Imola

by RICHARD SATTERLIE

  First, there was the quiet. It was complete, as if all small ticks, squeaks, and building noises died with the victim. And it didn’t have the echo of emptiness. That was gone, too. Second was the temperature. It was always cold at the scenes. Like the body itself heated the home with energies that went beyond thermal. The lack of human energy drained the place of all warmth. Finally, there was the smell. It was faint in the front entryway, but it was unmistakable. The putrid, dead-mammal smell of an aging kill. The smell of a fresh scene, up to about twenty-four hours, was almost sterile, but it quickly tuned rancid after that. It more than neutralized perfumes and other fragrances that emanated from a home. Even the grandmotherly smell from an old person’s home was sucked away at a death scene.

  Jason tiptoed past the kitchen door and the odor hit him hard, immediately realized as a swirling dizziness that went up his neck, invading his brain. He reached out and steadied himself with a hand on the wall, and the lightheadedness passed. This smell was strong—he’d tolerated it numerous times in the past. It didn’t make sense. For it to be here, it meant that the death must have occurred well before yesterday, not today. His mind jumped back to his phone conversation with Agnes. He’d told her to go see April. Is that what she’d done? Is that when it had happened? Horror gave way to guilt. Had he set up April’s death?

  He didn’t want to go in any farther. But he had to. He knew what he’d find, and this one was personal.

  With his handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, he inched into the living room and spotted a foot sticking out from behind the couch. Its skin was a dull, grayish white. He walked around the couch, and his knees buckled. A lightheaded sensation swept upward through hishead again, triggering involuntary gasps. It was April, her throat slit. The wide pool of blood was brown and congealed—the metallic sheen way past jejune. Her severed index finger stuck straight up on her chest, glued by a brownish blob. He stood and stared when he wanted to run. Then the nausea came.

  He turned and ran for the sink and stumbled on something, nearly falling over. He grabbed the counter, which stabilized him enough for a quick leap to the sink. He retched. Now his pain was acute: it swirled with his sickness into a whirlwind of misery. And for a moment, he wanted to join April. To check out. He was supposed to be dead, too. But he wasn’t. Why not?

  Agnes. That’s why. What had her note said? Levi’s?

  He teetered back toward the living room, gaining strength with each step. On the floor, he spotted the object that had tripped him—a pair of Levi’s. They were small, the size Lilin would wear. Much too slim for Agnes’s taste. Nothing appeared special about them.

  For some reason, Detective Bransome’s cautions came to mind. Rule number one: don’t contaminate a crime scene. Don’t touch anything, don’t move anything.

  But there was no doubt about the murderer in this case. This was open and shut. Jason reached for the jeans but stopped and straightened up. The stench doubled near the floor, the dense air of death forming a viscous layer like the fake fog that bubbled from a chunk of dryice thrown into water. Was it the smell that fueled his hesitation, or did Bransome’s thoroughness intervene?

  He kicked at the garment and it flopped over. Nothing significant on that side.

  If Agnes had saved his life, she must have been in a battle with Lilin. And she had won. But Agnes could need help. Why else would she leave the note at Donnie’s?

  Jason gulped a huge lung-full of air, bent down, and held his breath. He grabbed the jeans and straightened up. On his exhalation and his next breath, he found the jeans were permeated with the smell. It was on his hands and rising around him. He fumbled in the pockets—nothing there. He pushed his arms through each leg. Nothing there either. He was about to throw them on the floor when he noticed a bulge in the small change pocket inside the right front pocket. He fished in his index finger and pulled out a folded piece of paper. This one was larger than the scrap left at Donnie’s apartment. His fingers twitched violently as he unfolded a handwritten note.

  CHAPTER 39

  Lilin stomped through the front room of the trailer, kicked at a chair, and then upset a small table in the corner. She’d driven to Inverness so fast the GTO had nearly left the road three times. She rushed across the living room and swept a lamp from a matching table. The lamp crashed into the wall and fell along the baseboard in a scatter of ceramic shards.

  It was late afternoon now, and the day was wasted. Both opportunities to scratch her billowing itch were gone. Maybe for good. She had driven past the apartment of Jason’s brother, but there were two police cars outside. Now there was nothing left but to pack up for her disappearance.

  She stopped in the middle of the living room and spun around. With a slight bend at the waist, her voice ascended to a near scream. “Are you happy? You fuckedeverything up. You’ve jeopardized the future. He’ll come looking for you. And for me. He should have died.”

  She waited, her arms held out in a palms-up query.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  No.

  “Do you still think you’re in control?”

  No answer.

  “Maybe I should go back and find him.”

  No voice.

  “I could still find a way to get him.”

  You won’t.

  “How do you know?”

  No response.

  “Do you want to go to him—to your precious Jason?”

  In time.

  Lilin paced to the entryway and spun around. She stomped back across the room, shaking the trailer with each step. “In time? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You think you have a plan?”

  Silence.

  She kicked at the ceramic shards near the wall, scattering them across the worn carpet. “I can’t believe you stopped me. You don’t understand. I need to erase all traces. Eliminate all potential problems. I’m doing this for us. And what thanks do I get? Interference.”

  Sounds logical.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lilin stood still. Her hands balled into fists. Her right hand drew back and crashed forward into the wall, cracking the 60s-era walnut paneling. “If you’re so strong, why am I here instead of you?”

  Nothing.

  “Answer me.”

  Still nothing.

  “Answer me, you bitch.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Jason turned off Highway 1 and guided the Volvo onto the road that circled the terminus of Tomales Bay.

  The police were at April’s apartment by now. He’d phoned in an anonymous tip. Dr. April Leahy hadn’t been seen leaving her apartment for several days. And he’d lied, said there were some strange noises a few nights ago. And now a bad smell was coming from the place. He’d hung up before the desk officer could ask for specifics—and for his identity.

  It frustrated him to do it that way. He should have stayed with her body, given her the final comfort of a familiar face until the authorities showed up. Tears clogged his eyes.

  In the short time he’d been with April, he’d felt a stirring that hadn’t turned his emotions for some time. It wasn’t a category five hurricane, as with Eugenia, but it had progressed from a tropical depression to a tropical storm. Tropical Storm April. She was important to him, but not the way she had wanted. And he felt guilty about it. He never could come out and be honest with her, and now he was glad he hadn’t. How perverse was that? He was glad she died thinking they had a chance at something more than the close friendship and the physical love they shared. And what did that make him?

  Unfair as it was, April never had a chance. The more she opened his heart to the possibility of forming another loving relationship with a woman, the more she succumbed to the comparative tension of his potential to love. In that way, she was her own worst enemy. The stronger his feelings became for her, the more she helped him realize he was looking for something else. Someone else. But who? There was someone out there, and it wasn’t his ex. Eugenia was now just a st
andard, a bar height. That was April’s gift to him. He wiped his eyes on his wrist and noticed it came away moist.

  That was the positive spin. Now for the negative. In harsh terms, he couldn’t get around the realization that he had used her. It wasn’t done in a mean-spirited way. But he should have been honest with her. Eventually, it would have happened. But now …

  Fortunately, Inverness was close.

  He picked up Agnes’s note from the passenger seatand propped it on top of the steering wheel. The note from the change pocket of the Levi’s. This was the fifth scan. Or was it the sixth? He didn’t need to read it again; he had it memorized.

  About a mile past Father’s cabin, a narrow turnoff goes left, through tall bushes. It’ll open up to a screen of trees. Follow the road around the trees. I’m in the green trailer. Look for a red GTO.

  Jason tossed the note back on the seat. Was it a setup? The writing looked like Agnes’s.

  The Volvo slowed as he turned it onto the road to Eddie’s cabin. Why would she need a setup? She’d had him incapacitated—a stationary target within razor’s reach.

  And why would she give the information about the car—a red GTO? Probably because she wanted to be found. Jason pushed on the gas pedal again. She wanted to be found by him. Found or rescued? She had won the battle with Lilin at Donnie’s, but had she won the war? What was ahead at the trailer?

  And why did he have this single-minded need to be the one to find her? He could have alerted the authorities. He should. He’d be able to see her again back in Imola.

  April was right once again. She was one hell of a psychiatrist. Emotion did frequently trump logic.

  He picked up the note again. When did Agnes write it? There wasn’t time to drop it off at April’s after leaving Donnie’s apartment. Then how did it get into the Levi’s? They were small, certainly the tight fit Lilin would wear. But not Agnes.

  Jason slowed the car. The double-rutted road was up ahead, guarded by high bushes as the note said. He steered the car off the pavement and heard the bushes claw at the Volvo’s side panels. He hadn’t felt the nervousness of uncertainty to this point, and bringing it to his consciousness didn’t ignite the churn in his belly. How could he be so relaxed? Did something happen in the apartment that only registered in his subconscious? Something that let him know everything was all right in Inverness? Something was drawing him here, to Agnes. Or was that part of the trap?

  There it was—the churn. And he welcomed it. He needed to be on edge, aware to the precipice of paranoia. Escape systems shouldn’t be designed with a hair trigger, but there had to be times when the threshold was purposely adjusted. This was one of those times.

  The churn spun off signs of only one color: yellow, the color of caution. Not red, but yellow. Jason pulled the Volvo to a stop short of the bank of trees and cut the engine. A grand entrance didn’t fit the situation. He climbed from the seat and pushed the door so it latched with a barely audible tick. His path would be through the trees.

  The trailer seemed quiet, peaceful, surrounded by dense foliage on three sides. The red GTO stood sentry next to the front door, backed in as if it was watching forthe slightest movement. He mentally slapped his forehead. He should have pulled the Volvo across the road in the narrow arc around the trees. It would have blocked a quick escape. On the other hand, he should have backed the Volvo in, just like the GTO.

  He parted the final screen of bushes and walked in a crouch into the opening. His senses porcupined to stand-up alertness. He was ready for anything on a sensory level. On the motor side, his detectors converged to a single output: run. His heels hadn’t hit dirt since he’d climbed out of his car.

  The trailer was way too quiet. If Agnes had left the note, wouldn’t she be waiting? Watching? He felt like a trick-or-treater about to knock on the door of a darkened house. No treat. Trick?

  He duck-walked the final ten feet, staying below the high windows of the door and the adjacent pop-out addition. What was proper etiquette for such a situation? Knock? Walk right in? Make a noise and see who comes to the door?

  He eased upright, peered in through a window of the pop out, and jerked his head down. She was there. In the middle of the room. Just standing there.

  He peeked again. She was still in the same position, as if in a trance. Trick or treat? Which was it? Was it the full-sized candy bar or the tarnished penny? The stakes were higher here. This was all or none.

  The doorknob was cold to the touch, so cold hethought his sweat dampened skin might stick to it. It turned without resistance or noise. The doorway had a refrigerator-like seal around the opening, and it let out a quiet sucking sound when it let loose of the door.

  He paused. There was no movement, no sound. He pulled the door open far enough to slip in and eased his left leg through the opening. He slid in his hip, then his shoulder. His head followed. She wasn’t in view yet. His body shook with his pulse. He pulled in his other foot and stood in the entryway, a short corner away from her. And bent into a three-quarters crouch.

  He stepped around the corner, ready to hit the floor and roll away at the slightest stimulus. His focus was sharp. Sharp enough to notice that she didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, her only movement a slowly spreading grin.

  “Jason. I knew you’d come.”

  CHAPTER 41

  She walked to him, arms extended wide for a hug.

  Jason did a quick scan: nothing in her hands, no bulges in her pockets. But he couldn’t see her back pockets. He accepted the hug and felt her arms wrap around him in a tight squeeze.

  She pressed her face into his cheek. “I need you. Thank you for coming.”

  His hands slipped down onto her butt to feel her back pockets. Nothing in them.

  She responded with a slow exhalation into his ear.

  To him, it seemed like an exhalation of acceptance—or permission. Was this Agnes? The exhalation had a nervous waver. The waver of innocent excitement. Agnes?

  He kept his hands on her pockets. She tightened her grip and exhaled again. Her lips brushed his neck. “I need you.”

  Her breath was hot, tickling. Every hair on his body seemed to stand straight up. “I’m here.”

  His hands flinched, and she responded by pressing herself into him.

  He tried to think of any other hiding places. The razor was thin. He ran his hands up to the small of her back and around to her hips. All clear.

  She responded with another staccato exhalation, this time accompanied by a quiet moan. He thought he felt her lips pucker against his neck. He pressed his hips forward. She didn’t object; she held the contact.

  His breath was stuttering now but not just from arousal. It was more. This wasn’t like Agnes. And it wasn’t like Lilin, whose approach to tenderness ran at the speed of a truck driver fresh out of Preparation H.

  He had to break the spell. He leaned his torso back, keeping the contact between them with his lower body.

  She pulled back in kind and smiled, her eyelids at half-mast. “I need your help. I’m in trouble.”

  His right hand went to her cheek without any detectable message from his brain. It stroked and then cradled her jaw.

  She leaned her face into his hand and broadened her smile. “What should I do?”

  He looked into her eyes, searching for any hint of her identity. He decided to be blunt, to trigger a reaction. “You have to turn yourself in.”

  Nothing. Which was good and bad. Good because Lilin would have reacted in a millisecond. Bad because Agnes would have reacted, too. She would have been in tears by now. He slid his thumb across her cheek. “I’ll go with you.”

  Her eyes went wide, and he jumped.

  “Can we do it in Mendocino? I want to go home. And I know Detective Bransome will be nice to me.”

  Despite the words, which screamed Agnes, he felt his heart rate climb to a thumping gallop.

  Jason pulled his hands away from her. “Bransome.” He patted his shirt pocket. The phone was
there. “I have to phone him. Tell him what’s—”

  “No!”

  He jerked back and looked for her hands. He raised his arms around her back to keep her arms up around his shoulders. Who was it, damn it?

  She brought a hand to the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go until tomorrow. I want to be with you tonight.”

  Jason dropped his arms around her lower back. “Then let me call him. I want to make sure he’ll be there.” He looked into her eyes. They seemed bright with hope, not anger. “I won’t tell him anything else.”

  She released her hug and walked into the kitchen. Jason kept his eyes on her as she rummaged through cabinets, cupboards, and drawers.

  He was relieved he didn’t catch Bransome at home. He didn’t want to explain anything. The message he left with Mrs. Bransome was simple: Lilin found me. She’s going to turn herself in. We’ll be in Mendocino tomorrow afternoon. I’ll explain it all then.

  She emerged from the kitchen at the same time he clicked his phone closed. Two large, thick candles were tucked under her left arm, and two small votives balanced on her left palm. Her right hand gripped a book of matches.

  He scanned her pockets.

  She raised her right arm toward the back of the trailer. “There’s no electricity in here. And no heat. We’ll need these for light.”

  Her smile looked a little too wicked for Agnes, and the reference to no heat was way too suggestive for her personality. Jason stood still.

  She nodded to the west windows and nudged his arm. “Come on. It’ll get cold in here fast. We’ll have to go wrap up.”

  He hadn’t noticed the amber tone of the light and the long shadows in the room. It’d be dark in less than an hour. It was the first time he’d felt it: the trailer already carried a significant chill.

  She nudged again, and he resisted. This time her eyes were different, but still not Lilin-like. There was no anger in them. He’d seen the look before, but he couldn’t place it. Was it with Eugenia?