, he had difficulty keeping his thoughts focused on food. But at last, he remembered there was food in the vineyard house. The milk would have spoiled during the past week, and the bread would have gotten hard. But his own pantry was full of canned goods, and the refrigerator was stocked with cheese and fruit, and there was ice cream in the freezer. The thought of ice cream made him smile like a small boy.
Driven by the vision of ice cream, hoping that a good supper would give him the energy he needed to begin looking for Hilary-Katherine, he left the attic and made his way down through the house with the aid of a candle. Outside, he snuffed out the flame and tucked the candle into a jacket pocket. He descended the crumbling switchback stairs on the face of the cliff and strode off through the dark vineyards.
Ten minutes later, in his own house, he struck a match and relit the candle because he was afraid that he would attract unwanted attention if he switched on the lights. He got a spoon from a drawer by the kitchen sink, took a one-gallon, cardboard tub of chocolate ripple from the freezer, and sat at the table for more than a quarter of an hour, smiling, eating big spoonfuls of ice cream right out of the carton, until at last he was too full to swallow even one more bite.
He dropped the spoon in the half-emptied carton, put the ice cream back in the freezer, and realized that he ought to pack up canned goods to take back to the clifftop house. He might not be able to find and kill Hilary-Katherine for days, and during that time he didn’t want to have to sneak back here for every meal. Sooner or later, the bitch would think to have some of her spies put a watch on this place, and then he would be caught. But she’d never look for him in the cliff house, not in a million years, so that was where he ought to have his food supply.
He went into the master bedroom and got a large suitcase from the closet, took that into the kitchen, and filled it with cans of peaches, pears, mandarin orange slices, jars of peanut butter and jars of olives, and two kinds of jelly—each jar wrapped in paper towels to cushion it and keep it from breaking—and tins of little Vienna sausages. When he finished packing, the big suitcase was extremely heavy, but he had the muscles to handle it.
He had not showered since last night, at Sally’s house in Culver City, and he felt grimy. He hated being dirty, for being dirty somehow always made him think of the whispers and the awful crawling things and the dark place in the ground. He decided he could risk taking a quick shower before he carried the food back to the clifftop house, even if that meant being naked and defenseless for a few minutes. But as he walked through the living room on his way to the bedroom and master bath, he heard cars approaching along the vineyard road. The engines sounded unnaturally loud in the perfect stillness of the fields.
Bruno ran to a front window and parted the drapes just an inch and looked out.
Two cars. Four headlights. Coming up the slope toward the clearing.
Katherine.
The bitch!
The bitch and her friends. Her dead friends.
Terrified, he ran to the kitchen, grabbed the suitcase, put out the candle that he was carrying, and pocketed it. He let himself out by the back door and dashed across the rear lawn, into the sheltering vineyards, as the cars stopped out front.
Crouching, lugging the suitcase, anxiously aware of every small sound he made, Bruno moved through the vines. He circled the house until he could see the cars. He put down the suitcase and sprawled beside it, hugging the moist earth and the darkest of the night shadows. He watched the people getting out of the cars, and his heart hammered faster each time that he recognized a face.
Sheriff Laurenski and a deputy. So the police were among the living dead! He had never suspected them.
Joshua Rhinehart. The old attorney was a conspirator, too! He was one of Katherine’s hellish friends.
And there she was! The bitch. The bitch in her sleek new body. And that man from Los Angeles.
They all went into the house.
Lights came on in one room after another.
Bruno tried to remember if he’d left any signs of his visit. Maybe some drippings from the candle. But the droplets of wax would be cold and hard already. They would have no way of knowing if the drippings were fresh or weeks old. He’d left the spoon in the ice cream carton, but that might have been done a long time ago, too. Thank God, he hadn’t taken a shower
! The water on the floor of the stall and the damp towel would have given him away; finding a recently used towel, they would have known instantly that he was back in St. Helena, and they would have intensified their search for him.
He got to his feet, hefted the suitcase, and hurried as fast as he could through the vineyards. He went north toward the winery, then west toward the cliff.
They would never come to the cliff house looking for him. Not in a million years. He would be safe in the cliff house because they would think he was too afraid to go there.
If he hid in the attic, he would have time to think and plan and organize. He didn’t dare rush into this. He hadn’t been thinking too clearly lately, not since the other half of him had died, and he didn’t dare move against the bitch until he had planned for every possible contingency.
He knew how to find her now. Through Joshua Rhinehart.
He could get his hands on her whenever he wanted.
But first he needed time to formulate a foolproof plan. He could hardly wait to get back to the attic to talk it over with himself.
Laurenski, Deputy Tim Larsson, Joshua, Tony, and Hilary spread out through the house. They searched drawers and closets and cupboards and cabinets.
At first, they couldn’t find anything that proved two men had been living in the house instead of one. There seemed to be quite a few more clothes than one man would need. And the house was stocked with more food than one man usually kept on hand. But that wasn’t proof of anything.
Then, as Hilary was going through desk drawers in the study, she came across a stack of recently received bills that hadn’t been paid yet. Two of them were from dentists—one in nearby Napa, the other in San Francisco.
“Of course!” Tony said as everyone gathered around to have a look at the bills. “The twins would have had to go to different doctors and, especially, different dentists. Bruno Number Two couldn’t walk into a dentist’s office to have a tooth filled when that same dentist had filled the same tooth in Bruno Number One just the week before.”
“This helps,” Laurenski said. “Even identical twins don’t get the same cavities in the same places on the same teeth. Two sets of dental records will prove there were two Bruno Fryes.”
A while later, while searching a bedroom closet, Deputy Larsson made an unsettling discovery. One of the shoe boxes did not have shoes in it. Instead, the box contained a dozen wallet-size snapshots of a dozen young women, driver’s licenses for six of them, and another eleven licenses belonging to eleven other women. In each snapshot and in each license photo, the woman looking out at the camera had things in common with all the other women in the collection: a pretty face, dark eyes, dark hair, and an indefinable something in the lines and angles of the facial structure.
“Twenty-three women who vaguely resemble Katherine,” Joshua said. “My God. Twenty-three.”
“A gallery of death,” Hilary said, shivering.
“At least they’re not all unidentified snapshots,” Tony said. “With the licenses, we’ve got names and addresses.”
“We’ll get them out on the wire right away,” Laurenski said, sending Larsson out to the car to radio the information to HQ. “But I think we all know what we’ll find.”
“Twenty-three unsolved murders spread over the past five years,” Tony said.
“Or twenty-three disappearances,” the sheriff said.
They spent two more hours in the house, but they didn’t find anything else as important as the photographs and driver’s licenses. Hilary’s nerves were frayed, and her imagination was stimulated by the disturbing realization that her own driver’s license had nearly wound up in that shoe box. Each time she opened a drawer or a cupboard door, she expected to find a shriveled heart with a stake through it or a dead woman’s rotting head. She was relieved when the search was finally completed.
Outside, in the chilly night air, Laurenski said, “Will the three of you be coming to the coroner’s office in the morning?”
“Count me out,” Hilary said.
“No thanks,” Tony said.
Joshua said, “There’s really nothing we can do there.”
“What time should we meet at the cliff house?” Laurenski asked.
Joshua said, “Hilary and Tony and I will go up first thing in the morning and open all the shutters and windows. The place has been closed up for five years. It’ll need to be aired out before any of us will want to spend hours poking through it. Why don’t you just come on up and join us whenever you’re finished at the coroner’s?”
“All right,” Laurenski said. “See you tomorrow. Maybe the Los Angeles police will get the bastard during the night.”
“Maybe,” Hilary said hopefully.
Up in the Mayacamas Mountains, soft thunder roared.
Bruno Frye spent half the night talking to himself, carefully planning Hilary-Katherine’s death.
The other half, he slept while the candles flickered. Thin streams of smoke rose from the burning wicks. The dancing flames cast jiggling, macabre shadows on the walls, and they were reflected in the staring eyes of the corpse.
Joshua Rhinehart had trouble sleeping. He tossed and turned, getting increasingly tangled in the sheets. At three o’clock in the morning, he went out to the bar and poured himself a double shot of bourbon, drank it fast. Even that didn’t settle him down a whole lot.
He had never missed Cora so much as he did that night.
Hilary woke repeatedly from bad dreams, but the night did not go by slowly. It swept past at rocket speeds. She still had the feeling that she was hurtling toward a precipice, and she could do nothing to stop her forward rush.
Near dawn, as Tony lay awake, Hilary turned to him, came against him, and said, “Make love to me.”
For half an hour, they lost themselves in each other, and although it was not better than before, it was not one degree worse either. A sweet, silken, hushed togetherness.
Afterwards, she said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“No matter what happens,” she said, “we’ve had these few days together.”
“Now don’t get fatalistic on me.”
“Well . . . you never know.”
“We’ve got years ahead of us. Years and years and years together. Nobody’s going to take them away from us.”
“You’re so positive, so optimistic. I wish I’d found you a long time ago.”
“We’re through the worst of this thing,” he said. “We know the truth now.”
“They haven’t caught Frye yet.”
“They will,” Tony said reassuringly. “He thinks you’re Katherine, so he’s not going to stray too far from Westwood. He’ll keep checking back at your house to see if you’ve shown up, and sooner or later the surveillance team will spot him, and it’ll all be over.”
“Hold me,” she said.
“Sure.”
“Mmmm. That’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
“Just being held.”
“Yeah.”
“I feel better already.”
“Everything’s going to be fine.”
“As long as I have you,” she said.
“Forever, then.”
The sky was dark and low and ominous. The peaks of the Mayacamas were shrouded in mist.
Peter Laurenski stood in the graveyard, hands in his pants pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill morning air.
Using a backhoe for most of the way, then tossing out the last eight or ten inches of dirt with shovels, workmen at Napa County Memorial Park gouged into the soft earth, tearing open Bruno Frye’s grave. As they labored, they complained to the sheriff that they were not being paid extra for getting up at dawn and missing breakfast and coming in early, but they got very little sympathy from him; he just urged them to work faster.
At 7:45, Avril Tannerton and Gary Olmstead arrived in the Forever View hearse. As they walked across the green hillside toward Laurenski, Olmstead looked properly somber, but
Tannerton was smiling, taking in great lungfuls of the nippy air, as if he were merely out for his morning constitutional.
“Morning, Peter.”
“Morning, Avril. Gary.”
“How long till they have it open?” Tannerton asked.
“They say fifteen minutes.”
At 8:05, one of the workmen climbed up from the hole and said, “Ready to yank him out?”
“Let’s get on with it,” Laurenski said.
Chains were attached to the casket, and it was brought out of the ground by the same device that had lowered it in just last Sunday. The bronze coffin was caked with earth around the handles and in the frill work, but overall it was still shiny.
By 8:40, Tannerton and Olmstead had loaded the big box into the hearse.
“I’ll follow you to the coroner’s office,” the sheriff said.
Tannerton grinned at him. “I assure you, Peter, we aren’t going to run off with Mr. Frye’s remains.”
At 8:20, in Joshua Rhinehart’s kitchen, while the casket was being exhumed at the cemetery a few miles away, Tony and Hilary stacked the breakfast dishes in the sink.
“I’ll wash them later,” Joshua said. “Let’s get up to the cliff and open that house. It must smell like hell in there after all these years. I just hope the mildew and mold haven’t done too much damage to Katherine’s collections. I warned Bruno about that a thousand times, but he didn’t seem to care if—” Joshua stopped, blinked. “Will you listen to me babble on? Of course he didn’t care if the whole lot of it rotted away. Those were Katherine’s collections, and he wouldn’t have cared a damn about anything she treasured.”
They went to Shade Tree Vineyards in Joshua’s car. The day was dreary; the light was dirty gray. Joshua parked in the employees’ lot.
Gilbert Ulman hadn’t come to work yet. He was the mechanic who maintained the aerial tramway in addition to caring for all of Shade Tree Vineyards’ trucks and farm equipment.
The key that operated the tramway was hanging on a pegboard in the garage, and the winery’s night manager, a portly man named Iannucci, was happy to get it for Joshua.
Key in hand, Joshua led Hilary and Tony up to the second floor of the huge main winery, through an area of administrative offices, through a viniculture lab, and then onto a broad catwalk. Half the building was open from the first floor to the ceiling, and in that huge chamber there were enormous three-story fermentation tanks. Cold, cold air flowed off the tanks, and there was a yeasty odor in the place. At the end of the long catwalk, at the southwest corner of the building, they went through a heavy pine door with black iron hinges, into a small room that was open at the end opposite from where they entered. An overhanging roof extended twelve feet out from the missing wall, to keep rain from slanting into the open chamber. The four-seat cable car—a fire-engine-red number with lots of glass—was nestled under the overhang, at the brink of the room.
The pathology laboratory had a vague, unpleasant chemical odor. So did the coroner, Dr. Amos Garnet, who sucked vigorously on a breath mint.
There were five people in the room. Laurenski, Larsson, Garnet, Tannerton, and Olmstead. No one, with the possible exception of the perennially good-natured Tannerton, seemed happy to be there.
“Open it,” Laurenski said. “I’ve got an appointment to keep with Joshua Rhinehart.”
Tannerton and Olmstead threw back the latches on the bronze casket. A few remaining chunks of dirt fell to the floor, onto the plastic dropcloth that Garnet had put down. They pushed the lid up and back.
The body was gone.