Bad Desire

by Devon, Gary;

  He removed his glasses to wipe the sweat from his brow and put them back on. “There are a number of things I could point to,” he continued, “but our first overriding opinion is that this unfortunate woman happened to be in the wrong place at the worst possible time. Further, it is our immediate impression that Mrs. Buchanan was apparently the latest homicide victim of escaped killers William Buckram Taylor and his companions, the brothers Ned and Bobby Rice.”

  A reporter yelled, “Does that mean you think these killers are still here—in Rio Del Palmos?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Reeves said.

  “Possibility? Or probability?” came a shout from another area of the room.

  “It’s possible—if they follow their usual pattern. We’re advising people who call our headquarters to stay at home and take the usual precautions.”

  Faith listened as Reeves summarily described Rachel as a highly independent woman, who lived quietly with her granddaughter, Sheila Bonner, seventeen. He emphasized that the girl was emerging from a “state of shock” brought on by the killing and that Bonner, while never an actual suspect, had been completely cleared of any suspicion. He pointed out that Buchanan and her granddaughter were known to be “very, very close.”

  Then, he called Ellis to the microphones, introducing him as a twenty-eight-year police veteran. Ellis said, “As you know, these three escaped killers are convicted felons, with criminal and institutional records. They are considered extremely dangerous, now with nine alleged murders credited to this current crime spree.”

  Someone shouted, “What progress have you made in their capture?”

  Ellis scowled into the audience. “Let’s just say,” he said, “we’re not optimistic. We’re dealing with a highly volatile, unpredictable element here.”

  Reeves clasped Ellis’s shoulder, conferred with him a moment, and bent to the microphones. “That’s all we have at this time. Thank you.” The questions continued but the briefing was over. As Reeves and Ellis exited through the alcove, Slater shook their hands and then Faith was beside him. “I’m glad you came down,” he said, taking her arm while they headed down the corridor. The security guard removed the rope; two patrolmen escorted them through the crowd, toward the elevators.

  Someone thrust a microphone at Faith. “Give us your comments, Mrs. Slater.”

  “It’s a tragedy,” she said, feeling herself jostled forward. “Rachel Buchanan was the last of her kind; someone fine and rare is gone …” Moments later, as they entered the elevator, she wondered if she had even partially communicated her own sense of loss.

  The pneumatic doors closed, sealing them in an unquiet hush. No one spoke. Maybe it was because she was next to him, but for the first time, Faith noticed how electric with tension Henry was. He let go of her arm and began to pace back and forth in the small confines of the compartment. She said to him, “Darling, calm down. The worst is over now.”

  He seemed to look beyond her when he said, “I hope you’re right.”

  The elevator slowly rose. Only one of the patrolmen remained with them; in silence, with Henry pacing restlessly, they rode to the sixth floor. Again they were besieged by reporters.

  “Don’t you guys ever get enough?” Slater asked them, waving them aside. “I’ve got nothing else to say.” Then turning to Faith, he said, “Go on in. I’ll be right there.”

  His office reflected the morning’s confusion—leather chairs sat in disarray; dirty ashtrays and coffee cups, some half full, had been left on the occasional tables.

  Running the back of her hand across her damp forehead, Faith thought about tidying it up, but there wasn’t time. The door to the outer office stood open, and she saw Abigail dashing about. All seven buttons on Henry’s telephone were lit and blinking. Faith went into the private washroom and blotted the perspiration from her face, still trying to steady her nerves. She ran a comb through her hair, quickly touched up her makeup and went back out.

  Henry was sitting behind his desk, talking quietly with Abigail, who had handed him a stack of messages. Faith went to one of the two chairs that faced his desk and sat down. While he listened to Abigail, Henry turned, picked up a note from his desk and inspected it, but there was little doubt where his attention was. “Who’s screening my calls?” he asked, irritably.

  “I’ve been screening most of them,” Abigail told him.

  “Good. That’s good; that’s what I want you to do. What about the press release?”

  She said, “It’s copied and on my desk.”

  “Then you know what to do. Let me get this straight: none of these calls are reporters, is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said, going quickly across the room. “That’s right.” She smiled a quick, businesslike hello at Faith before leaving the two of them alone.

  Stripping off his suit jacket and throwing it across a chair, Henry moved behind his desk and sat down. Sweat beaded his eyebrows and he wiped it away impatiently. “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” he kept whispering over and over in disbelief. Faith watched him lean forward with his elbows on his knees, taking a moment to collect himself. He said, “You surprised me—when I saw you down there.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” she said. “I was so shocked; I just had to see you for a minute—to touch base. I can’t get over this, Henry, I can’t.”

  He sank back in his chair, but then immediately got up and started to pace behind his desk. “I can’t talk about this right now,” he said. “I’ve got to get these calls. I’ve got a thousand things I have to do.”

  “How can I help?” she asked in an even quieter voice. “What can I do? Isn’t there something I can do?”

  “I don’t know, Faith; I can’t think of anything.” He returned to his chair, took up the telephone with his left hand and pressed the first blinking button. “This is Henry Slater,” he said.

  He clamped the receiver under his chin, unbuttoned and rolled his sleeves. “Yes,” he said, flipping the page of his calendar. That was when Faith noticed that he wasn’t wearing his ring. His hand looked robbed of its character without it. “Yes, I’ll be there,” he said. “One o’clock, Thursday.” He hung up, scratching the appointment in his book.

  “Henry, where’s your ring?”

  His hand stopped. Still studying the page, he said, “Oh, I’m giving it a rest.” He raised his head and looked at her. “You know how it irritates me in the summer—it gives me a rash.”

  “I just wondered,” she said.

  Again, he reached for the telephone. “Faith, can’t you see that I’m very busy?”

  “Give me one minute more,” she said, “then I’ll leave.” She cleared her throat. “What do you want to do about the funeral?”

  “We’ll have to go.”

  She sat forward on her chair, her fingers laced tightly around her knees. “No, darling, of course, but I meant, what about flowers and …?”

  His hand was still hovering over the telephone; now he drew it back in frustration. “Why don’t I leave that to you? Actually, Faith, I thought—why don’t you arrange an anonymous donation, maybe through Father Vasquez. We should do everything we can.”

  She nodded. “I think so, too.” As she got up from the corner of her chair, she said, “Henry, I think I’ll go out there. To Rachel’s.”

  He glanced at the ceiling and tapped his pencil on the desk. A slow heaviness settled through him. “My God, Faith, why would you want to?”

  “Maybe I can do something to help that young girl.”

  “That’s not such a good idea. From what I hear, it’s a madhouse out there. I’m sure she’s inundated with well-meaning neighbors and—Faith, who knows, she may not even be there, by now.” He walked around the desk, came and put his arm around her. “Why don’t you leave well enough alone?”

  “But I’d think you’d want me to. If this had happened to you, God forbid, Rachel would come to me.” Faith waited for him to object. “I don’t want to, but, Henry, I feel I have to.”

&n
bsp; She collected her purse. “I’m going now,” she said softly. For a moment, she regarded him, waiting to see if he had anything more to say, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. His hand clasped the telephone. “Then I’ll see you later,” he said as she drew away toward the door.

  It was shortly after one that Wednesday afternoon, when Faith drove out to Canyon Valley Drive. In either direction, cars were strung out along both sides of the road, parked haphazardly on the grass. Searching for a parking space among them, she felt her apprehensions mount.

  As she drew nearer Faith began to see the police cars clustered at the edge of the Buchanan property—never had she seen so many at one time in Rio Del Palmos. There must have been thirty or more, some from bordering counties. Rachel’s front yard had been cordoned off, but the neighbors’ yards on either side and the yard across the street where she and Henry once had lived, were full of milling people.

  Rachel’s iron fence and her empty driveway were surrounded by slick yellow police tape. At the foot of the drive, an officer sat in a folding chair. Faith parked half a block away, on the grassy shoulder, locked and left her car. Instead of following the pavement back to the house, she went around to the Shultzes’ backyard, where she had seen Beth Shultz and two or three other women. “Beth, isn’t this awful?” she said.

  “Faith, you can’t imagine. We haven’t seen you for so long.”

  The women were watching the slow, weblike movement of the police across the face of the long ridge behind Rachel’s house.

  “What’re they looking for?” Faith asked.

  “One of the Lorentzen kids said they saw a man run back that way,” Candy Hutchens explained. “But who knows? God, it was foggy this morning.”

  “What’s happened to Rachel’s granddaughter?” Faith asked. “Is she there in the house?”

  “No,” Beth told her, “they’ve got her next door, at the Malcolmsons’. She’s taking it very hard; they had to call a doctor.”

  “We could hear her screaming clear across the street,” said Candy.

  Faith shivered. She couldn’t imagine how the child must have felt.

  “It was crazy—the way it happened,” one of the other women said. “She was with her boyfriend and another couple and they pulled into the driveway maybe a minute before the ambulance got here. So she saw—well, almost everything.”

  “I want to see her,” Faith said, “if they’ll let me.” She said good-bye to the women and walked across the backyard, again with that sensation of the ground beginning to float and spin away beneath her.

  When she went up to the Malcolmsons’ back door, she could not stop herself from looking across the driveway at Rachel’s flower garden, trying to search out where the murder took place. But from what she could see, the garden looked serene and untouched.

  Annie Malcolmson pushed open the screen door for her to come in. “Faith, it’s nice of you to come.”

  “Annie, how is she?” Faith asked softly, stepping into the kitchen.

  “Oh,” the heavyset woman said, averting her eyes, “she’s a little better now. It’s been a living hell. We had to actually pick her up and bring her here by force.”

  “Did the doctor see her?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, but Sheila wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I thought we might have to hold her down, but he finally said to just give her some time. He left some sedatives but she won’t take them; I was thinking I should try again.”

  “Let me try,” Faith said. “Where is she?”

  Annie handed her the vial of tablets and a fresh glass of water. “This way,” she said. She led Faith down the hall to the den, where an older woman and a boy in dungarees stood near the doorway, talking in hushed voices. Once he was introduced, Denny Rivera said, “I’m here with Sheila,” and the woman said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Marjorie Sanders. Some time ago, Rachel asked me to be Sheila’s guardian. What a horrible shock this has been. I never really thought I’d be starting a family at my age.”

  Feeling the gravity of the moment, Faith stepped into the small, booklined room. The drapes were pulled on the bow window. Sheila was curled up on the window seat, her arms wrapped round her knees, her head buried in her arms. She was rocking, slightly; now and then she gave an exhausted sob. When Faith sat next to her, Sheila looked up with a start. “Oh, Mrs. Slater,” she said, “what’re you doing here?” Her eyes were swollen almost shut; her face looked raw from tears. “Didn’t Mr. Slater come with you?”

  “No,” Faith said, “he couldn’t.” She felt the girl’s pain—not just her grief, but her overwhelming anguish.

  “I want my Gramma back.”

  Tears stood in Faith’s eyes. She was profoundly moved by a mother’s impulse—a poorly controlled, incomprehending but undeniable reaching out to a young girl so in need. “I know,” she said. “I know, Sheila. I want her back, too.”

  “I don’t know why … I don’t know … why can’t they …”

  “You’re so tired,” Faith said, “Sheila … don’t be afraid. We all want to help you.”

  “No, help,” Sheila whispered, “no help, now,” and the tears ran from her eyes.

  Faith sat down the glass of water, opened the vial and shook out one of the tablets. “The doctor left this for you. Would you take this for me, please? It’ll help you sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep. I want … What if … I’ve got to go home.”

  “It’s all right. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen.”

  “But they said … They won’t let me get back home.”

  “You’re too tired to talk. I know you don’t want to, but you have to rest. Just do this for me. Please take it. You’ll feel better, Sheila, I promise you.”

  Through tear-strained eyes, Sheila stared at her, dazedly. She held out her hand and Faith placed the tablets in it and gave her the glass of water. Without further hesitation, Sheila took the medication.

  “Let me put my arms around you,” Faith said, and together they moved to the couch, the young girl and the woman who was once her neighbor long ago, Sheila struggling against the inexorable tide of sleep, giving now and then a soft moan and Faith holding her, speaking as gently as she knew how. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, “don’t be afraid anymore.”

  When they were certain Sheila was asleep, the two women in the hallway came forward to help lay her down.

  Faith returned home in the middle of the afternoon. She didn’t put the car in the garage; she turned off the ignition and sat behind the wheel with her eyes closed. Then taking her keys, she opened the driver’s door, twisted back and picked up the armful of mail from the passenger seat. Faith got out of the car and started toward the house, but she didn’t want to go in. Not yet. A part of her was still propelled by the day’s events; she was too wrung out, and the afternoon was too beautiful to shut herself away inside.

  Faith walked out across the lawn to the stone bench. From there, she could look out through a crevice in the trees and see the small white city, glistening in the sun. She closed her eyes and let the spring air saturate her senses. Minutes passed before she began to idly sift through the mail.

  A church announcement, the gas and telephone bills, an estimate from the caterer, a notice from the dry cleaners, sale circulars and a mail order catalog: Faith had nearly gone through them, when she came to a square-shaped envelope addressed to her. It looked like a formal invitation of some sort; the heavy paper was old, faintly yellowed at the edges. What’s this? she thought as she tore open the back flap.

  The envelope contained a single sheet of writing paper. Old note paper, Faith realized, unfolding it. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, so she glanced down at the signature, full of surprise.

  It was signed: Rachel Buchanan.

  She held a letter from Rachel Buchanan in her hand.

  Faith stared helplessly at the signature for a moment, disbelieving. My God! Her eyes flew to the top of the page:

  Dear
Faith,

  I tried to reach you this afternoon but you weren’t home. I was afraid to leave word with your maid because I didn’t want Henry to know I called. I must talk to you. Some serious trouble has been brewing a long time that you should know about. This has to do with Henry. Would you please come by yourself and visit me in my home in the next few days? If not, I’ll be forced to do something I don’t want to do.

  I’m sorry to bring you into this now since I believe you are a woman of good character. But I have to.

  If I don’t hear from you, I’ll know he has stepped in. I wish you no harm.

  Yours truly,

  Rachel Buchanan

  Faith was covered with sweat now, a fine warm suffocating sweat that she could feel breaking out all over her body. This was incredible. It was like being in the throes of a bad dream—if only she could open her eyes and the letter, the murder, this panic, would all go away.

  But she’s dead. Rachel’s dead.

  She sat staring at the note. With a floating, disembodied sensation, she read it through again—“… Some serious trouble has been brewing … This has to do with Henry.”

  What has to do with Henry? When did Rachel send this? Faith still had the impression she had read it too quickly and missed its most salient point. The letter was undated. She snatched up the envelope, flipped it over. The postmark showed today’s date.

  How could that be right? When did Rachel write this? When did she try to call? But Faith’s thoughts were too muddled to riddle it out. How was it that God in heaven had given her a last glimpse of the very person she had been thinking of and then have it come in the shape of an awful letter like this?

  Terrified, too lost within herself to move, Faith was completely unaware that Luisa was walking toward her across the lawn. “Telephone, Mrs. Slater,” the maid called as she approached.

  Faith quickly glanced up. “All right,” she said. Her throat felt thick and choked. “All right, Luisa, tell them I’ll be right there.”