Blind Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  “So is running away.”

  “She didn’t do that, either.”

  “What you’re saying is that your sister was kidnapped and coerced into writing this letter.”

  Hearing her theory stated so coolly in this orderly place, this place of gray metal desks and pea green filing cabinets and men with guns, Annie thought it sounded preposterous, absurd.

  Gamely she stood her ground. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” A pause, then a shrug. She might as well play the full hand she’d been dealt. “There’s this, too.”

  She showed him the envelope. He examined it with cursory interest. “The address is wrong,” he said.

  That surprised her; she hadn’t thought he would notice. “Yes. I live at 509, not 505.”

  “I know. I booted up your M.V.D. file along with Erin’s.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “Just gathering information,” he replied vaguely. “So what are you telling me? That Erin couldn’t have filled out the envelope? You already said the handwriting is hers.”

  “Yes, it’s hers. She wrote the wrong address on purpose.” She took a breath, fully aware that she was about to make a fool of herself in his eyes, plunging ahead anyway. “The fives are written to look like S’s. See? SOS.”

  To his credit. Walker showed no reaction to her suggestion. His face remained politely impassive as he did her the courtesy of appearing to consider the idea.

  “Yes, well,” he said at last, “it could be seen that way.”

  Hopelessness swallowed her. “You think I’m a paranoid lunatic, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t said that.”

  “No, you haven’t. You’re a nice guy. Too nice to tell me how you really feel. But the thing is, I know Erin. I know how her mind works, how she thinks. This SOS signal is exactly what she would do. She must have thought it up on the spur of the moment, and gambled that her kidnapper wouldn’t catch on.”

  “Or she may have made a small slip of the pen while she was preoccupied with getting out of town. Evidently she wasn’t thinking very clearly. She addressed the envelope with the intention of mailing it, but there’s no stamp or postmark; she must have hand-delivered it to your home.”

  “Someone delivered it by hand,” Annie said. “I don’t think it was her.”

  “We have no reason to suspect otherwise.”

  He wasn’t buying it, as she should have known he wouldn’t. Still, there was one more angle of attack she could try. “The Tegretol is missing.”

  It took him a second to find a context for the remark. “From the medicine cabinet?”

  She nodded. “I stayed at Erin’s apartment yesterday evening, reading her journal—there’s nothing in it that indicates any intention of leaving, by the way—and when I went to get some aspirin, I noticed the Tegretol wasn’t there.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Maybe ... whoever kidnapped her went back to the apartment and took the bottle.”

  “While you were still there?”

  “He could’ve gotten past me. I was preoccupied.”

  “Why would he take that kind of risk just for the medicine?”

  “Because Erin needs it.”

  “You mean her kidnapper is keeping her alive somewhere?”

  Annie grasped that this was what she did mean. The realization that Erin very likely was still alive lifted her like a cresting wave.

  “Yes,” she said, holding her voice steady. “Yes, that’s right. He abducted her and forced her to write this phony letter, and then later he returned for the Tegretol because, without it, she could die.”

  There. She had said it. Even to her it sounded grossly implausible, but she was grimly certain it was true.

  Walker shut his eyes. Suddenly he looked tired. “Annie ...”

  She waited, refusing to make things easier for him by anticipating what he wanted to say.

  “How much sleep did you get last night?” he asked finally.

  She saw where this was leading. “Five or six hours,” she lied.

  “That much?”

  Oh, hell. She’d never been a decent fibber. “More like three or four.”

  He nodded. “How about the night before? Did you sleep well then?”

  “What makes you think I didn’t?”

  “You had circles under your eyes yesterday. You seemed kind of wired, as if you were operating on adrenaline.”

  “Okay. I had insomnia that night, too. So what?”

  “So you’ve been functioning on virtually no rest. You’re distraught. Your imagination is overacting.”

  “I hallucinated not seeing the Tegretol. Is that it?”

  “Under the same circumstances I might have overlooked it, too.”

  Frustration and anger boiled up inside her. She thought about opening her purse, showing him the turquoise wrapped in the tissue—Did I hallucinate this, you son of a bitch?—but rationally she knew the stone proved nothing.

  She took back the letter, folded it in the envelope, put the envelope in her purse. Her hands were shaking, and her knuckles were white.

  “So,” she said stiffly, “that’s it, I guess. Case closed. Nothing more you’re willing to do.”

  “I just don’t see any basis on which to proceed.”

  “Sure. Of course.” She was on her feet, the chair scraping the short-nap carpet. A detective at a nearby desk glanced up at her, his attention drawn by the implied violence in her body language.

  “Annie—”

  “I understand.” Tears burned her eyes. “Really.”

  He was rising, reaching out to her. She turned away.

  “I understand,” she said again, and then she was out of the squad room, fleeing blindly down the hall.

  33

  Walker hesitated only a moment, long enough to remember Caroline and the other chances he’d missed. Then he went after Annie.

  He caught up with her in the visitors’ parking lot, unlocking her Miata.

  “Annie, wait.”

  He could see from her face that she was tempted to tell him to go to hell. But after a moment her features softened, and her shoulders slumped.

  “What is it?” she asked, fatigue in her voice.

  “Take a walk with me.”

  “I have to get back to my shop.”

  “Just for a few minutes.”

  She frowned, and he thought she might still refuse; but with a shrug she relocked the car door and pocketed her keys.

  Wordlessly he led her down a side street toward the sprawling community center, a short distance from the police station. Sunlight burned on car windshields, on a fire hydrant, on a crumpled cellophane wrapper in the dirt. The day was warming up. Walker defied departmental regulations by loosening his tie.

  “I was wrong,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have suggested that you were mistaken about the Tegretol. If you say it’s not there, then it’s not.”

  She wasn’t mollified. “And how can you explain that?”

  “I’ve been assuming Erin left town. Suppose she didn’t. Suppose she stayed in Tucson and went back to her apartment to get the pills.”

  “She wouldn’t have sneaked around while I was there.”

  “People in distress do a lot of uncharacteristic things. Look, her car isn’t at the airport, the bus station, or the railroad terminal. She didn’t check into the Phoenix Crown Sterling, the Fairmont, or the Sierra Springs Inn. My guess is she’s hiding out in a local hotel.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Annie said firmly.

  “It does make sense, though. The only way she could have delivered the letter in person is if she was still in the area. It’s the one explanation that fits all the facts.”

  “But it doesn’t fit Erin. Was this all you wanted to say?”

  “Walk with me a little farther.”

  He escorted her across the street, into the community center, a puzzle of shaded walkways, shops, restaurants, meeting halls, and auditoriums. At noon the cent
er would be crowded, but at this hour few people were in sight.

  Walker liked it here. Green trees lined the branching footpaths. The clusters of stores and eateries were dressed in southwestern colors—pink stucco, turquoise molding, red-tile roofs.

  He stopped at a fountain, the water foaming over artfully arranged rocks into rectangular blue-tiled pools. Pigeons cluttered the ground, pecking at somebody’s spilled popcorn.

  For a long moment he and Annie just stood together and watched the surging carpet of water. Then Walker took a breath and said it.

  “I talked to a friend at the Tucson Standard last night. He told me about Lincoln and Oliver Connor. And about the fire.”

  Beside him, Annie stiffened. “You mean you had your friend look it up in the morgue, or whatever they call it?”

  “Right.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d aroused my curiosity.”

  Her startled glance told him that she was wondering, for the first time, if curiosity was all she had aroused. “Did I?” Quickly she looked away. “I would have told you, if you’d asked.”

  “I understand now why you’re so worried about Erin.”

  “As if I need an excuse.”

  “She wrote you a letter. A lot of people would let it go at that. You keep assuming the worst. I think the fire is the reason.”

  No answer to that. She moved away, and Walker followed.

  He stayed just behind her, watching as she hurried along, aiming at no destination, her head down, arms folded, purse swinging roughly by its shoulder strap. He thought the back of her neck was pretty.

  When she slowed her steps, he eased alongside her. She was not crying, but her face was drawn tight in lines of concentration and pain.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she whispered.

  He took her arm, and she did not pull free.

  “How much do you remember about the fire?” he asked gently.

  “Everything. It’s engraved in my memory. I wish it weren’t.” Through the light contact of his fingertips on her arm, he felt the sudden trembling of her body. “God damn him.”

  He knew whom she meant. “Your father.”

  “God damn him,” she said again.

  Her knees shook, and her face was pale. Quickly he led her to a tree-shaded bench near a nineteenth-century gazebo, then sat at her side. Annie stared into the distance, at the blocky modernistic shapes of the superior courts and administration buildings, their checkerboard facades smooth and flat like cutouts.

  Walker waited. In his line of work he’d interviewed many people—suspects, witnesses, victims, tipsters, cranks. He knew better than to prompt Annie to talk. She would speak when she was ready.

  After a minute or two, she found her voice.

  “Albert was good to us in the beginning.” She used her father’s first name, as if reluctant to acknowledge his paternity. “A little stern, maybe too much of a disciplinarian—his family, like our mother’s, were all strict Catholics, probably a bit too strict at times. But basically he was kind and ... loving.”

  The last word nearly caught in her throat.

  “He would read us bedtime stories. He’d tuck us in and read The Wind in the Willows and Black Beauty and that one about the pig and the spider.”

  “Charlotte’s Web.”

  “He did different voices for all the characters. And sound effects. He was ... he was a good man.”

  Walker said nothing. From what Gary had told him, he knew that Albert Reilly might have begun as a good man, but he hadn’t finished that way.

  “And then,” Annie went on, her voice lowering to a whisper, “he changed. He went crazy.”

  “Just like that? All of a sudden?”

  “It seemed that way. But maybe Erin and I were too young to pick up on the change until it was obvious. All I know is that he stopped reading to us, stopped tucking us in, stopped kissing us good night ... stopped loving us.”

  “Couldn’t your mother talk to him?”

  She shook her head violently. “He hated Maureen.”

  “Had they been close before?”

  “Oh, yes. It was a good marriage; I’m sure it was. Aunt Lydia had some photo albums—our parents’ wedding, Maureen and Albert with the two of us as babies, a trip to Yosemite they took on their first anniversary. In the pictures they always look happy, Albert especially.”

  “Do you have any idea what changed him?”

  “Not really. But I’ve always thought ... well, I know it sounds odd, but maybe religion had something to do with it.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Annie looked away, toward rows of flower beds humming with bees. A child scampered past, trailing a balloon.

  “I told you he was strict in his beliefs. One night Maureen and Erin and I were together in the living room when he came home. This was a couple of weeks after he’d changed. He was still living with us—he had nowhere else to go—but he was sleeping on a sofa in the den. He’d been sullen and angry for days, but that night he’d stopped at a bar after work, had too much to drink, and his face ...” The memory touched her like a ghost, raising a shiver. “His face was wild.”

  “Was he violent?”

  “Not in what he did, not then. But the things he said to us ... the words he used ...” Her eyes squeezed shut. “He called us abominations in the eyes of God. That’s why I think maybe it was some kind of religious mania or something.” She said it again, thoughtfully. “Abominations in the eyes of God.”

  Walker was silent.

  “Erin and I were too little to know what an abomination was, but we knew it must be something bad, something really dreadful. Maureen pleaded with him to calm down; he slapped her. I can still hear that sound, like a gunshot. He pointed at her, then at Erin and me”—she swallowed—“and he said, ‘You’ll burn. All of you. Burn.’”

  Walker didn’t know how to respond. This was much worse than the sketchy details in the newspaper story Gary had dug up.

  “How long afterward was the fire?” he asked slowly.

  “The very next night. August eighteenth, 1973.”

  He nodded. He’d known the date from the article.

  “What woke us,” Annie said, her voice soft as the whisper of thought, “were the screams. Screams from the master bedroom at the other end of the hall. My mother’s screams.”

  She swallowed, finding strength within her. When she continued, her voice was suddenly raw, as if she herself had been screaming.

  “Erin and I sat up in our beds and listened. There was a sharp crack; Albert was in there, and he’d slapped her again. The screams stopped, and she started to beg. She said please over and over. ‘Please, please, please ...’

  “Then she screamed again, but it was worse this time. It was the worst sound I’ll ever hear.

  “From the hallway came a dry crackle, like crinkling newspaper, then a funny odor, a burnt-toast smell—smoke. That was when I knew the house was on fire and my mother was burning to death.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “It was—” She stopped herself and swallowed whatever words she’d intended to say. “I don’t know. Luck, I guess. The flames hadn’t reached our end of the hall yet. We made it downstairs and outside.”

  She paused, as if daring him to press for details. He said nothing.

  “Outside,” she repeated. “I remember running across the lawn with Erin, into a crowd of neighbors in robes and nightgowns. Old Mrs. Carroway took us both in her big arms and held us, and someone else asked about our parents, and another person shushed him.

  “The fire trucks arrived a minute later. I don’t know how long it was before the firemen got inside, but eventually they found Maureen and Albert in the master bedroom, both of them burned so badly they had to be identified later from dental records.

  “It wasn’t hard for the arson investigators to reconstruct what had happened. Two gasoline cans were recovered, one in the living room, the other in the bedroom, still in Al
bert’s hand. He must have hidden them in the garage or the tool shed. In the middle of the night he’d left the den, gotten the cans, and poured a trail of gasoline through the house, starting on ground level, ending in the bedroom, where Maureen was. Then he’d lit the match.”

  She looked at Walker, her eyes haunted, brimful of tears.

  “He told us we would all burn. He meant it.”

  Walker clasped her hand. “And after that,” he said gently, “the two of you went to live with Lydia, Maureen’s sister, in Tucson ... and you found out about the other murder-suicide in your family’s history. Lincoln and Oliver.”

  “Yes.” A shudder blew through her like a cold wind. “It was like the whole world was crazy. Like everyone in it was a monster. Anybody, at any time, for any reason or for no reason at all, could snap, go insane, and kill whoever he loved most.”

  “But it’s not the whole world. There are plenty of good people.”

  Annie met his gaze, and he saw the hurt in her face, the lingering residue of trauma, the unhealed grief.

  “My father was a good person, too,” she whispered. “Once.”

  34

  Annie was silent as Walker escorted her out of the community center. He wondered if he’d been wrong to ask about the fire. She had been upset to begin with, and reliving those memories might have served only to traumatize her further.

  They crossed the street together. At the curb Annie abruptly turned to him and whispered, “It wasn’t luck.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I told you we were lucky to escape the fire. But it wasn’t luck.”

  “What, then?”

  “Erin saved me.”

  Their shoes clacked on the sidewalk. A robin burst out of the branches of a mesquite tree and shot into the clear, warm air. In the near distance, the bells of San Agustin Cathedral chimed ten o’clock.

  “I panicked,” she went on softly. “I mean, I lost it. Totally. I could hear our mother shrieking, and the flames crackling, and I started to yell and yell and yell. I couldn’t stop.”