Die For Me

by Jack Lynch

  “I remember.”

  “That’s not the sort of thing I ever spent time thinking about. I am very career oriented. It’s my way. I’m not interested in having a husband and kids. Not right now anyhow, and as soon as I started going through basic training at the law enforcement academy, any boyfriends I had sort of drifted out of my life. I didn’t figure that was any great loss, but I never think of myself as girl, but more as person. Until that day when you said what you did. And since then I’ve been taking a good look at myself in a full-length mirror in my bedroom just after I get out of the shower. And you know, you were right. I have an okay-looking body.”

  She took a sip of her coffee. I took a careful sip of my own.

  “And so this morning, at a very early squad meeting we were having in Smitty’s office, with Smitty and Pershing and the sheriff and three other male detectives and myself, Mr. Pershing and I got into a little discussion that turned into a bare-knuckle verbal exchange, and he finally got to his feet with his face all red and called me a Goddamned dyke and stormed out of the office.”

  She took another little sip of coffee. “Even two weeks ago that sort of thing might have floored me. But not now. Not after what you said and the way you got me started thinking. And what I did this morning was, I actually laughed. I mean, the sheriff and the other guys were all sitting on the edge of their chairs or standing at attention with their faces looking as if somebody had tossed quick-dry concrete on them, and I laughed. And so the others all relaxed some and I said, ‘What an asshole,’ and then all of them laughed.”

  I smiled. I could savor her moment. “I felt I was taking my life in my hands when I decided to say what I did to you. But it just seemed the right thing, somehow.”

  She waved one hand at me. “There’s more. And this is the part I came to thank you for. It’s what the sheriff did next. And I think the only reason he did it was because of what Pershing had said and the way I handled that. Because, hey, I haven’t been outshining everybody else in this whole mess.”

  “Rachel, get to the point.”

  She beamed. “I’ve been named lead field investigator on this whole shebang.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I have carte blanche to go where my nose takes me. The other people do initial interviews. I get copies now. The sheriff said he can’t have Smitty devoting full time to the killings any longer. We have other crime, you know. So I’m lead sleuth. I go where I want when I want. I consult with Smitty, of course, but I don’t even have to go into the office every morning. And all of that is what I’m thanking you for, Bragg. It just might be the biggest opportunity of my professional life.”

  “I’m happy for you. But you could have picked up the phone and thanked me instead of driving all the way down here. And I still want to know how you found out where I live.”

  “That was a simple piece of cake,” she told me. “Is there more coffee?”

  I refilled the mugs.

  “The reason I came down here,” she said, accepting the mug with a nod, “was not just to swing by and see what a dump you live in.”

  “Hey, this is my home.”

  “Looks more like a zoo. Old jungle woman on the wall over there. The reason I’m here is because it’s on the way to the city. I want to talk to Maribeth.”

  “What about?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just—well, she’s a woman and I’m a woman. She’s the woman who started all this and I’m the woman who for now at least is charged with ending it. I just feel we should talk some more.”

  I considered it for a moment. “Maybe that’s a good idea. In fact, the way you put it, I think it’s a very good idea.”

  “I want you there too,” she told me. “That’s the second reason I came by here.”

  “Why me?”

  Rachel shrugged. “You’ve been a part of all this from the start. I think you’ve got a head on your shoulders. I think Maribeth will be a little more comfortable with you there.” She hesitated a moment. “And you bought me a beer yesterday.”

  I looked at her and she looked right back at me. “I’ll go change,” I told her.

  “Hey, no need for that. You look cute just the way you are. Little message T-shirt and all. I didn’t know you went in for that sort of stuff.”

  “I wasn’t planning to go far in this outfit.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just get a Windbreaker or something.”

  “I think I’ll change.”

  “You change and I won’t tell you how I found this place.”

  I got a Windbreaker.

  Rachel said we’d go in her unmarked car. We were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge when she told me.

  “I phoned Maribeth before I left Santa Rosa. I asked her if she knew where you lived. She didn’t, but she put that niece of her’s on the phone. That Bobbie? She was able to tell me, or at least describe how to find the right street and said yours was the house on the end. Now it’s my turn. How did little Bobbie know where you lived?”

  I knew she didn’t expect me to tell her. She just kept driving along with a little smirk on her face. I felt really silly, in the “Phone Home” T-shirt. I told her that as she slowed going through the bridge toll plaza.

  “No, that’s smart to wear something like that. If you have to interrogate somebody before the day’s out, it’ll put them at their ease. I might try it myself some day. Where did you get it?”

  I didn’t answer her. I just stared out the side window. Rachel drove on with her little smirk in place.

  Bobbie was out when we arrived at Maribeth’s apartment.

  “She said the walls were closing in on her,” Maribeth told us. “I think I’m going to send her back to Carmel. This whole thing is no good for her.”

  “It’s not much good for any of us,” Rachel said.

  Maribeth offered coffee but we both declined. So Rachel and Maribeth settled down in the living room, Maribeth in her corner spot on the white sofa, Rachel in one of the chairs, and they just talked like two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while, trying to get caught up on what they’d been doing.

  I tried sitting but couldn’t do much of that. I prowled around staring out windows and half listening to their conversation. Rachel asked Maribeth where she had grown up, and Maribeth described a normal, happy childhood in a small town up in Oregon. In turn she asked Rachel about her own upbringing, and Rachel talked about dairy farming and 4-H clubs and frosty winter mornings.

  Rachel asked Maribeth about her newspaper career, her early marriage, her life since. She was particularly curious about the time years earlier when Maribeth and I had first talked. She pushed Maribeth some there, asking her to describe the depression and feeling of helplessness she subsequently attributed to her friend Betty, who had killed herself that day. She then led Maribeth through that period when she had become aware that she had special mental attributes which allowed her to sense more than most people do. How she had gone about honing those particular skills.

  “I talked to a number of people already doing this sort of thing,” she told Rachel. “I read about it. A lot of what I read was spurious, but they don’t have a library you can go to that tells you which people and their books are authentic and which aren’t. And I began going deeper into myself. Meditating. Practicing, if you will. Until I was just dead certain I knew what I was doing, and it was all working, and I could help people with what I had.”

  Rachel asked her about what sort of things she did with her gift, and Maribeth described her practice. Some of it Rachel and I had already heard. Some of it was new. Rachel was particularly interested in law enforcement jurisdictions Maribeth had worked with.

  And then Rachel casually asked her about the time she had first sensed the buried bodies up in Sonoma County. I would have expected the question to bother Maribeth. I looked across the room, but Maribeth had been calmed by the preceding conversation and didn’t seem at all bothered, and I realized then what a slick inte
rrogator Detective Rachel Goodwin herself was.

  “I was searching for something else,” Maribeth told her, “back in the room where I’m most comfortable doing that sort of thing. A man living in the Berkeley hills had lost his dog. Not lost, really. It had been stolen, he felt. Beautiful animal, an Irish setter. He left me a photograph of her. He’d had the dog for five years, and was very close to her. He wanted me to try to get a location on her, at least an approximate location.

  “He said that the dog had become lost once before, while they were hunting up in Humboldt County. He said he must have had just a touch of the gift I had, because he was able to find her himself that time. He said he’d had to cross a stream and climb a really rough trail. He said it was against all logic, and if he’d just used common sense he never would have thought to travel in that direction to find her. But something drove him there. And he found her. And he felt he could find her again if he could just get a rough idea where she might be.

  “Well, I have a method I use,” Maribeth continued, “whenever there is a missing person, or in this case a dog somebody wants to find. I bring up different regions in my mind and explore them. And the times I’ve been successful, I’ve just known when I was exploring the right area.

  “That particular day, searching for the dog—her name was Sally—I started with the East Bay, beyond the Berkeley hills, Dublin, Walnut Creek, all through there, up in the state parks on the ridge. From there I usually let myself go south, through San Mateo County and Santa Cruz, but this time I was prowling the East Bay and wandering in a northerly direction, and I just continued on, past Concord, across San Pablo Bay and up into Sonoma County. It was just a random sort of poking around that I use, when all of a sudden the most extraordinary thing happened.”

  She sat up straight. “Did you ever see a movie called The Uninvited?”

  “Ray Milland,” I said.

  “That’s right, Peter, he was in it.”

  She turned back to Rachel. “It was quite a scary movie. There is a house with a very evil presence in it which people are trying to banish. And after what seems a lifetime, the people feel they have succeeded, and a great sense of peace and relief flows over the actors and the audience as well. And then suddenly a pair of French doors are flung open violently, by no human hand, and you realize that the evil is still present after all.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Well that is how it was that day when I was looking for the dog, Sally. I was drifting along somewhere up in Sonoma County when, with the suddenness of those French doors opening in the movie, my mind was just flooded with this awful sensation of all those bodies. Men and women both, I saw. And I could feel the fear they had sensed, and I knew their ends had been violent, and I could see other people walking past them, ignoring them, so I knew they were hidden…

  “I had never had anything like that happen to me before, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I tried to put that sensation away, and continue looking for the dog. It took great effort. And finally, when I left that area, pulled back to Marin County, it all subsided. But it recurred at other times when I was doing other business. With a quick jolt I would feel I was back there with all those bodies, and gradually I felt a great threat involving myself in connection with them.”

  She lapsed into silence for several moments, remembering, then finally took a deep breath and looked up.

  “You’ve never gotten beyond just feeling the threat?” Rachel asked. “The threat’s never taken form? You’ve never seen yourself in danger from a gun or knife or being pushed off a high place?”

  Maribeth shook her head. “No, and that has puzzled me. Because there are times when I am able to see myself.”

  “How so?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh, like just for the fun of it I’ve seen myself at the racetrack, winning on a given race. And I’ve gone to the track and I have won, on that particular race.” She grinned with embarrassment. “I don’t do it very often. I feel like I’m cheating.”

  “If it was me I’d be out there every day,” Rachel said.

  They moved along to other things, and after another ten minutes Rachel seemed to have run out of questions. She turned in her chair. “Can you think of anything more, Bragg?”

  “Did you ever find the dog?” I asked Maribeth.

  “Oh, yes. She was down near Campbell. Her owner went down there and got her back.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Incredible.” She got up and swung her handbag over her shoulder. “Well, thanks for the time, Maribeth.”

  “Did it help, at all?”

  “Don’t know yet. Have to mull it over. That takes time. Right now I’m going to make Bragg here take me to lunch.”

  Rachel quit talking as she stared at Maribeth. Maribeth looked as if she’d gone away somewhere. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, staring across the room at the windows.

  “You all right, Maribeth?” Rachel asked.

  Maribeth shook her head and made a little face. “Yes. Funniest thing, I felt as if I were in the back room.” Her voice trailed off and her gaze returned to the window. “Would you mind letting yourselves out? I feel like sitting here a few moments longer.”

  “We’ll get along,” I told her. I started to say something more but Rachel Goodwin gave my sleeve a sharp tug and she led me from the room. As soon as we were in the hallway she held one finger to her lips and sauntered up the hall toward the front door. She didn’t open the door, but just leaned back against it and made a little downward motion with her hand, telling me to be patient.

  It was about thirty seconds later when we heard Maribeth cry out.

  “Peter!”

  We hustled back to the living room. Maribeth was on her feet. She had an eager expression on her face, as if she had just experienced a small triumph or was on the brink of one.

  “Does the name Barracks Cove mean anything to you?”

  “Sure,” I told her. “It’s a town up north, on the coast. I’ve worked in that area. I know people there.”

  Maribeth sat back on the sofa, shaking her head as if she were losing what she wanted to grasp. “There is somebody up there you should talk to. I don’t know anymore than that. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. I don’t know how old they are. All I know is that there is somebody there you should talk to.”

  “To do with the bodies at London state park?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes!” said Maribeth.

  “How do I find this person?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Maribeth said with exasperation. “But you’ll find whoever it is. I see you talking to them.”

  “Do you see me with him talking to whoever it is?” Rachel asked.

  “No, dear, I don’t but that doesn’t mean much. I’ve known Peter longer than I’ve known you. Go on, you two. Get to work.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I asked Rachel to swing back past my apartment. I wanted to pack an overnight bag. Barracks Cove of course was where Allison France lived. That wasn’t the reason I wanted the overnight bag, necessarily. Barracks Cove was far enough away so that I knew I might not make it back to Sausalito that night. While I changed and packed Rachel paced around the small living room and used my phone to call Santa Rosa and tell them where we were headed. I went by her into a small alcove and unlocked a metal cabinet I kept in one corner. I took out my .38 caliber revolver and some bullets and added it to the overnight bag. When I looked up I saw Rachel, who was in the middle of her conversation, give me a goggle-eyed look. I closed up the place and Rachel drove us back out of town and onto the freeway, heading north for Petaluma.

  “I didn’t know you private peeps really carried handguns like that.”

  “This one does whenever he goes on the road. Why? You’ve got yours, haven’t you?”

  “You know I do, it goes with the job. You got a permit?”

  “Of course I have a permit.”

  “You any good with a gun?”

  I shrugged. “Not as good as Robert R
edford playing the Sundance Kid, but I know which end to point and I practice with it some.”

  “What kind of a weapon is that?”

  “Smith and Wesson Combat Masterpiece.”

  Rachel glanced at me. “That is a good little all ’round weapon to have.”

  “I’m satisfied. What is it you carry in your bag there?”

  “Colt Trooper Mark Five. It can take both thirty-eight special and Magnum three fifty-seven ammunition.”

  “Which do you shoot?”

  “The thirty-eight special most of the time. You ever fired Magnum rounds?”

  “No.”

  Rachel shook her head. “A person would have to be crazy going around shooting that stuff all the time. Makes a crack that’d like to pop your eardrums. Sends a big old sheet of flame out the end of the barrel. Fire one load of that and a body’s ready to go home and climb into bed.”

  She took the first Petaluma exit from the freeway and we drove through a portion of the downtown area that looked as if it hadn’t changed much since about 1937. We headed west on Bodega Bay Boulevard and made a fast run over to the coast on a wide, two-lane highway through rolling ranch country.

  The town of Bodega Bay was still a respectable fishing port but in recent years had been transformed by new restaurants and lodges and rich homes on the hills overlooking the harbor.

  We stopped at a deli on our way through town and picked up a couple of sandwiches we could eat as we continued north along the coast to the town of Jenner at the mouth of the Russian River. A couple of miles past Jenner we began the steep, switchback climb up onto one of the most spectacular stretches of coastal highway in all California, a breathtaking route on the edge of cliffs that carried us up to where eagles fly, and down and around and then up some more. The first few times I had driven that stretch had seriously scared me. It didn’t seem to bother Rachel at all. She went along it a little faster than I ever had and finally we dropped back down to near sea level and were passing Fort Ross, a restored old Russian fur and timber post, before I was able to unclench my fists.