Leave a Message for Willie

by Marcia Muller

  I struggled harder, kicked out, tried to dig at him with my elbows. Futile. A chloroform-suffused darkness was closing over me, and there was not a damned thing I could do about it…

  21.

  My head ached worse than it ever had in my life. Each throb set off flashes of light behind my eyelids. My sinuses were plugged and I felt queasy.

  And then came the memory of suffocating chloroform fumes. Chloroform, and strong arms pinning me. The alley behind the Oasis Bar and Grill. Willie…

  I forced my eyes open to a slit. The light was more blinding than the ones exploding in my brain. I focused on a nubby green material and curving rattan arms. A couch. I was lying on a couch.

  Opening my lids further, I looked past the couch to the rest of the room. There was a metal desk and a bank of file cabinets. An office of some kind. Painfully I moved my gaze to the far right, where a man sat on a stool. A man clad in olive drab fatigues, holding a rifle across his lap. Monty Adair.

  I shut my eyes, but not fast enough. Adair said, “Ah, Sharon. You’re awake.”

  I tried to speak, but my lips and tongue were cottony dry. I swallowed and tried again. “You were the one. In the alley. Called me pretending to be Willie.” My words were thick and slurred.

  “Very perceptive of you, considering you’ve been out cold for a good three hours.”

  Three hours. That would make it…make it around eleven at night. I wanted to ask him where we were, but it seemed too much effort. Instead I lay there for a few minutes, letting my head clear. Adair watched me impassively.

  Finally I said, “Where am I?’

  “Where do you think?”

  I wasn’t in any shape for guessing games. Raising myself on one elbow, I started to sit up. A wave of nausea forced me down again. I waited for it to pass, then said, “Paramilitary camp.”

  “That’s very good.” He nodded as if I’d just passed a difficult examination.

  “You brought me here.”

  “Right again.”

  “Why?”

  “Mack wants to talk to you.”

  I made it up this time and swung my feet off the couch onto the floor. The nausea came back, then subsided some. “About what?”

  “Oh come now, Sharon. You know. You know too much.”

  “I know you set up your own camp. Did you buy the land?”

  “Yes. Levin found it for us.”

  “It’s near his cabin. You burned his cabin.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” My head was more clear now and the light was not as painful anymore.

  “He didn’t play fair with us. We should have known better than to deal with a Jew. So we set the place on fire so it would look like an accident, and he went away.”

  “What was he going to do, give the Torahs back to the congregations he stole them from?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he really serious about this religious conversion?”

  “Entirely serious. It seems he did a lot of thinking up there in the woods.”

  “So he hid the Torahs in Willie’s garage where you couldn’t get at them?”

  “No. I hid them there. Levin was being watched. By those Nazi-hunters, or whatever they claim to be. He was afraid to keep the Torahs with him. So one day when I was picking up some merchandise from Willie, I put them in with the player piano rolls.”

  “Why didn’t you just keep them at your apartment? You weren’t being watched.”

  “I don’t keep anything illegal at my apartment. It’s too much of a risk. For years now I’ve used Willie’s garage. Hot merchandise, controlled substances, anything like that goes there.”

  “Does Willie know this?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Weren’t you afraid he’d find out?”

  “No. That garage is like a pack rat’s nest. He can barely find the stuff he puts there.”

  It was a clever practice for a young man getting ahead in the world, I thought.

  I sensed I could get the whole story from Adair, if I let him talk. He loved to listen to himself, to lecture and expound. But I was more concerned with what they intended to do with me. I raised my head and looked around the room. It had stone walls and a heavy oak door with massive iron hinges. There were windows, small casement types, but they were covered with thick shutters.

  “How many are there in your group?” I asked.

  “Enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “To protect ourselves, our way of life. We don’t like what’s happening in this country. Rampant liberalism. Women stepping out of their place. Welfare cheats. Minorities demanding things. We’ve got to be prepared, and this camp gives us the training we need.”

  “To do what?”

  “I just told you. To protect ourselves, our homes. Our families.”

  It was scary stuff. Very scary. “Do you train with real weapons?”

  “Not yet. For most maneuvers, the type of gun used in the National Survival Game is adequate. We haven’t raised the money for our real weapons yet.”

  “Levin was supposed to do that, with the remaining Torahs.”

  “Yes. His change of attitude caused us a real problem. I had told him the Torahs were at Willie’s. My first mistake. At least I didn’t tell him where. But he went to San Francisco after we burned him out. Began watching Willie. We were afraid the Nazi-hunters would realize why.”

  “So if you didn’t want Levin to take the Torahs, why did you have Selena give him the keys to Willie’s house?” I glanced at the shutters once again; they were nailed together.

  “We thought we could convince him to come back into the fold — temporarily. So he could sell the rest of the Torahs for us.”

  “But why convince him at Willie’s?”

  “Because it was the one place we knew he wanted to go. We knew we could lure him to Willie’s.” Adair shook his head. “I thought it was a bad idea. Look how it turned out.”

  “Why tear up Willie’s house, though, if you knew where the Torahs were?”

  Adair looked surprised. “We didn’t.”

  “Someone did, looking for those Torahs. And it wasn’t Levin, because the person looked in places where the Torahs wouldn’t have fit. Levin knew how large they were.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Had Mack ever seen a Torah?”

  Adair’s eyes widened and he raised his brows. “How do you figure it was Mack?”

  I didn’t want to tell him that I knew Marchetti had killed both Levin and Alida. And I certainly wasn’t about to explain about the radio tape. About how Marchetti had told me Alida had been stabbed in the neck immediately after Selena had called to tell him about the murder, but before that particular detail had been released to the press. If I told Adair that, I might never get out of here.

  “Just a guess,” I finally said.

  He watched me, eyes narrowed.

  “I was wrong about Mack, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  I felt a twinge of relief. If Adair was determined to hide the fact Marchetti had committed the murders, it might still be possible for me to talk my way out of this. If I conformed to that image, I would pose less of a threat to them.

  “You know, you’re not even a very good detective,” Adair added. “You asked all the wrong questions of the wrong people – like asking Mack about the key duplicating service at the Saltflats. And bullying Selena – you didn’t think she would keep it from Mack, did you?”

  Instead of answering, I clutched my stomach and leaned forward. “Monty, I feel sick.”

  “The chloroform should have worn off by now.”

  “But I’m sick! And I’m scared. Please, won’t you let me go home—”

  The door opened. I looked up and saw Mack Marchetti. He also wore olive drab fatigues, and his bearing was rigidly military. Adair suddenly sat up straighter.

  “What’s going on here?” Marchetti said. He snapped the words out crisply, a
n officer speaking to one of his men.

  “She claims she’s sick.”

  “Well, she probably is. You kept giving her more chloroform every time she started to come around, all the way down here.”

  “What else was I supposed to do?” In contrast to Marchetti, Adair looked like a malingering private.

  “Nothing,” Marchetti said. “I’m just pointing out that there might be a good reason for her to be sick.”

  There was an abrasive note in Marchetti’s voice, and I sensed I had stumbled upon a schism within the paramilitary organization. The two men might not be as solid a team as I’d assumed. That was something I could work on.

  “Mr. Marchetti,” I said, “I’m awfully sick.” I gagged a little for emphasis.

  Marchetti sighed. I half expected him to exclaim, “Women!” Instead he turned to Adair and said, “I can’t talk to her if she’s going to puke.”

  “It’s not the chloroform, I tell you. She’s scared.”

  “Do you blame me?” I put a convincing quaver into my voice. It wasn’t hard; I was scared.

  “Goddamn it,” Marchetti said, “What have you been doing to her?”

  “Me?” Adair got off the stool. “I haven’t done a damn thing—”

  “Yeah, like you didn’t tell me where those fucking scrolls were—”

  “I’m going to throw up!” I clapped a hand to my mouth.

  “Oh Jesus!” Marchetti’s voice was panicked. “Get her out of here! Get her out, for Christ’s sake, until she’s calmed down.”

  “What am I supposed to do with her?”

  I made another gagging sound.

  “Jesus! Take her…take her to that storeroom. If she pukes, there’s nothing in there she can hurt. I’ll talk to her later.”

  Adair came over to me and grabbed my arm. “Get up.”

  I groaned.

  “Get up!” He yanked me to my feet and pushed me toward the door.

  Adair put the tip of the rifle barrel against my spine and forced me through the door into a dim corridor. I went quietly. The walls here were stone too, interrupted at intervals by reinforced archways that opened into darkness. The air was musty and pungent, like the air in some old wineries I’d visited. I thought of the grape plants I’d seen growing on the hill, and the stone buildings in the valley below the ruins of Levin’s cabin. They must have bought a defunct winery. Even though the redwood casks were no longer here, the odor from possibly a hundred years of winemaking lingered.

  Adair pushed me along the corridor to another massive wooden door at its end. It was secured with a heavy hasp and padlock. He opened it and motioned me inside. It was pitch dark in there, and cold.

  “There’s a bucket some place,” he said. “If you’re going to puke, use that.” Then he shut the door and I heard the padlock snap.

  I stood still, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Gradually areas of greater and lesser shadow began to stand out. I reached to my right and encountered rough planking. There were things lined up on it that felt like cans.

  A storeroom, Marchetti had said. What did they keep in here?

  I moved over to the shelves and felt along them. Boxes, cans, cloth. I groped my way back to the door and searched on either side of it for a light switch. Nothing.

  As I stood there in the dark, I began to feel claustrophobic. I wished I were anywhere else, and thought of home. And they thought of home made me think of Don. Was he there by now? Was he worried about me? How long before he realized something had happened?

  Stop this right now, I told myself. Try to find a way out of this mess.

  If only I had a light…

  There was a small flashlight in my purse, but I had no idea what had happened to the bag. It might still be back in the alley behind the Oasis. I’d give a lot for that flashlight; it was very dark in here, and my eyes had adjusted all they were going to. If I could only find some matches…

  I felt in the pocket of my jeans, and my fingers closed on a half-full book of matches. I’d been wearing these jeans when Don and I had barbecued Saturday night, and I’d put the matches in my pocket rather than leave them outside where the incoming fog might ruin them. Pulling them out, I lit one and held it aloft.

  It was a storeroom, all right, with makeshift shelves on three walls and the door in the fourth. What I had touched earlier was canned goods – tuna, vegetables, juice. Next to them were boxes of cereal, powdered milk, and sugar. The cloth was –

  The match burned my fingers, and I dropped it. It went out when it hit the stone floor.

  I lit another and checked the rest of the shelves. Stacks of olive drab fatigues such as Adair and Marchetti had been wearing. Rough gray blankets. Thin, hard-looking pillows. A mop and the bucket that Adair had mentioned. Light bulbs and motor oil and a box labeled CANDLES.

  The match went out. I lit another and reached into the box. The candles were small – plain tallow in glass cups, the kind you’d keep around in case there was a power failure. I set one on the shelf and lit it.

  Now I could see a refrigerator against the wall opposite the door. Next to it were stacked cases of beer, the generic kind sold by chain supermarkets that just said BEER on the label. There were also cartons stacked on top of the ‘fridge. I picked up the candle and raised it higher, looking for an escape route.

  The shelves were around eight feet high and almost touched the ceiling. My eyes picked out a box of chocolate bars, and I went over and helped myself to one. Besides having an inordinate fondness for chocolate, I knew it was a quick energy source. And if I were to get out of here alive, I would need energy. I would also need warmth. My fingers, in spite of the heat from the matches and candle, were nearly frozen.

  I went over to the stock of fatigues, rummaged through them, and selected a large pair. After pulling it on over my jeans and sweater, I had to roll up both the arms and legs, but it provided an extra layer of insulation from the cold. And if I got out of here, it would also make me less easy to spot in the dark.

  The small candle was sputtering. I got another from the box and lit it with my second-to-last match. Then I held it high and began circling the room, looking for a way out – a heating duct, anything. When I moved the candle close to the boxes stacked on top of the refrigerator, I caught the glint of glass.

  My pulse quickening, I set the light down and lifted a couple of boxes off the refrigerator. Behind them was a small window, about a yard long and two feet high, set close to the ceiling. It was grimy and I couldn’t tell what it opened into, but it was my escape route.

  With sharpening determination, I moved the other boxes and stacked them in front of the refrigerator so I could climb on them. Then I looked around for something heavy.

  There was a tool kit on one of the shelves, and in it I found a hammer. I looked at it and then at the window, thinking of the sound breaking glass would make. Could I smash the little window and be through it and away before anyone came to investigate? There was sure to be a drop on the other side, at least six feet, maybe more. What if I fell or turned an ankle? Then they would catch me, and I’d never be able to fool them with my helpless woman act again.

  So what else can you do? I asked myself. Sit here in the dark, wondering what they plan for you?

  I climbed up the boxes, crawled on top of the refrigerator, and took a close look at the window. The glass was thick, and I’d have to knock out most of the pane in order to slip through the small space without getting cut up. I paused, then raise the hammer and smashed it against the glass. It shattered, and some shards fell away outside, but not enough. The noise was deafening.

  Desperately I whacked against the shards that still clung to the frame – one, two, three times. Most fell, but one jagged section refused to budge. I decided my heavy clothing would protect me, dropped the hammer, and began squeezing through the frame, feet first.

  The casement slanted inward, and I almost slid down behind the refrigerator. Then I got my right leg hooked over the outside edge. I c
ouldn’t see the ground, and for a moment I panicked. What would I be jumping onto? What if –

  There was a pounding of feet outside the door behind me. Hands fumbled at the padlock.

  I took a deep breath and pushed off the sill with both hands. I was falling…and then I landed on hard ground. My left ankle gave a sharp pain, and I went down on my rear.

  There were shouts from the room behind me. I scrambled to my feet. Ahead of me was what looked like a thickly planted stand of fir trees.

  I ran.

  22.

  I ran across what seemed to be a graveled road and into the trees. Their low-hanging branches scratched my face and hands as I plunged through them. Needles and twigs snapped under my feet, and I could smell the bitter scent of pine sap. The shouts behind me grew fainter.

  The ground was rocky and sloped down. At the bottom of the incline I heard the rush of water. The stream was not as big as the one near Levin’s cabin, and I leaped over it and kept going – until I came to a stone wall maybe three yards beyond it.

  I leaned against the wall, panting, then ran my hand over it. It was rough, but there were no crevices between the stones that could serve as handholds. Glancing up at its top, I thought I could make out a few strands of barbed wire. They might be part of an alarm system.

  Did the wall surround the entire property? The only way to find out was to follow it and look for a break.

  As I began moving along it to my right, I became aware of the sound of engines starting. There was a roar at the top of the slope, where the road was. Headlights washed over the thicket in front of the wall, and I dropped to the ground.

  Around twenty feet away from me was what looked like the main gate to the property. Two jeeps, each containing a man, pulled up and waited. A guard holding a rifle came out of a shack next to the wall – a shack that looked incongruously like an outhouse. He opened the massive iron gates, waved the jeeps through, then returned to his post.

  They were probably afraid I’d gotten over the wall already. The jeeps had been sent out to patrol the access roads for me.