Bad Desire

by Devon, Gary;

  With her close now, he was afraid of making some small but irreversible mistake. Slater yearned for her. He wanted desperately to soothe and reassure her, but he thought he knew what would happen. She was so susceptible to him now that even the slightest touch might easily flare and reduce them to ashes. I’m doing all of this for you, he thought. If only he could hold her and wipe out the horrible thing that was going to happen. I’m going to do something unimaginable. For you. Do you love me? Do you?

  Eyes somewhere were watching these gray windows; he was sure of it. Many things hung in the balance—he still wondered what Sheila had told Reeves. But until he could speak with his heart, everything he said, everything he tried to do seemed stilted and incomplete, as if his only lifeline to the world was badly frayed, awaiting and depending on her acceptance of him to mend it and set things right again.

  “I believe Rachel had a little insurance, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “You’ll have to file for that, but you should get that money in about thirty days. In the meantime, I’ve put a little cash in here—that you don’t have to tell anybody about—to tide you over.”

  “Mr. Slater, you didn’t have—”

  “Just take it, Sheila, and don’t argue with me about it. Just take it.” Through the twilight, Slater handed her the envelope. He watched her bend forward, the strong, young line of her bare forearm as she took the money.

  “Thank you,” she said, grateful for any kindness, and she smiled, still very unsure of herself. To him, her helplessness was enormously appealing.

  “Sheila, can I trust you?”

  A frown gathered around her eyes. “Oh, but … you know you can. What about?”

  “I don’t know. I want to trust you. You won’t ever repeat the things I tell you?”

  “No, I never …”

  “It’s important,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone anything unless you’ve talked to me first. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Of course. I won’t; don’t worry.”

  “All right, the other thing,” Slater said, “is something you’ll have to keep between you and me. Do you understand?”

  Sheila nodded but he continued to study her for several seconds. “If a time comes, when you’d like to get away from all this, I have a place—a place that no one knows about. It’s hidden, it’s quite safe and comfortable; there’s even a small pool. You can go there and stay as long as you like. No one’ll ever know. No one’ll bother you. All you have to do is say so and I’ll give you directions. Or I’ll go with you, if you like.”

  “Okay,” she said, but behind her voice he heard misgivings. “I might want to sometime.”

  He was watching her carefully. “I know how hard this has been for you. I was thinking: I’m driving up to Pacific Grove on Monday next week for a meeting. I’ll be tied up most of the afternoon. Why don’t you come along? Nobody needs to know. You could soak up the sun and if there’s time afterward, I’ll take you to dinner.” He waited, his eyes full on her face. Sheila hesitated for what seemed a long time before answering.

  She knew what her Gramma would have said about this and she remembered Mrs. Slater’s kindness to her on the day of the murder, but she couldn’t deny how she was feeling now. The need to escape from her grief overcame her grandmother’s persistent lessons. When she finally spoke, it was to ask, “What day did you say?”

  Patiently, he repeated it. “I’d like you to, Sheila. I’d like—couldn’t you arrange it? It would mean a lot to me if you’d let me do this. Won’t you come? You need to get away.”

  The indecision had left her face. “Yes, I think I would like to. Where should I meet you?”

  “I have a stop to make first in Vandalia. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes. About what time?”

  “Ten sharp. The football field on the north end of town.”

  “Okay, if I can work it out, I’ll be there by eleven. You’re sure … Mr. Slater, are you sure you want me to?” Her hair had fallen forward. Sheila lifted strands of it back, first behind one ear, then the other, all the while looking at the envelope in her hand. “I don’t know why—”

  “Sh-h-h,” he said. “One thing at a time. Of course, I’m sure. I told you I’d look out for you and I am, but I should go now.”

  He waited for some word from her that would release him and send him away. Sheila folded the envelope in her fingers. She straightened, pushing away from the counter. The room was almost completely dark now. He thought he could follow her anywhere by the perfumed scent of her hair.

  Turning toward him, she said, “Won’t you let me give you a cup of coffee? I’m sure it’s ready. I remember when I was little you used to come and have coffee.”

  The bare simplicity of her request—that it had been years since he sat in this kitchen, drinking coffee, and she remembered it; that she had made the coffee purposefully in anticipation of him—moved him nearly to tears. It evoked a forgotten memory as full and bittersweet as anything in his life: Sheila had been ten or eleven, a tomboy, the warrior princess, he’d called her. But as quickly as it came the image deserted him and he realized she probably was asking him to stay because she couldn’t bear to be in this house alone. There was nothing he had to do that couldn’t wait, nowhere else he wanted to be, but here, in this old kitchen, with this enchanting, grief-stricken girl.

  “Okay,” he said, “but on one condition. If you’ll turn on a light.”

  “There’s a switch,” Sheila told him, “there by the toaster. You know where it is.”

  He flipped on the switch. Above the sink, recessed behind the valance, the fluorescent bulb hummed with light, spreading blue-white illumination into half the room. As Sheila prepared to serve the coffee, she moved from the cupboard to the cabinet to the counter. Watching her, he had no sense of time. When she placed the teacup on the saucer, it was Rachel’s hand putting it there just so; when she grasped the handle of the old percolator, pouring the coffee, it was with Rachel’s good generous heft.

  Ice ran down his spine. He would never know how long he stood there before he realized Sheila was shaking with sobs. In her hand, the cup full of coffee chattered on its saucer.

  “Sheila, don’t …” he said, starting toward her. He lost his head. The coffee spilled and she was in his arms, weeping on his shoulder. He could feel the length of her pressed fiercely against him, the soft shuddering collapse of her body as she gave in to wave upon wave of tears.

  “Oh, Mr. Slater, what’m I going to do?”

  The folly of it, the insane spontaneity of her need filled him with such lust that he covered her hair with kisses, feeling its silky turbulence slide and uncoil across his face. He started to gather her up, but at the edge of his sight, he saw headlights illuminate the front rooms of the house and flash through them—a moment’s pale brilliance struck the kitchen’s half-light. As the motor rumbled past outside on the driveway, Sheila drew quickly away. “I’ll be all right,” she whispered, wiping her eyes with her hands. “Really. I’ve been doing this off and on for days.”

  They heard the door slam. “That’s Denny,” Sheila said.

  “Then I’ll go.”

  But when Slater started out, the screen door under the porte cochere clicked open. Sheila slipped the envelope he’d given her inside her purse, threw Slater a glance and said, “Denny, we’re in here.”

  They heard his steps in the hall; then he appeared in the doorway, the same boy Slater had noticed at the funeral, a strapping kid, dark, his black hair rumpled. Slater guessed him to be about Sheila’s age, maybe a year or two older, athletic and well built, honest brown eyes—but a face with a history of misdemeanors, the thin white groove of a scar near one corner of his mouth. Without hesitation, Sheila said, “Mr. Slater, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Denny Rivera.”

  Slater smiled and offered his hand. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Henry Slater. I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”

  Surprised and
at the same time resentful of his being there, Denny muttered, “Hi,” and abruptly shook Slater’s extended hand.

  In the awkward silence that followed, Slater finally said, “I really have to be going.” When he stepped past the boy, he said, “You take good care of her, Denny.” The boy regarded him sullenly.

  Sheila hastened to say, “I’ll walk out with you.” Then to Denny, “I’ll be right back.”

  On the driveway, in the dark, Slater reached out his hand and took hers in a pantomime of a handshake. It was the most reassuring thing she had ever felt in her life. His hands were hard and strong: she remembered how they had always swallowed her fingers. “Be good,” he said. “If I could hug you, I would.” He was looking at her with eyes that were pure and loving and kind. Slowly he let go. “You know what to do?” he asked, under his breath.

  “Yes.” Her hands floated up nervously but didn’t touch him. She started to speak but instead looked at the kitchen’s curtained windows and changed her mind.

  He said, “Good night, then.”

  When he was halfway down the driveway, Sheila followed after him a few steps, but already the distance between them was too great. “Good night!” she called. “Good night! Thank you!”

  She watched the darkness absorb him until all that was left of him was the faint tread of his footsteps in the night. She stood perfectly still in the driveway, afraid of the house, dreading the hours still ahead. A moment came when she thought the echo of his footsteps returned to her—that he was coming back. But it was only a trick of the night air humming around her; his footsteps had faded completely although she believed she could hear them long after they were gone.

  Only a streetlight here and there illuminated the darkness. Canyon Valley Drive lay mostly in shadow. The night air was soft, as subtly perfumed as her hair. Slater was savoring an extraordinary happiness. He had what he had come for: she would keep quiet and she would see him again.

  A car sat half-hidden in the darkness between the streetlights. The moment Slater saw it, the queasiness he had experienced only the day before surged through him again. Reeves, you bastard.

  He stopped, trapped, at the edge of the street. I should’ve known you’d be around here, somewhere. Watching. Slater considered going on, acting as though he hadn’t seen the car, but he knew he couldn’t. He had stopped cold in his tracks. Reeves would’ve had to be blind not to have noticed his reaction. Turning, Slater walked directly to the police chief’s open window.

  “Evening, Henry. How’s our girl?”

  Slater wondered if Reeves could detect anything peculiar about him, wondered suddenly what he could say to make his being here appear more legitimate. “She’s still—rocky,” he said. “She can’t take too much more. I thought you said you wouldn’t push it.”

  “Sometimes things don’t work to plan.”

  “Goddamnit, Burris.” The curse escaped him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said and I don’t know. I think you might be on a wild goose chase with this thing. Why don’t you just round up those convicts and leave the girl alone?”

  The police chief chuckled. “Henry, you can’t put heat on me. I am the heat. Don’t concern yourself with this: I’m handling it. I’m gonna give her another day or two. I saw your car and thought I’d see how things are. That’s all.”

  You wait, Slater thought, after tomorrow you’ll give her a lot longer than that. “Well, maybe you do have a heart, after all, Burris. She’ll snap out of it, but she’s going through hell right now. Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  “So do I,” Reeves said. The cruiser started up and rolled forward. With a wave, Reeves drove past him as Slater walked to his car.

  You wait, Slater thought. Just you wait.

  Sheila went inside, shut and latched the door. She imagined she could still see him, standing in the kitchen doorway, tall, vigilant, a man of influence who had said he would always take care of her. What a relief it would be not to have to figure everything out on her own. She liked being looked after, she liked the tender expression that came into his eyes, she liked the feel of his hands. When she turned into the kitchen, her fingers ran over Denny’s shoulder in a quick, flirtatious pass. “You’re in a good mood,” he said.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” Moving swiftly, she cleared the counter, rinsed the cups and emptied the old percolator. She knew she couldn’t mention that she was planning to meet a married man and it made her feel guilty.

  “Sheila, are you okay?” Denny came up behind her. “What was he doing here anyway?”

  “You know,” she said. “I’ve told you. I had other visitors, too. The minister came by for a while.”

  “So … what do you think of hizzoner?”

  Sheila didn’t answer.

  “What did you think of him? Come on, Sheila, I want to know.”

  “What do you mean? He’s just a friend, just a longtime family friend. I think he seems nice … sincere.”

  “How old is he?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “How should I know?”

  “Jesus Christ! Don’t you think it’s weird, Sheila? Why’s he always hanging around? What is it with you two, anyway? I come in and here you are—standing around in your kitchen with this big, rich, powerful, married guy!—with one goddamned light on!—in the whole damned house! Don’t you think that seems kind of odd?”

  All at once, Sheila leaned forward and gave him a kiss. “Oh, shut up, Denny,” she whispered. “You know there’s no one but you.”

  14

  The Pacific lapped at the old waterfront of Rio Del Palmos, the ripples all but motionless, the water black, reflecting every star. It was as if there were no sky, no ocean, only a vast twinkling void. A woman, bending down to kiss her children goodnight, whispered, “Don’t the stars seem close tonight? Don’t they look like little pieces of heaven?” Life was peaceful in Rio Del Palmos, lying beside the glittering night.

  The light gleamed from the houses, tarnishing the grass in long copper shafts. In the rooms, seen through windows, the lamps glowed prettily in their shades—sometimes a breeze played at the curtains only to disappear like breath taken away. At eleven-thirty, after The Tonight Show, the last lights began to go down. Here and there. An upstairs light continued to burn all night at the Schullenburgs’; they had a new baby girl, four days old. The other houses were dark, all was silent, all secure.

  No one heard the muffled engine prowling up and down the streets. In the sleeping houses, no one had any reason to notice that a nondescript Jeep was weaving through the city, crisscrossing back and forth, stopping at the old boatworks—where a figure left the Jeep and placed two ten-inch packages low beneath the derelict hydrangea bushes, one at each side of the large frame structure—then looping around, doubling back and going on. Twice that night, patroling police cars appeared on the street in front of him and Slater veered off into the surrounding neighborhoods, hid the Jeep among other shadowy parked cars, killed the lights and engine, and waited. But he wasn’t being followed.

  On Klamath Drive, the black and white police cruiser sat at the end of Reeves’s drive. No one living nearby would remember the sound of the engine that softly died or the metal door closing. In his gloved hands, Slater carried electrician’s tape and a thin coil of soft wire; his dark windbreaker concealed a parcel already wrapped in tape. In the neighbors’ slumber, the whisper of his footsteps crept over starlit lawns and vanished through a hole in their dreams.

  Faith had been sound asleep at two-thirty when Slater left the house; at four-fifteen, when he got back into bed beside her, he could see that she had hardly moved.

  In the hour before dawn, the milk trucks turned slowly into their fog-bound routes, yellow beams smoking before them. Half an hour later, the whir of bicycle tires spun down the dream-thick streets; newspapers hit bushes, sidewalks, porches. Slowly, in the foothills and across the basin of the city, sixty thousand lights were coming on in bedrooms.

  In the East, the first clea
r rays of dawn streaked over the Sierra Madres. Layer by slow layer, the fog dispersed and sunlight dappled the sidewalks like white drifts of pollen. It was morning in Rio Del Palmos, June 8; peaceful and serene.

  A breath of wind stirred the palms at 6:55 when Slater crossed the plaza to City Hall. He stopped momentarily outside the revolving glass doors to let it bathe his face. The day’s perfect, he thought. A smile touched the corners of his mouth. In the lobby, the large granite reception desk was unoccupied as he went past. Stepping into the elevator, he pushed the button for the sixth floor.

  The cubicles were deserted when he walked down the narrow aisle and unlocked his office. He checked his watch. 7:06. He left the door conspicuously ajar. Abigail would not arrive for another half hour, the rest of the staff closer to eight.

  Without haste, he took up his briefcase, went into the private bathroom and pushed the lock in the knob. He turned on the cold water tap to mask any incidental noise and, also, to alert anyone that he was there and not to be disturbed. Sliding the thumb latches, Slater opened the briefcase and took out the small set of binoculars and a transmitter roughly the size and shape of a garage door opener.

  With a twist of the handle, the opaque window swung open. He drew back and glanced at the locked door, listened, then he looked at his watch. 7:14. Opening the window to its full pivot and taking up the binoculars, he looked two blocks north, drawing into sharp focus the Rialto River Bridge, which rose above the surrounding trees. The morning rush hour wasn’t fully underway. The seconds ticked within him. He watched and waited until he saw the roof of Reeves’s black and white cruiser rise over the hump of the bridge, its number—5022—painted in block letters on the curved brow above the windshield. Okay, he thought. Come on.

  Slater checked his watch. 7:16. Right on time. The tremendous panic he had experienced a few days ago with Reeves was gone now, completely. Again he calculated the distance and it was right. The time couldn’t be better. In another twenty minutes, the traffic coursing the bridge would be dense, headed toward the interstate. Slater took up the transmitter and threw the switch to turn it on, activating its batteries.