Please God! Just a few more seconds!
Another copter was moving in. They both looked up, watching as the chopper's door opened and a rope tumbled down near their hands.
"So near." Alison grinned. "So near, yet so far away."
She broke into boisterous movements. The ground moaned, then caved in. Poe's hand springing upward as sand swept over his shoulders. Over his mouth and into his eyes. Covering him like a tsunami. Up his arms.
Just as the earth was making its final effort to bury him, Poe's fingers grabbed rope.
Clasping it with unseen strength from unused muscles, he felt himself rising upward. As he ascended, his other hand became liberated and it, too, seized the rope.
Pulling him upward. He held on fast and refrained from coughing. He gasped for air as his nose and mouth were yanked out of the ground. First, he was waist-deep in sand, then it was just his knees…
Tears stinging his cheeks.
His grip beginning to weaken as the chopper continued tugging him upward. His body felt heavy, even leaden. Then he realized that something below was yanking him down.
Alison had emerged from the deep, clutching his legs.
Was she trying to pull him down? Or was she trying to save her own soul?
Sweat spilling from his body as she kept her arms clasped tightly around his thighs. His palms became pools of perspiration as his hands began to slide down his towrope to life.
Hold on, you jerk! Hold on!
Alison smiling at him. Grinning at him with satanic evilness. With an uncontrolled viciousness, she bared her teeth and sank them deep into his thigh.
He screamed and kicked, trying to shake her off. But with each movement, he lost inches off his tenuous hold.
He forced back the pain and stopped kicking. Then she bit him again. Agony coursed through his body, stabbing white lights of pain behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut, opened them, looked down.
His eyes widened in horror. Alison's smile was gone. Her mouth was gone. Her entire face was gone!
Replacing it was something hideous with fur and snout and needle-sharp fangs, glinting in the helicopter's hot white light. Her hands were claws, piercing his flesh.
The copter gave a hard, final tug, and seconds later, they were both liberated, sailing through the air, buffeted by strong winds. The chopper inched upward.
Searing pain continued to rip through Poe's thigh. The monster bit off another chunk of his flesh. His screams echoed as he violently flailed his legs, unwittingly kicking the beast off. Hearing ululations and shrieks as the monster freefalled through the air.
With terror, Poe looked down as the ground below roared, then gave way with tremendous force and sudden swiftness. Poe watched as Alison plunged into the swimming sand, heard her screeches through the bellows as the earth suctioned her inward, pulling her down into its airless chambers as mercilessly as water diving down a drain.
Free of her weight, he tightened his watery grip on the rope as the helicopter rapidly carried him to safe ground, the winds blowing him helter-skelter like a balsa glider. His lips were cracked open, his skin as brittle as parchment.
Lowering him until he was in jumping range.
Dry and dehydrated, he dropped to the earth, kissing the radioactive dust as if it were the Blarney Stone.
Never had poison tasted so sweet.
FIFTY-ONE
THE CHANGE in Romulus was evident, though his nuances conveyed more than words. Rukmani had sensed it the first time he had actually taken her hand for support as he hobbled along, giving himself permission to lean on her physically if not emotionally. At the moment, Rom was walking normally, the only sign of his discomfort being an occasional wince whenever he misstepped. Still, he chose to stand close to her, his hand atop hers as they watched the casket being lowered into the grave. Although his eyes were focused on the coffin, his mind was adrift, no doubt thinking of a woman he had once known. When Alison had died, she had buried a piece of him with her.
Her committee chair in psychiatry had once told Rukmani that therapy was more art than science. The key was timing, and all the knowledge in the world was useless if the client wasn't ready.
After Patricia had recovered fully, after the network and tabloid news had died down, after the endless reports and paperwork had been filed and processed and thousands of questions had been answered, Romulus had confessed to her what he had perceived that night in an hour-long manic spill. They had been alone in her apartment, Romulus limping as he paced, grimacing with each strained movement. But he had refused to sit still.
You think I'm crazy, don't you?
Not at all—
Rukmani, I know what I saw.
I'm sure you do—
What? You think I was seeing things. You probably think I need to see a shrink. I knew I shouldn't have told you.
She considered it a very positive step that he had confided to her anything at all. She answered his agitation with calm seriousness.
Rom, why in the world should I doubt you? You're a perfectly rational man with two functional eyes. There are many hidden forces we don't know about, even more things we see but don't understand. And no, I don't think you need to consult a shrink. I don't want nor expect you to do anything except heal up. And you're doing a fine job at that.
He stared at her, and said nothing. A moment later, he announced that he was hungry. Did she have any leftover palak paneer from last night's dinner?
One day, Rom would sort it out, separate fact from delirium, sift out what had happened in reality from what had occurred in the recesses of his terror-struck mind. He'd reach his own conclusions.
The gravediggers had begun to shovel dirt atop the wooden box. The service was officially over. Not that there was much by way of a eulogy; some generic clergyman speaking blank words to a half-dozen people. The others were walking away from the site, but Poe remained paralyzed, his eyes transfixed on the two behemoths who were sweating and grunting as heat baked their necks red. They worked tirelessly toward the end goal: covering Honey Kramer's casket with six feet of earth.
Rukmani felt jittery: a switch, because usually it was Rom who was all twitches and tics. To bleed off her restlessness, she scanned the grounds. Spotting Lewiston off to the right, she poked Romulus lightly in the ribs. His spell broken, Poe glanced in Lewiston's direction, his eyes locking with the casino owner's.
Good old Parkerboy. The billionaire with a flair, garbed in a black silk suit and white linen shirt. He did retain his signature string tie and boots. His fingers gripped a black Stetson, the hatband hammered in silver. The pate on the crown of his head glistened in the sun, covered in sweat. He was flanked by two goons. They were different apes from the ones who had taken potshots at Rom, but they were equally big.
Lewiston caught Poe's eyes and nodded.
Poe nodded back.
Taking the acknowledgment as a sign of encouragement, Lewiston made his approach. Rukmani would have liked to conveniently disappear. But as she started to move away, Romulus clutched her hand tighter.
Of all the times for him to show that he needed her.
Lewiston stopped and stood in front of them, tipping his hat to Rukmani as if he'd been wearing it. "And who might this beautiful woman be, son?"
Without missing a beat, Poe answered, "This beautiful woman is my fiancée, Dr. Rukmani Kalil. She works in our own coroner's office. When I'm stalled on a case, I consult Dr. Kalil. She's LVMPD's best-kept secret."
Rukmani answered, "Sergeant Poe is talking in hyperbole. I'm a bureaucrat—a lowly public servant." Rukmani's eyes rested on Lewiston's face. "But I do my job."
"I bet you do, little lady," Lewiston said. "I bet you do." He wiped his perspiration off his forehead with a silk kerchief, then returned his attention to Poe. "I think I owe you something of an apology, son. Those men who so rudely disturbed your privacy have been dismissed from my service. I fully admit sending them over to provide you with transportation. But I promise y
ou, it is not my policy to strong-arm anyone, let alone a cop." He chuckled. "Man has to be insane to try a stunt like that. And I'm not crazy."
Poe said, "I agree with you, sir. You're anything but crazy."
"Just the same, Sergeant, you'd be within your rights to whop me with a civil lawsuit. The men were in my hire,
I admit it. Now it's been a couple of months…I don't know what you're brewing up. But if you're thinking of slamming me with some kind of legal action, do yourself a favor and talk to me before you consult one of those bloodsucking attorneys-forhire. I could save us both hundreds of hours of legal work, and tens of thousands of dollars in fees."
Poe's voice was flat. "I have no intention of suing you, Mr. Lewiston. I'm not interested in your money."
In other words, I can't be bought, you bastard.
The casino man studied Poe's eyes with his own squinty knobs. "I'm glad to hear that. So let me do something for you, son—"
"I don't need your favors, either."
Lewiston chuckled. "You've got a hair-trigger reaction, boy, you know that?"
"Hair-trigger reactions can save a cop's life." Poe mopped his face with his shirtsleeve. "I repeat, I'm not interested in your favors."
"It's not really a favor, son. More like a pledge of mutual cooperation. Now, I know you're investigating me for something. I'm not sure what—"
"The murder of an underage child prostitute named Sarah Yarlborough," Poe answered.
Rukmani nudged him in the ribs.
Again, Lewiston laughed. "Well, thank you for informing me of the charge. That's right neighborly of you."
"Considering our sides are a hundred and eighty degrees apart, I'd say it was downright friendly."
The casino man said, "You investigate all you want, Sergeant. You file for your little warrants and papers. I assure you, I won't stand in your way. But let me tell you this from the bottom of my heart. You are way off-base—"
"No, I'm not, Mr. Lewiston. As a matter of fact, I am so onbase I'm sliding into home. You're powerful, sir, but you're not invincible. I'm going to peg you for the murder of Sarah Yarlborough, and I'm going to nail you for the death of Honey Kramer. I don't know how long it'll take or exactly how I'll do it, but I swear as I breathe, I'll do what should have been done twenty-five years ago."
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Yes, you do."
"Now, son, don't you go interrupting me. I know who you're talking about, but I don't know what you're talking about. Linda Hennick committed suicide. She was a very sick woman. You, of all people, having had firsthand experience with lunacy, you should know what I'm talking about." Lewiston cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "You been hanging around that joker too long."
Down the hill, Poe regarded a distant figure. It was Y.
Lewiston shook his head in mock pity. "He's nothing but a lovesick old fool, Detective Sergeant Romulus Poe. Had I knowed what Linda meant to him, I would have never even bothered. She was one of many, boy. And like so many, she couldn't handle getting old. Looking back on it, she weren't worth the effort." He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Then he tipped his hat to Rukmani. "Ma'am."
He turned, placed the Stetson on his head, and walked away, sandwiched protectively between his two goons.
Poe glared at the old billionaire, then whispered under his breath, "Son of a bitch."
"Yeah, he's a piece of work," Rukmani answered.
"Trip, you bastard," Poe swore. "Fall flat on your fucking face."
Without warning, Lewiston suddenly lost his footing and tumbled with a smack onto the ground.
Rukmani gasped, put her hand to her mouth.
Quickly, his bodyguards were at his side, pulling him erect. His face was flushed, the knees of his pants were scuffed and dusty. He flung his arms out as if fighting his sentries off, then broke from their grasp. Casting a brief glance at Poe, he brushed off his pants in swift movements, then stomped off.
Poe let out a small laugh. "Son of a gun!"
Stunned, Rukmani said, "How'd you do that?"
"Do what?" Poe was still chuckling.
"Make him…" She stopped talking.
Poe was still smiling. "I didn't do anything, Ruki. I must have cursed the geezer a thousand times. Guess the odds finally played in my favor."
Rukmani couldn't answer, still taken aback by the well-timed coincidence. Poe had stopped laughing, was rubbing his arms. The gravediggers had finished the burying and had moved on to tamping the ground, packing the dirt.
Poe remarked, "Honey held on for two months. What's it like being in a coma for that long?"
"She probably didn't feel much of anything, Rom."
"Murderous bastard!" He shook his head, then took out a handful of loose yellow daisy petals from his pocket. He threw them over the freshly turned earth. "It ain't much, Honey. Then again, we never really had much of a relationship."
Rukmani said, "It was nice of you to come."
"I felt like I owed her something." He unhooked himself from Rukmani's grip. He took her freed hand and kissed it. "I've been meaning to tell you something."
She waited.
"When I told you what happened that night, thanks for not trying to convince me I was seeing things. Because I know what I saw, Ruki. I know what I saw."
"I know. I believe you, Rom."
Poe grinned. "You're one great liar. I love you for it." He kissed her cheek, brushed hair out of her eyes. "Y's waiting for me."
Rukmani wiped sweat from her face. "Are you about to embark on one of those macho male-bonding experiences?"
"It's a dangerous omen, Ruki…Y being up in the daytime." Poe lit a cigarette, waved to the old man. Y waved back. "I'll meet you back at the car."
Walking downhill was especially difficult, trodding through sheaves of grass yellowed by the unrelenting summer heat. At this time of year, the city threw all sorts of specials to boost tourism in the Mohave: three nights, four days at the suchand-such, complete with buffet breakfasts and including tickets to the popular blah, blah, blah all for the price of a dollar.
Anything to get them into the air-conditioned casinos.
Poe haltingly made his way down, meeting Y on level ground. In the sun, the air was oppressive, but the cemetery had the courtesy to provide shade in the form of canopied elm trees. Y brought out a goatskin of moonshine and the two men cooled themselves under one of the tree's lacy boughs.
"This stuff is terrible," Poe said.
"It's got a good aftertaste."
"Doesn't make up for its terrible beforetaste." Poe took a whiff of his smoke. "Sad state when you need nicotine to wipe out the taste of bad alcohol. Anyway, what's a bat like you doing up in the daytime?"
"I'm paying my last respects."
Poe inhaled the smoke, then chuckled. "So you were also one of Honey's? Good for you, old man."
Y glared at him. "I'm not here to be congratulated. I'm here because that son of a bitch you were talking to got away with it again. What are you going to do about it?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Aren't you a homicide cop?"
"So they say."
"Then investigate the goddamn homicide, Romulus. If you do something, Poe, then maybe you'll actually arrest someone!"
Poe dropped his cigarette on the grass and stepped on it. He picked up the butt and dropped it in his pocket. "You know, Y, you're one queer bird. When I tried to investigate the homicide of a woman you had loved, you shut down like an overheated engine. Now you're egging me on with Honey. So what aren't you telling me, old man?"
"Fuck you, Poe!" Y bolted off.
Poe caught up with him, grabbed the old man's buckskin shirtsleeve. "You self-righteous son of a bitch! You know damn well Lewiston didn't murder her—"
"Go to hell."
"Linda Hennick killed herself—"
"Let go of me!"
"Did you hear me, Y? She killed herself! She committed suicide—"
"You cops ar
e a bunch of jokers."
"You want to bury your head in fiction or do you want to hear the truth? Because God forbid something should sully the image of your true love. You know, Chief, for once I agree with you. Linda Hennick wasn't crazy! Her nighttime jaunts weren't the psychotic rambles of a disturbed woman. They were Linda Hennick having a good old time. She was a good-lifer, Y—a bored housewife who willingly turned herself into a rich man's whore—"
Poe felt his head split open from the force of Y's fist crushing his nose. Blood gushed from his nostrils. Instinctively, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. He stared at Y, then at his bloodied shirt. He sighed with more pity than anger. "Lewiston was right about one thing. You are a lovesick old fool."
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