“Of course not. Any more than I believe it’s Ryan. That’s my point.”
“I still think Pierce is the one.”
A little silence. Then Cassie said, “You’re forgetting something. Angela had a date with him the Saturday Rakubian was murdered. She left the house the same time Eric did, remember?”
“She wasn’t with him all afternoon, was she? He could’ve driven to the city after he left her.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“There was time. It was two-thirty or so when you called me, and after four by the time I got to St. Francis Wood. If Pierce left town right after he left her, he had nearly two hours to get down there, kill Rakubian, and disappear before I showed up.”
“I suppose so,” she admitted. “But that’s cutting it pretty close.”
“Not if he went there planning to kill him.”
“So what do you want to do? Confront him, accuse him?”
He hesitated. “It seemed like the best way to handle it.”
“But now you’re not so sure.”
“No.” Because she had put doubts in him, not only about Pierce’s guilt but about himself, his judgment. “What do you suggest I … we do?”
“Talk to Angela before making any decisions,” Cassie said. “Right now that’s the most important thing.”
The aura of violation was strong in the house. They took plastic trash containers, brooms, dustpans, a mop, spray cleaner, and a handful of rags into the living room, and made an attempt to clean up the wreckage. It gave Hollis a sick feeling of déjà vu; he kept having memory blips of Rakubian’s library, the blood and gore he’d swabbed off the floor. Futile, wasted effort here. The living room would have to be gutted completely, repainted and recarpeted and refurnished, and even then, as Cassie had said, it would never be or feel the same—the house itself might never be the same comfort zone as before. They managed to wipe most of SUFFER! off the one wall, righted some of the chairs and tables, swept up the worst of the breakage. As they worked they talked in fits and starts, the strain still there between them. That, too, was wasted effort.
When they gave it up, finally, Cassie insisted he go upstairs and lie down. He didn’t argue; he needed to be alone as well as to rest. He lay in the semidark of their bedroom, his eyes shut, his thoughts jumping here and there until they settled on Cassie’s accusations. No, not accusations, not indictments—facts, insights. What he’d been slammed in the face with were harsh truths, and he’d never been one to run from the truth.
Anger and. fear at the betrayal of his body. Yes, he had both those feelings. The need to lash out at something or somebody. Oh yes, he had that, too—it had fueled his plot to kill Rakubian. Might be fueling his dislike of Pierce, his desire for Pierce to be guilty. Rage was a powerful motivating force. And a notorious clouder of reason, just as Cassie had said.
And then there was Pop. Tough-as-nails Bud Hollis, the last man he’d ever wanted to be, the man he’d fought so hard not to be … the man he’d turned into in spite of himself. It explained a lot of things. Why he and Eric had never been as close as they should have been, Eric’s teenage rebellion. At crucial moments he’d treated his son the way Pop had treated him, with an iron fist instead of a gentle hand, blunt censure instead of sensitivity and love, a closed mind instead of an open one; and Eric had gradually drawn away from him, as he’d drawn away from the old man. Angela’s dependence … his fault, too. Daddy’s little girl, run to Daddy every time there was a problem and he’d make it all right. Same thing with the other men in her life, weak men like the younger Pierce, dominant men like Rakubian. One or the other, the weak or the controlling, or both together like her father. And Cassie … shutting her out, pushing her away, when he should have utilized her strength and trusted her intelligence and her wisdom. I’m just as angry as you are, just as tough and capable, and more clearheaded in a crisis. If he’d confided in her from the beginning, some or all of this crisis could have been avoided.
His fault, his weakness, his mistakes. His failures. Admit it, Hollis. You’re not much better than Bud Hollis, as a father, a spouse, or a human being.
The thoughts had become too painful; he made an effort to shut them off, succeeded, and then slept fitfully. When he awoke Cassie was in the room, standing near the bed. She saw that his eyes were open, came over to sit beside him.
“I just spoke to Angela,” she said. “We’re seeing her at five. Ryan won’t be there—he’s taking Kenny to a movie.”
“Okay.
“I called Eric, too. I thought it was a good idea.”
“What’d he say?”
“He’s worried, of course. Mostly about you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That we’re dealing with the situation. Both of us. He wants us to call him if there’s anything he can do.”
“He’s a good kid. No, hell, a good man. Better man than I am, as young as he is.”
“That’s not true and you know it.” She stroked his forehead, pushing damp strands of hair out of his eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’m sorry I said all those ugly things to you. It wasn’t fair—it was cruel and selfish.”
“You were right,” he said.
“Yes, but it was the wrong time, the wrong words. I was too upset. I should’ve waited.”
“Better it’s out in the open.” His mouth quirked. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, he thought.
“Still,” she said. Then, “I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you, finding Rakubian, all the rest of that day.”
“I don’t remember most of it,” he lied.
“It took more courage than I’ll ever have.”
He didn’t answer. What was there to say? She was only trying to make him feel better, make amends where none were needed.
She kissed him. “I don’t want you to think I’ve stopped loving you.”
“I don’t. Not for a minute.”
And he hadn’t, even when she was berating him in the kitchen. It was the one thing he’d never doubted, the one constant he had to cling to.
Sunday Evening
Telling Angela was not quite the ordeal he’d feared. She took it well enough, crying a little with relief and a measure of sorrow. She was nothing if not compassionate, his daughter; she’d cried once as a child, he remembered, over a dead mouse she’d found partially mummified in the garage. Even after all that Rakubian had done to her, there was a small part of her that was able to grieve for the man she’d once loved or tried to love.
If she blamed Hollis for covering up or withholding the truth, she didn’t express it. She seemed to understand why he’d done it, to sympathize with what he’d been through. Would she have felt the same if he’d followed through with his original plan, if it were his hands stained with Rakubian’s blood? Probably not. It would’ve been a betrayal of her trust, and what he’d be facing now was disillusionment, censure, even horror. All death diminished her; she’d told him that once. Anyone who committed murder, no matter what the motivation, was automatically diminished in her eyes.
They told her about the vandalism, too, minimizing the extent of the damage, but he said nothing of his suspicions of Pierce. They let her believe, for now, that they had no inkling of who the new stalker was, what his motives might be, or even if he was the same person who had killed Rakubian. If Pierce was responsible, they’d know it soon enough—and with any luck they’d be able to spare her the truth of that until after he was long gone.
Sunday Night
Cold and wide awake, he moved restlessly to fit his body against the curve of Cassie’s back. When her warmth seeped into him he thought he’d be able to sleep. But the gentle pressure of her buttocks, the pliant mound of her hip beneath his hand, had a different effect. To his surprise he felt a stirring in his loins, then a gradual hardening and lengthening. For the first time since that Saturday in May, and after another darkly eventful day—as if through some weird physiological reaction,
his body was now able to respond sexually only in a time of great stress.
Cassie was awake; she reached a hand around between them. “Well,” she said, “what have we here.”
“I may not be able to sustain it.”
“Let’s find out.”
He managed. Better than he could have anticipated. Their coupling was a little too fast, but because it had been so long for both of them, he didn’t disappoint Cassie. After twenty-six years he knew well enough when her orgasms were genuine.
Afterward, resting with their bodies still joined, he heard himself say, “I am still a man,” without any conscious thought or intent.
“Of course you are,” she said drowsily. “Mm, yes.”
But sexual potency was only part of what the words meant. A small part, and not the most important at all.
19
Monday Morning
THE weather changed overnight. Instead of blue sky and sunlight, he woke to low-hanging gray clouds and a raw wind. Gloomy Monday.
Cassie left early to take Kenny to day care; Pierce had to be at work at eight and Angela had a nine o’clock meeting. Hollis toasted two pieces of bread, soft-boiled two eggs, then found he had little appetite and left most of the food untouched. He’d planned to go to the office this morning, but he didn’t feel up to it. Things to do here today, anyhow. Call a couple of small contractors he knew, get estimates on gutting and remodeling the living room. Whatever the cost, it would have to come out of their savings: useless to file an insurance claim because the company would refuse to honor it without a police report. Contact one of the home security outfits, too. He had always resisted an alarm system, giving in to homeowners’ fear and paranoia, but now he wished he hadn’t been so stubborn on that point (and so many others). If they’d had a security alarm and it had been switched on yesterday, the vandalism would not have happened. Putting one in now would at least ensure that there would never be another break-in.
His first call was to Gloria, to tell her he wouldn’t he in but that he’d be available at home if needed. She said, “How’d the submission package look?”
“What submission package?”
“Dry Creek Valley. We worked all day Saturday to get it ready, Gabe and me. Didn’t he tell you?”
“I haven’t heard from him.”
“Ah, todo esta jodido. He said he’d give you a call. That’s why I just dropped the envelope off yesterday. I thought you’d be expecting it.”
“Where’d you put it?”
“In your mailbox. Yesterday morning, on my way home from church. I rang the bell but nobody answered. I wonder why Gabe didn’t call you?”
“He’ll have some excuse. He always does.”
“Envelope must still be in the box.…”
“I’ll go over the package right away.”
“You’re gonna be pleased,” she said. “If we don’t get this job, I’ll swim naked all the way down to Black Point.”
“That I’d like to see. Tell Gabe to call me when he gets in.”
He fetched the envelope, took it into his study, and spread the contents out on his desk. Mannix and Gloria had done a fine job. The fee schedule had been pared to the bone, the schematic site plan and conceptual designs—as much Gabe’s in their final form as his—were clean and environmentally sound.
Gabe, he thought, you’re a hell of an architect when you set your mind to it. If you’d just stay focused, put a curb on the booze and the woman-chasing. Just had a little more ambition. I wish I could figure out exactly what makes you tick.…
I can think of somebody right off the top of my head. You won’t like it, but he’s got just as much motive as Ryan.
For Christ’s sake, he thought. Don’t start suspecting Mannix now. Cassie wasn’t serious. Gabe, of all people.
Gabe?
The phone rang at a quarter of ten, just after he finished making an appointment with the Santa Rosa rep for Camden Home Security Systems. Mannix. Sounding lugubrious and hungover.
“I screwed up,” he said. “Other things on my mind yesterday … I just plain forgot to call.”
“A woman, I suppose.”
“Cute little piece from Paloma Valley. Her only fault is she drinks too damn much.”
“And you don’t?”
“Weak and easily led, that’s me.”
“That where you were yesterday, Paloma Valley?”
“Nope. My place.”
“All day?”
“We didn’t get out of the sack until dinnertime. Why?”
“No reason. Listen, the proposal looks fine. You nailed everything down just right.”
“We nailed it down, all three of us. So we go with it as is? Or do you want to make any changes?”
“As is. I’ll bring it down this afternoon.”
“I don’t mind swinging by to pick it up.”
“I’m not an invalid, Gabe.”
“Did I say you were? You sound the way I feel.”
“I’m a little pressured right now.”
“Reason?”
“Some work that needs to be done on the house.”
“What kind of work?”
“Repairs. Living room remodel.”
“Kind of a sudden decision, isn’t it?”
“Very sudden,” he said. “We don’t have much choice.”
“Meaning?”
“Never mind. Tell you about it later.”
He hung up feeling ashamed of himself. There’d been nothing in Mannix’s voice except polite interest—of course there hadn’t. Why couldn’t he get rid of that nagging little worm of suspicion? It was ludicrous to think of Gabe sneaking into the house, slashing the furniture with a knife, wielding a can of spray paint like some drugged-up teenage tagger. It was an act of betrayal to give the notion even a second’s serious consideration.
Buy a gun and use it. That’s what I’d do in your place.
Oh, hell. Talk, false bravado.
Suppose I do it for you.
No way.
I wouldn’t have any qualms about it, moral or otherwise. Same as shooting a rabid dog.
Rakubian wasn’t shot, was he? Bludgeoned to death.
I’d do it. No lie and no bull.
Yes, bull. Mannix crushing a man’s skull with a statuette? Another ludicrous image.
People like Rakubian don’t deserve to live. Do the world a favor, take him right out of the gene pool.
Cut it out, Hollis!
But now he was remembering last week, their lunch at the Thai restaurant. He’d taken Mannix’s comment about doing the right thing to mean that Gabe thought he’d killed Rakubian, but it could have meant something else. Could’ve been an allusion to the cleanup, the body being taken away and disposed of. Guessed he was responsible for that and was thanking him in an oblique way
No, that didn’t make any sense. Why thank him on the one hand, devil him on the other? Those notes, the vandalism … what possible reason could Mannix have for turning on Angela, Cassie, himself after committing murder to protect them?
Crazy thoughts, crazy suspicions. It’s not Gabe, it couldn’t possibly be Gabe, it’s Pierce.
Pierce, Pierce, Pierce!
Monday Afternoon
It wasn’t Pierce.
By five o’clock Hollis had that proven to him beyond any reasonable doubt.
The day had been busy, and a good thing, because the activity kept him from thinking too much. He dropped off the proposal at the office, met with the Camden Home Security rep, met with the two contractors (explaining briefly to each of them that the damage was a case of vandalism, but offering no details). He was finishing up with Tom Finchley, the contractor he was probably going to use, when Cassie called at 4:10.
“Jack,” she said, “I need you to come pick me up.”
An edge in her voice put him on alert. “Why? What’s the matter with the van?”
“We’ll talk when you get here. I’m at the clinic.”
“On my way.”
> Animal Care Clinic was in the narrow part of Los Alegres east of the river that longtime residents called “the DMZ”—a section of older, lower-middle-class homes, small businesses, and light industry that lay between the long-established west side and the newer east-side tracts and malls. It was an old wood-and-brick building, once an irrigation supply company’s office and warehouse, with a customer parking lot on the near side and a tiny lot for employees tucked away behind the kennels at the rear.
When Hollis arrived he found Cassie in the employee lot, in conversation with the bearded driver of a tow truck that was drawn up behind her van. All four of the van’s tires were flat, so that it seemed to be resting on the ground itself; he couldn’t tell from a distance if anything else was wrong with it. There was no room in the lot for the Lexus; he left it outside and walked in with his body bent against the cold wind.
The tow-truck driver was saying, “It’s sugar, all right, Mrs. Hollis. No point in trying to fix the flats here, either. All I can do is tow it in.”
“Yes, thanks. Go ahead.”
She came over to where Hollis waited. He said thinly, “More vandalism.”
“Sugar in the gas tank—the empty sack was lying right there in plain sight. One tire punctured with a sharp object, the other three with the air let out and the valve caps taken away.”
“What about the interior?”
“I always lock the doors, fortunately.” She had one hand in her jacket pocket; she took it out with a sheet of paper in it. “This was under the windshield wiper.”
He did not have to look at it to know what it said. He looked anyway. SUFFER! Printed in capital letters with a black marking pen this time. Sloppy, back-slanted printing, possibly in an attempt to disguise the person’s hand. Nothing about it struck him as familiar.
“Twice in two days,” Cassie said. “It’s so damn childish, as if …”
“As if what?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “All I know right now is that I’m scared. Where does it go from here? And how soon?”
In an Evil Time Page 17