CHAPTER 40
They took the 405 to the 110. San Diego Freeway North to the Harbor North. Josie preferred freeway numbers; Tim used the names and that's where the chitchat stopped. It took them an hour to reach the right off-ramp. Josie draped an arm over the back of the seat. The lights from the oncoming traffic cast a glow that haloed Tim Douglas's head. Traffic on the 405 was heavy but broke when they hit the 110. Nobody wanted to head downtown this time of night.
"Vernon?" Josie's voice filled the car.
"I own a piece of property here." The observation wasn't an invitation to conversation.
"I sure wouldn't have thought to look in Vernon," Josie muttered, looking into the backseat at Archer. He was staring out the window, hanging on to his own thoughts so she watched their progress.
Tim took a right off the freeway, a left and another right, driving through a ghost town of big, grimy buildings. Josie had heard that more than a hundred thousand people came to work in the factories and warehouses by day and fewer than two hundred stayed the night. It was a bizarre statistic that she couldn't footnote so she stopped trying.
There were signs of life. The security shacks were illuminated by the flickering glow of portable TVs as the guards inside watched infomercials and televangelists until dawn. Sometimes the rent-a-cops dozed, sleeping the night away because there wasn't much to steal in places that tooled machine parts, packed meat, laminated paper. Finally, Josie ignored the scenery, such as it was, and called home again.
"Where could she be?" Josie muttered.
"You have a daughter?" Tim asked and Josie didn't miss the note of incredulousness.
"I'm her guardian."
"Try Faye," Archer suggested.
"She's in San Diego by now." Josie hit the buttons again while Archer talked.
"Billy probably took her to Burt's for dinner and Hannah forgot her cell. It happens, Jo."
"It shouldn't. Not with the way things are." Josie put her phone away, testy and peeved. "How much longer, Tim?"
"Almost there." He took a left then another one not even a block down. They drove through an alley. Unpaved. Deserted. Pitch-black and wedged between two dung-colored buildings. The stillness in the car turned to watchfulness. Archer had a word for Tim.
"Grace better be here, my man. I don't want any surprises."
With that, Tim twirled the wheel, hit the brakes hard and yanked the emergency brake. Josie straight-armed the dash. Archer grunted as the younger man slammed out of the car leaving the door open and the car running. He was swallowed by the dark only to reappear a second later, cutting through the parallel beams of the headlamps, walking in the gray area between them. The incandescent light sculpted him into a troll-like creature as he scuttled toward a chain-link fence topped with a curlicue of razor wire. Tim unlocked the gate, then pushed until it opened far enough to let the car through. Stepping on the running board, Tim Douglas pulled himself up and in, closed the door and the three of them sat in his car looking at the yaw of dark in front of them.
"I don't care what anyone wants anymore, so be grateful for what I'm doing." The brake was released; the car was put into gear. "Turn off your phones. She's scared enough as it is."
***
"I don't know, Hannah, this doesn't seem right."
Billy Zuni peered at the run-down apartment buildings as Hannah's VW bug crept along the unfamiliar street.
"It's fine. Stop worrying. We're just going to sit with her for a little while, that's all."
She tightened her hold on the wheel, annoyed with Billy. Impatiently, Hannah pushed her long hair back over her shoulder then grabbed the wheel with both hands again. He was right, they shouldn't be there. But when Susan O'Connel called the third time, terrified because Josie hadn't arrived yet, Hannah promised to keep her company until Josie did show up. It may not have been right but it was a promise. Billy, Hannah had announced, could come with her or not.
It seemed like such a fine idea at the time; now Hannah knew it was lame. She was an idiot dragging Billy into a strange neighborhood to meet a woman neither of them knew—especially after Josie had told them to stay close to home. Much as she hated to, Hannah was about ready to turn around, even admit to Billy that she had made a mistake, when he cried out.
"There. Hey, Hannah, that's it. See?" He checked the building number against the one he had inked on the palm of his hand. Hannah hugged the little steering wheel and checked it out. A car honked behind her. She pulled against the red curb and let the person pass. Billy knit his brow. "I don't think you can park here, Hannah. It's red."
"Duh." She rolled her eyes then yanked on the wheel, pulled out around an old truck, parked and turned off the ignition.
"You want to go up now?" Billy whispered when Hannah didn't move.
"I guess. I mean, since we're here," she answered cautiously.
"Yeah, since we came all this way." Billy nodded. Both of them looked at the building.
"Billy, do you think this is a bad idea?" Hannah asked.
"Naw," he assured her, puffing up his chest, proud she was asking for his thoughts. "I think it's nice. Kind of like you being part of Josie's team. You know, like her assistant."
Hannah's smile was shaky. Her clasped hands made little suction sounds as she pumped her palms together. That was nice for him to say when they both knew it wasn't right to go off half cocked and angry at Josie. Knowing she couldn't back down now, Hannah pocketed her keys and said:
"Okay, so let's go."
They got out of the car and stood together in front of the old brick building. Billy made the first move, opening the glass door for Hannah. She put her hand to her nose, guarding against the smell of bad cooking and cigarette smoke. The carpet was filthy and worn. There were three landings with apartments on either side. Hannah stopped short on the first to get her bearings. Billy bumped into her.
"Christ, Billy," Hannah hissed. He mumbled something that she was sure was an apology. She forgave him by saying: "Come on. It's the top floor."
Billy stuck close as they climbed. Ten steps. Second landing. Hannah could hear her heart. Billy grunted and wheezed. What good would they do Mrs. O'Connel if they sounded like two scared little kids? Hannah took one deep breath and bounded up the next ten steps, pounding away her anxiety. Billy did the same.
"Made it." Hannah actually smiled when he joined her.
"Yeah. So, that's okay, then." Billy grinned. "Want me to knock?"
"No, we're just going to barge right in," Hannah drawled, her swell of friendship curling into disdain. Billy could be so clueless. "I'll knock."
She raised her fist but the door wasn't latched, so her knuckles scraped the wood and pushed it open. Hannah and Billy looked at each other. This wasn't good. Before they could bolt, the door jolted again and something came at them so fast they jumped into one another's arms, laid themselves back against the wall and knew that if they weren't about to die, Josie was going to kill them when they got home.
***
Matthew McCreary watched television. He didn't pick up the phone when it rang because his hands were busy. One held a bottle of scotch, the other the television remote. He had monitored every news program he could find and all of them were dissecting the rise and fall of Matthew McCreary, talking about the dark cloud that shadowed his campaign during this primary. The personal tragedy that brought him sympathy votes was now turning into a three-ring circus of speculation, sensationalism and sexual scandal. Everyone wanted a piece of Matthew McCreary and his family: talk shows and news programs, pop psychologists and pundits. He'd like to kill the fool who coined the phrase family values because—according to everyone—he didn't have any. Matthew McCreary, the public now hypothesized, was the smoldering core of a volcano that would blow, spewing ever more toxic scandal as soon as Grace McCreary was apprehended. The dead wife had tried to leave him, making out a will assuring he would never get her money. Why? Because the sister was her lover. Then why
cut her out too? Why? Why? Matthew McCreary was silent now after telling the world his sister was a killer and crazy to boot. Why? Why? Why?
Matthew lifted his drink and downed it. He was Goddamn silent because he didn't have anything to say that anyone would understand. Exhausted, he turned off the television and let his head fall back. He tossed the remote to the end of the couch and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. His head lolled sideways and he surveyed all that he owned. It was a lot but things had never been enough. He wanted recognition, he wanted adoration. He was a fool. His eyes settled on the phone. He wanted Grace to call. He could save his career, he could save her. Couldn't he?
Matthew put the bottle to his lips and kept it there for a minute before he realized it was empty. Just as he thought about that he heard ringing. The bottle went into his lap and Matthew watched the phone as if he could see the rings and count them.
One. Two. Three.
Whoever it was, they were nuts if they thought he was going to answer.
One more. There it was. Four.
The machine picked up. For the tenth time Matthew listened to his own voice asking the caller to leave a message. His head fell back. The beep sounded. He waited. A woman spoke. Grace was speaking.
It was Grace.
It took Matthew a minute to connect. When he did, he scrambled up and lunged for the phone, swiping it off the hub, punching at the buttons.
"Grace! Grace! I'm here. Don't hang up."
"You told, Matthew. You told about Michelle . . ." Grace said and it sounded like she was sobbing.
"I had to. I couldn't lie," he sputtered but she was too upset to let him finish.
"Yes, you could. I protected you, Matthew. You should have done the same for me. All these years, Matthew!" He heard an intake of breath. A whisper that he thought sounded like despair. Then movement. Scuffling. An exclamation before the connection was broken.
"Grace! Grace! Don't hang up. I'll come get you. Just tell me where you are. I'm sorry. I'll make it better."
Matthew yelled her name. He promised the world and then collapsed on the couch. He kept begging even when there was no one to hear. Everything was falling apart. Drunk and alone, he sobbed his self-pitying tears and tried to figure out what he could do about any of this.
CHAPTER 41
Archer, Josie and Tim looked at the low-slung building that seemed to be held together with the glue of graffiti. A necklace of blown-out windows wrapped around the place. The ground beneath their feet was a crazy quilt of broken asphalt and pebbles, stones and hard-packed dirt. It crushed under their feet as they walked single file with Tim in front. He led them to a small metal door. A naked bulb hung from wire strung from post to building. Tim faced them.
"She's expecting me to come with food and fresh clothes but she's afraid so . . ." His voice trailed off.
He didn't have to lay out the ground rules. He didn't have to tell them that, even if Grace had killed Michelle McCreary, she was terrified to be in this deserted building, in this mean town so far from her accustomed comforts. Archer reached for the door handle. Tim beat him to it.
"She trusted me, you know."
"Okay," Josie gave the nod and Archer backed off.
Carefully Tim opened the door to a factory filled with rusting machinery, degrading boxes and long tables where people used to work. Now abandoned, the place was oddly sterile. Despite the clement weather outside, cold from the concrete floor traveled up Josie's legs and settled in her belly. She touched nothing but saw everything. Trash on the floor. Fast-food bags, candy wrappers. Shards of brown glass glinted in a shaft of light that javelined through a hole in a high window. A comb had been left on one of the work tables. There was a lathe. A bench saw. Half a chair. Lumber was piled on the west wall. More boxes were stacked neatly on the east, bigger than the others. More glass crunched underfoot.
"What did they make here?" Josie drew close to the men.
"Furniture," Tim whispered back. "I inherited this from my dad. I've been trying to sell it."
Tim ducked behind the boxes. Josie and Archer were on his heels, following through another door that led to a hallway. To the right Josie saw an office with filing cabinets. A pen on the metal desk. An adding machine. Tim paused, perhaps imagining his father behind that desk, looking up, curious about what his son had become. Tim pointed to another door.
"In there. The caretaker's apartment," he whispered. "I'll go first."
Archer shouldered past and this time Tim let him. All of them listened for the sound that would give them away, but Archer was smooth. He turned the knob and opened the door. Tim followed Archer, Josie pulled up the rear. They found themselves in a small room that looked like a utility apartment: table, a metal sink, two chairs. It was empty. Tim shrugged. He pointed to one of two small doors. Josie opened it.
"Bathroom." She mouthed the words. The men faded away. Josie lingered.
There was moisture in the air. Grace's earrings were on the sink. Three cigarette butts floated in the toilet. A towel with makeup smudges hung on a nail in the wall. There was water on the floor. Josie touched the towel. It was damp. The soap was wet. Grace had washed her face; Grace had washed her face off. Josie was thinking that she wouldn't know Grace without makeup when something caught her eye. Hunkering down she reached into the box under the sink and plucked Grace's emerald from the trash. She put it in the palm of her hand and looked at it for a moment, then put it in her pocket. She retraced her steps and found that Archer and Tim were gone. She went into the next room.
There was a cot, a hot plate, another table. A small rectangular window cut high above the bed was open and Josie put it all together. Grace had seen them coming. She was washing up, ready to settle in for the night. The sound of the car was as unmistakable as that of three doors opening and closing. Grace might have even listened to their footsteps on the gravel. Perhaps she had tiptoed on the cot, straining, seeing that she had been betrayed. Perhaps the ring had fallen into the trash in her rush to get away and now Grace was out there in the dark wishing she had it for comfort.
Josie checked out the back door. If Grace had run that way Archer and Tim would find her. Unless . . . unless Grace was playing them. Instead of running in panic, maybe she was buying time, forming an escape plan. Josie hustled back to the main factory and stood alone in the dark, listening.
"Grace?" she called quietly.
Josie took a step, then another. Her eyes darted to the stacked boxes, the lumber, the high tables. She did double takes on shadows that seemed to move and dark spots that threatened to suck her through the floor. Grace was there. She was waiting. She was watching with those eyes, those eyes that would now seem smaller, meaner, odd and ugly without the definition of shadow and line.
Josie turned in a slow circle trying to focus. There were more fire exits than she had first imagined. She concentrated on each one in turn until she found what she was looking for: the one door that was ajar. Trotting toward it, her head moving side to side in case she was wrong, Josie pushed the door open and found herself outside, alone. The property was so huge, so peppered with out-buildings, she didn't know where to start. Deciding to let the men look in the nooks and crannies, Josie kept her eye on the big picture.
To her right was Tim's car. On her left was a wooden lean-to. The dirt and gravel were disturbed as if someone had passed through in a hurry but Josie couldn't say if it had been Grace or the two men or a trespasser. It could have been a minute ago or a year. Then it didn't matter what Josie was thinking because Archer bellowed and Tim hollered and a car engine roared to life.
The wide yard was like a canyon and the sounds echoed off the concrete building only to be swallowed up by the wooden structures and empty spaces. Unable to get her bearings, Josie opened her mouth to call Archer. Instead she let out a howl of surprise and threw one arm up over her eyes to shield against the bright headlights of a big car as it careened around the corner of the lean-to. Its bald
tires spun. The car fishtailed, righted itself and kicked up gravel as it fought for traction. Without thinking, Josie sprinted toward it, holding out her arms, screaming for it to stop. Suddenly the tires caught and the car barreled toward her. In that split second, in those flickering silent-film moments between the car lurching out of control and righting itself again, Josie confirmed what she already knew; Grace McCreary was clutching the wheel.
"Stop! Grace! Stop!" Josie screamed, but it did no good. Grace either didn't know or didn't care who stood in her way.
Josie would have run if she could but Grace was erratic and Josie disoriented. Her only chance, her only choice, was to stand firm until she was forced to choose which way to go. Josie could only hope that Grace McCreary wouldn't make the same choice. If she did, Hannah would be alone again. Archer alone again. Josie would die never knowing what had become of her mother and all because Grace McCreary refused to stand and be judged.
The hell with that.
Josie bent her knees. The time was now. Three more seconds. Two. One . . . But before she could take her best shot, Grace McCreary did what Josie least expected. She slammed on the brakes. But it was a minute past the last minute and the car skidded, spun and caught Josie straight on and hard on her hip. She doubled over the hood before spiraling over the right headlight. Her arms stretched out on the car. Josie's cheek met metal. There was one blazing instant when she stared at Grace's face, ghostly white and awash with insanity.
"Grace," Josie moaned.
Just as it seemed Grace might come to her senses, she let out a horrible cry, bared her teeth and hit the gas.
"Stay out of my way. Stay away from Matthew. If you don't want to get hurt, stay away from Matthew."
Grace screamed and screamed as Josie melted down the side of the car to her knees and the car sped past her, out the gate, into the night, with a killer at the wheel.
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