Mills laughs. And then he doesn’t. He has a sense of doom.
19
Gus Parker gets home about 4:30 in the afternoon. The days still feel like summer, so he’s not surprised when he takes Ivy for her walk that she’s panting before they reach the third corner.
“We’ll make it a short one, girl,” he tells her. The air smells of creosote. The image of Gary Potter killing a woman has been haunting him for days. He’s been so distracted he mistook a kidney for a gallbladder. Only momentarily. But still. It’s times like this when he misses surfing the most. There’s nothing quite like having that much energy and that much solitude. A neighbor approaches with her baby in a stroller. The woman says hello. Gus smiles. The baby squints at the sky. Gus has an urge to reach down and pull the child toward him, not in a malicious way but to somehow make up for what he never had. Gus doesn’t know this woman, but he knows that he’s jealous of her husband.
A bird swoops down, and Ivy barks.
“C’mon, girl, let’s go home,” he tells the dog. At home he turns on the TV and mixes a heap of salad for dinner. Vanna White is turning a letter. “Not in my house,” Gus says to the television as he surfs to another station. He lands on another local station and a rerun of Seinfeld. It’s the one about Elaine’s nipple. He’s seen this one about a half a dozen times, and he still laughs. He thinks Julia Louis-Dreyfus is sublime. The five o’clock news comes on as he’s carving up some chicken.
“Murder in Glendale,” the anchorman belches. “A neighborhood on alert.”
Gus barely listens until he hears the bellowing voice of Sheriff Clayman Tarpo and the comment that the crime could be linked to the desert murders.
“So, Tony,” says the anchorman to a reporter on the scene, “did the sheriff explain why there might be a connection?”
“He offered little in specifics, but he did say that something about the crime scene was consistent with what investigators found in the desert.”
“Intriguing,” the anchorman muses for the camera. “Thanks, Tony. Good work out there.”
Gus drops the carving knife and reaches for his cell phone.
Alex Mills doesn’t answer.
He tries again. He leaves a voice mail.
He takes the chicken salad and forks at it while he walks into his den and turns on the computer. He goes to the Arizona Republic’s website. The victim’s name is Andrea Willis. She’s thirty-eight years old. A hairstylist, separated from her husband. The Republic has the same vague, offhanded quote from the sheriff. It’s unclear to Gus why the sheriff would be involved now. As he’s finishing the article his phone chimes. A text message from Alex: “Interesting vision. Victim was strangled by rope or cord. Busy. Let’s talk in AM.”
He thinks about the rope and the MRI. Interesting vision, maybe. But it doesn’t explain the connection between a suburban crime scene and a series of cave murders. Still, affirmation goes thud in his chest. The rope around Rosemary Nichols’s neck was a sign, not for her but for Gus, and, sadly, for Andrea Willis. The rope, Gus knows, is how the killer ropes them in. That’s it. He changed the murder weapon, but there has to be something else about the crime scenes that are connected. He knows this.
“Same killer?” he texts back to Alex.
“Affirmed, not confirmed,” Alex replies.
Gus shaves before bed. He had been sporting two days of stubble. He gives his face a final splash of water and looks up to the mirror. For an instant he sees the faint image of his mother. She’s there in front of him but far away in the mirror, reduced to a horizon dweller. He thinks she’s calling to him. Her mouth isn’t moving, but he can hear her voice. It sounds as if she is trapped in a fog, the way her voice carries with strange echoes. He suddenly understands that she is not talking to him. She’s saying, “How long do I have? What are my options?” And she’s saying it to someone else.
He feels a chill.
It’s been a while, maybe two years, since he has talked to Meg Parker. He doesn’t remember the occasion of that conversation, but he remembers the tone: short, cordial, and detached. Gus listens to himself juggle his options. The more he hears himself the more he realizes that he doesn’t have any.
He calls her in the morning.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Who’s calling? It’s me, Mom.”
“Oh, Gus. As if I didn’t know. But out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”
He shakes his head. She’s hopeless. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she says. Her tone is chipper and manufactured. “What can I do for you?”
“Just checking in,” he says.
“For what? Money?”
He sighs deeply. “Really? When have I ever called you for money?”
“It’s inevitable, Gus. We know you can’t really sustain a life as a palm reader.”
He laughs bitterly. “I’m not a palm reader. And you know that. You also know that I have a full-time job in healthcare.”
She laughs.
The c-word is on the tip of his tongue, but he stuffs it down his throat. “Speaking of healthcare, Mother, when’s the last time you saw a doctor?”
“Not lately.”
“I think you should.”
She clears her throat. “You do? Let me guess, you got a sign that I’m ill.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Look, Gus, your father is walking in for breakfast. You do remember we’re an hour earlier than you.”
“Only half the year,” he says.
That hour, or that half a year, is a metaphor for everything.
Gus shuts his eyes now and concentrates. From his world, the curtain closes. He stares at the square of black. He can feel his eyes squeezing in his head, exerting the mental muscle to open the curtain to their world. Slowly it slides aside, and the first thing Gus sees is an image of Jesus in a painting on the kitchen wall. It’s right next to the sign that says, “Bless This Mess,” and a corkboard sprouting coupons at the height of harvest. And his father.
“Tell Dad I really like the tie. Red is such a power color.”
“Good guess,” she says.
“When did he grow the moustache?”
“I see you’ve been talking to your sister.”
“It’s been nearly a year since I’ve spoken to Nicole,” he tells her. “Go to the doctor.”
She says nothing.
“Oh, and Mom, is that toast burning? Before the timer? You’re usually more accurate than that. But I hear the timer going off in four, three, two, one . . .”
Ding.
“And Dad’s toast is charcoal black,” he adds.
She slams the phone down.
Gus reads about the Andrea Willis murder in the morning paper. The report is nearly as void of detail as the stories he saw last night. The article does include a quote from Sergeant Jacob Woods of the Phoenix Police Department who says, “We are looking into any and all connections to other currently open cases. Certainly if anyone has any information related to these crimes, they’re urged to contact us as soon as possible. Let it be clear that we, not the sheriff ’s office, are the lead agency on this case.”
He’s getting ready for work when the phone rings. It’s Alex Mills, who fills him in on the murder scene in Glendale.
“Carved into the wall?” Gus asks.
“Yeah.”
“The message is obvious.”
“We know. He’s everywhere. He’s emboldened.”
“But this is different,” Gus says. “All along he’s used the desert petroglyphs as some sort of compass of his crimes. Now he’s committed a crime in a completely arbitrary place.”
“There was no petroglyph near the Camelback cave,” Alex reminds him. “Besides, Chase says not to get too hung up on them as some kind of symbols. We were all set to map out the petroglyphs within a ten-mile radius of Phoenix, no easy feat, and then send out surveillance teams looking for bodies, but then Chase talks to
this professor friend of his at ASU who tells him the symbols mean nothing.”
“Nothing? I doubt that.”
“According to this professor, the petroglyphs, themselves, are arbitrary. They basically serve no other purpose than art.”
“Of course they’re art,” Gus says. “But I always assumed they carried some kind of spiritual significance.”
“Not according to Chase.”
“So the murderer is putting together a portfolio of his own artwork?”
“He’s leaving proof that outlives the crime,” Mills replies.
“Good point.”
“Chase feels the killer is documenting his work with pride.”
“I wonder who the killer’s trying to impress.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I see more into this than proving a point, or marking an accomplishment,” Gus says. “He’s trying to impress someone, or maybe even seek approval.”
“Maybe you should talk to Chase,” Mills tells him. “You sound like you’d be more helpful to him than me.”
“I take it you two aren’t getting along.”
Mills laughs. “We’re getting along fine. But in this kind of case the profile is everything. And that’s what Chase does. He’s the expert.”
Gus feels himself lunge for the next remark. “But maybe I can lead you to the killer before Chase even finishes his profile,” he says, thinking of Gary Potter.
“Go on, my psychic friend. . . .”
Gus bristles. “You know, I haven’t figured out how to tell you this. But I may have a lead.”
“The case isn’t getting any warmer.”
“I can’t tell you who it is, but I can put you right in front of him.”
“Don’t be coy, Gus Parker.”
“I’m not. I just have to be careful what to say. He’s a client of mine. And I have a plan.”
“Meet for lunch?”
“Can’t. I’m working through lunch so I can leave early for Tucson.”
“What’s in Tucson?”
Gus tells him about Beatrice’s investigation. About Charla McGregor’s appearance in Tucson. “Wanna come?”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think so, Gus. It’s such short notice. I mean, I’m intrigued and all, but I don’t want to spring it on Kelly.”
Then Gus knows exactly what to say. “Bring her to the theater tomorrow night.”
“The theater?”
Gus offers to give Mills the tickets to Gary Potter’s play. “That client I’m telling you about. He’s the lead character.”
“Why do you think this guy’s linked to the murders?”
“Why do I think anything? Why do I get a hunch or a vision?”
“Fair enough.”
“I wish I could give you more details, but I can’t. He’s a client.”
“I get it, Gus.”
“Look, it might be nothing,” Gus tells him. “But treat your wife to a nice night of dinner and the theater and get all the stress of work off your mind. If nothing else, that should make it worth it. I know you’re under a lot of pressure.”
“Speaking of, we don’t leave Trevor alone these days.”
“I can understand that.”
“So, I think it’s thanks but no thanks on the play.”
The words come out before Gus fully assembles the logic. “Leave him with me. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”
“You want to babysit a teenager?”
“No,” Gus replies. “I want to hang out with him.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how well he’ll take to that. I’ll talk about it with Kelly and let you know.”
Gus says that’s no problem. What Gus really wants is for someone to shadow Gary Potter. But he knows it doesn’t work that way.
And then Alex says, “Hey, Gus, I have something for you.”
“What?”
“Personal effect from Andrea Willis.”
“Intrigued. How about you trade it in for those theater tickets?”
“Like I said, I’ll let you know, man.”
Gus laughs. “Deal,” he says. Then he’s off to work where he’s met by four pairs of breasts in a row.
Followed by a gallbladder, two livers, and a kidney.
During a break he stuffs a burrito in his mouth, then returns to his work and a cranky old fellow named Mr. Harvey. “Let’s just get this done with,” the man says. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. You know what, young man? I’m seventy-eight years old, and I still run a company. How about that? Huh? Most people my age are playing golf ! Bored to death and probably going broke. Not me. No way.”
“Good for you, Mr. Harvey,” Gus tells him. “Keep active. Stay active.”
“I was running five miles a day before my knee started cramping up. So, what am I supposed to do now? Go to some idiotic senior center and play chess? I don’t think so. Not Ted Harvey. Not me. No way.”
Gus smiles. “I don’t see that happening to you, sir. Just give me a few minutes and we’ll get you out of here.”
During the procedure, Gus scans the pictures, as he usually does, to inspect the images for quality. One image comes up, not as the lateral meniscus but as a face. A face. He closes out of the window and calls it up again. And there in the box on the screen, smiling as if she just won the Joan Crawford Mother of the Year Award, is the defiantly beautiful face of Meg Parker.
20
Beatrice and Hannah show up at four o’clock.
“You don’t look well,” Beatrice tells Gus. “Are you sick?”
Gus ushers them in. “Not really. Just tired, I guess.”
“Don’t let your mother get to you,” Beatrice tells him.
He looks at her and bursts into a smile. “Damn, you’re good,” he says.
She does a coquettish half spin and says, “Of course I am. I see what you see.”
“You ladies ready to hit the road?” he asks.
They are, and they pile into Gus’s car and head out of Phoenix. They’re halfway to Tucson, well past Casa Grande, when Beatrice tells Gus that his house is being cased.
“For a robbery?” he asks, looking away from the road.
“I don’t think so,” Beatrice says.
“What did the car look like?” he asks, observing the jitters in his own voice.
“I don’t know,” she tells him. “Keep your eyes on the highway, dear.”
He talks to the windshield in disbelief. “How did you not see what the car looked like?”
“Because I didn’t see a car.”
“She had some kind of vibe when we entered your neighborhood,” Hannah explains.
“Oh,” Gus says. And then he wonders who. Who would be casing my house? Officially, no one outside the police department knows that Gus is working on the desert murders. Certainly not the media. “Do you have any idea who it might be or why?” he asks Beatrice.
She utters a chain of tsks. “We can’t worry about that now, Gus. All I’m saying is that your house has been watched.”
“That’s all you’re saying,” he says mockingly.
“I don’t sense any harm,” she tells him. “Besides Ivy is a fine watchdog.”
They’re mostly quiet for the rest of the journey. They pass the exit for Mission San Xavier del Bac. It’s a place that Gus, not a religious person, would normally pull off for a brief visit. Called the White Dove of the Desert, it’s a silent place, wholly spiritual and serene. On a trip south, Gus never misses the chance to visit. There he would stare at the soaring white arches against the crisp, impossibly blue sky and just dream. His connection would require no work. The place just is.
But he moves on down the highway. The desert rushes by like a conveyor of burlap. Beatrice removes a CD from her pocketbook and slips it into the player. “I want you to hear some new music.”
A woman sings delicately to the strumming of a guitar. Her voice builds to a flourish, and then the percussion drives her i
nto a thrashing chorus about ghosts—“Ghosts don’t need a place to hide . . . they never do, they never do . . . ghosts are with us, with you . . . always inside.”
“Who is this?” he asks Beatrice.
“Billie Welch.”
“You’re kidding.” Billie Welch was a rock and roll chanteuse who came to fame in the late 1970s when women in rock were rare and all of them owed a debt of gratitude to Janis Joplin. Billie Welch was every adolescent boy’s dream. Beautiful, doe-eyed, sultry. Her songs were seductive, never sexual, but fetching and mysterious. Her career had endured, though as the years passed she seemed to drop out of sight, releasing less music, following, it seemed, in the elusive footsteps of Greta Garbo. “She’s still making music?” Gus asks.
“Apparently,” Beatrice says.
“I think I had a crush on her when I was seventeen or so,” he confesses.
“Well, now you can probably meet her,” Hannah says. “She just moved in two houses down from Beatrice.”
“I brought her a pie. She gave me a CD,” Beatrice adds. “She said she was tired of the LA life and was looking for a retreat.”
“Wow,” Gus says. “That is so cool. How old is she now?”
“Probably a few years older than you,” Beatrice guesses.
Gus listens to the music as if it’s translating the white noise of the highway.
“I think this is our exit,” Hannah tells him a few minutes into the interlude.
Turns out Charla McGregor is the real deal.
Never once did she exploit Hannah’s feigning story of a lover lost at sea, told, following protocol, with shivering drama and high volume prior to McGregor’s introduction. And if there had been any tendency to exploit, the lover lost at sea would have been perfect bait. The attendance was not even half that of Eric Young’s appearance in Phoenix. The people who showed up were uniformly tepid, if not sheepish. There was no sense of arousal in the crowd, not even a buzz of anticipation. But there would be recognition and tears, and apparently truth, as Charla worked very hard to connect with the individuals seated in a semicircle around her. She was tall and thin, with a bowl of black hair, intermittingly spliced with gray. She had perfect posture. And powder sand complexion. She spoke softly. She made no ringing pronouncements, preferring to speak to her guests as though they had come for a cup of tea, not a show. It did seem like a sort of exquisite tea party, the intimacy she created in that space.
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