“I knew it,” Hollis said. “She went to bed with him.”
“Oh, now.”
“You saw that humid look on her face. She let him screw her again.”
“Well, what if she did? She’s a grown woman, with normal appetites.”
“Pierce,” he said. “For God’s sake.”
“She was married to him for four years, Jack.”
“And that makes it all right?”
“Whatever Ryan is or isn’t, he’s several steps up the ladder from David Rakubian. He can’t possibly be as bad for her, can he?”
In bed a while later, he realized that it wasn’t really his daughter’s sex life that was upsetting him, it was his own. He hadn’t had an erection since the night of Rakubian’s burial, not even a weak twitch from the old soldier. His sex drive was already gone, cancered and radiated away. But it wasn’t himself he was sorry for, it was Cassie. She had always been as highly sexed as he was; enjoyed him as often and as enthusiastically as he enjoyed her. She had to be twice as frustrated. Yet she hadn’t complained, and when he’d offered to give her release in one of the other ways she’d said no, it wouldn’t be any good for her if he couldn’t share the pleasure. Still, he felt bad for her, and guilty even though he had no control over the situation. It wasn’t fair. She deserved much better than this.
In that uncanny way she had sometimes, she seemed to intuit what he was thinking. She moved closer to him, put her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest, not touching him with her body. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Just having you here next to me is all I need.”
Trying to make him feel better. It wasn’t enough, dammit. Not for a whole woman with half a man.
Saturday
Cassie took Angela apartment hunting, and when they returned they were all smiles. They’d looked at places in Santa Rosa, Rohnert Park, and finally found one right here in Los Alegres—on Sunnyslope, not much more than a mile away. One-bedroom, ground-floor apartment with a tiny fenced rear yard. Five hundred a month, which was pretty reasonable for a furnished apartment these days. Cassie had paid the first and last months’ rent and the security deposit—a loan Angela promised to pay back at twenty or twenty-five dollars a month. She would, too. Scrupulously.
The find pleased Hollis as well. She and Kenny would still be close by; he would not have to start missing them all over again.
Sunday
He felt pretty good, so he insisted on helping with the move. Angela had little in the way of essentials; everything fit into her Geo. Some kitchenware, sheets and towels, a few other items came from Cassie’s stock. Twenty-five years old, two marriages, a son, and all she had to show for it were a few articles of clothing for her and the boy, a box of personal items, an outdated PC, and an eight-year-old car. If she took up with Pierce again, she’d never have much more. Thinking about that prospect didn’t make him angry, it just made him sad.
And of course Pierce showed up at the apartment as they were moving her in. Kenny seemed to have accepted him completely now; called him Dad and spent as much time hanging around him as he did his granpa. I’m going to lose the boy, too, Hollis thought, and then told himself he was being selfish. He wanted them to be happy, didn’t he? Even if that meant being with Pierce?
Yes, as long as he treated her right this time. If he didn’t—
If he didn’t, what, Hollis? You and Eric will kill him and bury his body under another concrete slab?
The thought was depressing. And made him be nicer to Pierce than he’d been since the kid’s return.
Tuesday Morning
He came home from his weekly visit with Stan Otaki at eleven-thirty. During his six weeks of daily radiation doses, he’d needed someone—Cassie, Gabe, Gloria, taxis on a few occasions—to transport him to and from the hospital. Now that that ordeal was over he was able to drive himself places again, as long as he didn’t overdo it with any lengthy trips. He hated being dependent on others; the one thing he needed almost as much as his family was the ability to fend for himself. Which was another reason why the thought of surgery started him trembling inside: He’d be helpless, completely at the mercy of one casual acquaintance and a team of strangers.
The mail had already been delivered; he fished it out of the box, sifted through it as he let himself into the house. Bills, junk, a charity solicitation, two mail-order catalogs. And a white, business-size envelope, with his name and address typed or computer printed, he couldn’t tell which; first-class postage, no return address. More junk, probably. He set the other mail on the hall table, tore open the envelope, and shook out the single sheet of white paper it contained.
In the upper middle of the sheet was a single line of type, in capital letters:
WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HIS BODY?
14
IT was like a blow to the head: sudden numbing shock, a few seconds of disorientation. He stared at the words until they began to shimmer and blur, as if they were breaking up on the paper.
Somebody knows.
His mind struggled against the thought. How could anyone know, even suspect? Now, almost two months after the fact? Why would anyone send a one-line note like this, more taunting than accusing?
Unless—
The police? Macatee?
Almost immediately, he rejected that. Two months … Rakubian’s disappearance shunted into an inactive file by the volume of new missing persons cases. Strong new evidence would have to practically fall into Macatee’s lap to stir up fresh interest. And there was no way that could have happened. Dammit, no way. Two months dead, two months buried. Construction on the Chesterton site moving ahead on schedule, no clues left to find there, and nothing at Rakubian’s house to connect Eric or him to the disappearance. And the bottom line: Cops don’t send anonymous messages, for any reason. They don’t operate that way; can’t afford to, the laws and judicial system being what they are. If Macatee’s suspicions had been aroused somehow, he’d have shown up with questions, if not outright accusations.
Then who?
Why?
Hollis squinted at the postmark on the envelope. North Bay, which meant it had been mailed in Paloma County or Marin County. Somebody who lived up here? Or somebody who’d driven from elsewhere to mail the note?
He was beginning to feel light-headed. He went into the living room, sank into his chair, and stared again at the single line of type. What did you do with his body? He couldn’t imagine anyone caring enough about Rakubian to resort to a thing like this, or any reason for waiting until two months after the fact. What was the motive? Revenge? Rakubian had no friends, no relatives—he’d been an egotistical loner disliked, hated by those who knew him. Money … some kind of extortion scheme? Not without proof of guilt, and there was no proof. A sick, twisted game?
That recurring dream … like a prophecy fulfilled. His formless fear had shape now, if not yet a name. The new threat wasn’t Rakubian but Rakubian’s legacy. As if it was his evil that had risen from the grave, entered a human host, and set out to wreak vengeance on the ones who’d put him there. Fantastic notion, but it made the back of Hollis’s neck crawl just the same.
Two months. That was what made the least sense of all, the time lapse. Two months, and no conceivable way anyone could have found out the truth. Only two people knew what happened that Saturday, himself and—
Eric.
Eric?
“Nonsense,” he said aloud, but the word had a hollow ring. Convulsively he was on his feet, moving, needing to move. He paced the room in plodding steps, telling himself his son couldn’t possibly be responsible. And yet …
Suppose Eric’s apparently easy adjustment was a facade? Suppose all along his conscience, like Hollis’s, had been ripping him apart to the point where he’d begun to crack up? He must suspect who had disposed of the corpse; might be afraid Hollis hadn’t done a proper job and it would eventually be found. He was a deep kid, his mind worked in convoluted patterns that were sometimes bewildering. If he
was unable to admit his guilt and his fear, it was possible he’d resort to a roundabout method to force the issue. Irrational act, done in extremis. An anonymous cry for help.
Wait … the postmark. Eric wouldn’t have flown up from Santa Barbara just to mail a letter, would he?
No, but a friend could have forwarded it as a favor.
But why go to that much trouble? If he was sick, desperate, the postmark wouldn’t matter to him. Just mail the goddamn thing in Santa Barbara.
Another explanation occurred to Hollis, brought him up short. What if Eric wasn’t the perpetrator but another victim? What if he’d received a note like this as well?
What if somebody knew or suspected that he’d murdered Rakubian?
Tuesday Afternoon
Eric sounded fine on the phone, just as he had the last time they’d talked. No hesitancy in his voice, no unease. “You caught me in the shower,” he said. “Man, what a day.”
“Everything all right?”
“I’m frazzled. They had me running back and forth between here and Ojai all day.”
“I meant with you, personally.”
“Well, I’ve got a date this weekend with a girl I met at one of the clubs. My hunch is she’s married, and I’m not sure I ought to—”
“I’m not interested in your love life, son.”
“… No, of course you’re not.”
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” Handling this badly, dammit. He never seemed able to find the right words, the right approach when he was trying to have a serious talk with Eric. “I’m just wondering if there are any problems, anything important happening in your life.”
“Well, the answer to that is no. Why?”
“Would you come to me if there were?”
“I might, if I thought you could help.”
“How would you do it? Call or what?”
“Phone, e-mail, whatever.”
“You wouldn’t write a letter?”
“Snail mail? Come on, Dad.”
“So you’re sure there’s nothing you want to talk over.”
“Not a thing.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary that might’ve happened recently?”
“Other than the prospect of getting laid by a married woman, no. What’s going on? Why all these questions?”
Hollis thought: This is crazy, both of us tiptoeing around, pretending, playing the secrets game. It’s got to stop. For a moment he considered dragging the truth out himself, forcing Eric to admit his part; but he couldn’t do it. Not on the phone, not on the basis of what might be nothing more than a crank note. The important thing was that Eric was neither responsible for the note nor had received a similar one himself.
If he was telling the truth.
If all that calm wasn’t a front, like a layer of Sheetrock to hide a crumbling wall.
He said, “I worry about you, that’s all. Just want you to know I’m here if you need me.”
Longish pause. “That goes both ways, Dad.”
“Yes. Both ways.”
Tuesday Evening
He called Angela at her new apartment, to find out if everything was all right with her. Yes, fine. High spirits. She chattered on about the university, her job, how much Kenny liked day care, how well Pierce and the boy were getting along, how glad she was to be home.
It neither reassured nor cheered him.
Wednesday
He couldn’t work, couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t sit still. He drove down to Mannix & Hollis for no good reason, came back and took Fritz for a walk, went by himself to McLear Park and spent an hour watching a middle-aged foursome play a bad set of tennis doubles.
What did you do with his body?
Like an endless echo in his mind.
Thursday
Gabe took him to lunch at a new Thai restaurant that had opened downtown. Mild pumpkin curry, steamed rice, a bottle of Singha beer. The food was tasteless—he had no appetite these days—and the beer did nothing for him. What he really wanted was a double Irish, but Stan Otaki had warned him against drinking hard liquor, even in moderation, during his cancer treatments.
They talked business for a while, the Dry Creek Valley project and a potential drainage problem the geologist’s report had pointed up with the rocky, nonabsorbent soil. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t seem to focus on the details. He kept losing the thread of the discussion, blanking out completely for a few seconds. Mannix was not the most observant or sensitive of men, but even he couldn’t help but notice.
“You seem preoccupied, Bernard. Something bothering you?”
“No. Just a little spacey today.”
“The cancer? Everything okay there?”
“Status quo.”
“Angela? Kenny?”
“They’re fine. I’m thinking of getting Kenny an iMac for his birthday.”
“He’ll love it. How’s her new job?”
“Just what she wants for now. She’s already signed up for evening classes in the fall—start working for her MA so she can teach.”
Mannix said reminiscently, as if he were picturing Angela in his mind, “She looks so much better now that that fucking psycho is out of her life. Her old self again.”
“Not quite, but she’s getting there.”
“You did the right thing.”
“… Right thing?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t, Gabe.”
Mannix shrugged. “Status quo there, too,” he said, and signaled the waiter. “I don’t know about you, but I can use another beer.”
It wasn’t until later, after he’d been dropped off at home, that he realized what Mannix had meant by “the right thing.”
Gabe thought his advice had been taken after all; he thought Hollis was the cause of Rakubian’s disappearance.
Thursday Afternoon
He was resting on a chaise longue on the patio, the Thai food heavy in his stomach and an afternoon breeze cool on his skin, when he heard the truck pull into the driveway. Loud exhaust, rumbling engine—Ryan Pierce’s old Dodge.
Now what?
Reluctantly he stood and went along the side path. Pierce was just getting out of the pickup, wearing stained Levi’s, a khaki shirt, a battered straw cowboy hat. The Dodge’s bed was stacked with bags of feed and blocks of salt.
Pierce saw him and took off the hat. The way he stood there, hat in hand, made Hollis think of a none too bright farm boy. He shook the thought away. He was trying to be fair and equable with the kid these days, wasn’t he?
“How’re you, Mr. Hollis?” Still formal and polite. You had to give him that much.
“Holding up. What brings you here?”
“Well, I had to get some supplies and I thought I’d swing by, see if you were home. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Yes? What about?”
“Angela. Kenny, too.”
“What about them?”
“I guess you know I’ve been seeing a lot of them since they came back. Does it bother you and Mrs. Hollis?”
“Would it matter to you if it did?”
“I’d like to know.”
“You can hardly expect us to be jumping for joy, given your track record.”
“I suppose not. But my reasons aren’t selfish. It’s because I care about them and I want to do what’s right for them.”
“And just what do you think that is?”
“Start over again, the three of us. Be the family we never were before. I owe it to Angela, to my son.”
Hollis stared at him. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m going to ask her to marry me again.”
“Christ, Pierce! Are you crazy?”
“Never more sane. I love Angela, I love Kenny, I was a sorry damn fool for ever letting them out of my life. The three of us belong together. Whether you think so or not, Mr. Hollis.”
Anger kindled in him. He smothered it. Pierce was serious, earnest, and he was capable of the w
illful stubbornness of a mule. A show of anger would accomplish nothing, probably lead to a public shouting match.
He said slowly, keeping his voice even, “Does Angela know about this?”
“Not yet. I haven’t said anything, at least not directly. Seemed like a good idea to tell you first.”
“Ask me for her hand?” Hollis couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “You never bothered the first time, you just went ahead and knocked her up.”
A muscle ticced on Pierce’s cheek; otherwise his face was stoic. “I made a lot of mistakes back then. I’m trying not to make any more, anyway not the same ones.”
“Trying to convince Angela to marry you again is a damn big mistake. You know what she went through with her second husband. The last thing she needs is another commitment, another go-round with you.”
“I understand how badly Rakubian hurt her,” Pierce said. “Makes me sick every time I think about it.”
“You hurt her, too, once. Remember?”
“I’m not likely to forget. It won’t happen again, I swear that to you. I want to make up for what I did and what Rakubian did.”
“And I’m telling you, this is the wrong time to pressure her into a committed relationship.”
“I won’t pressure her. I wouldn’t do that. I’ll let her set the date when she’s ready. Until then, I’ll be there for her—however she wants me, anytime she wants me.”
Hollis waited until he was sure he could speak normally before he said, “Don’t say anything about marriage to her now. Give her time. She needs time, Pierce.”
“I want her to know how I feel, same as I wanted you to know.”
“Listen to me. I’m warning you, if you upset her, make her life difficult again—”
“I won’t. I told you that, and I meant it. Take care of yourself, Mr. Hollis, okay? You can’t take care of Angela anymore, but I can. And I will.”
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