Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  Now a third wire had been added, this one white. I opened my Leatherman and removed the minitools. I had a choice of nineteen, all neatly folded together like a pocketknife with assorted blades. I selected a pair of needle-nose pliers that I used to loosen the snap. Then I used the Phillips-head screwdriver to remove the screw. The telephone company probably had special tools that performed the same job in half the time, but I had to make do.

  I stuck the Leatherman back in my windbreaker pocket and then opened the junction box. I have two lines into my office, one for the telephone and a second for my combination printer and fax machine. My phone number was neatly written in black marker pen beside one set of wires and my fax number was inked beside the second set. Alligator clips had been clamped to the two contacts that served my phone line. Attached to the alligator clips was the white wire, which extended from the bottom of the box and disappeared into the crawl space along with the other two wires.

  All three bungalows are built over a three-foot concrete footer. A sizeable vent opening had been cut into the stucco just above the footer to provide air flow to the area under each bungalow. The vent cover is a flimsy wooden trellis, easily removed to allow access to the crawl space. I squatted, lifted off the vent cover, turned on my flashlight, and peered into the space. The dirt floor was approximately five feet below the subfloor and flooring joists, running flat for a distance of fifteen feet and then slanting down and away toward the far corner of the bungalow. The soil was dry, but I suspected a good rain (if we ever had one) would result in puddles that would feed the mold spores that had been proliferating there for years. Construction debris was still in evidence: broken bricks and wood scraps dating back the seventy years since my landlord and his father had built the cottages.

  There were 3-foot-by-3-foot cinder block piers at intervals. One section of the dirt had been covered with widths of plastic sheeting and there were rolls of pink fiberglass insulation like hay bales left out in a farmer’s field. I couldn’t believe my landlord had been too cheap to have the insulation properly tacked into place. I’d have to have a little chat with him. I didn’t like to think about the shoddy workmanship for which I paid rent. Okay, it wasn’t much rent, but cheap is cheap.

  The beam of my flashlight picked out the three phone wires, which meandered from the vent opening across the dirt to one of those telephone company handsets used to determine if there’s a dial tone. I was curious about that myself. I inched my way across the hard-packed soil, using my elbows for leverage. Just as I extended a hand to pick up the phone company handset, there was the shrilling of a telephone above me. I jumped, banging the back of my head on a joist. Without even thinking about it, I pressed Talk and said, “Hello?”

  “Kinsey, this is Ruthie. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “It’s not the best. Is it all right if I call you back?”

  “Sure. It’s nothing urgent. I just wanted to know how you were feeling.”

  “About what?”

  “The bun you have in your oven.”

  “I don’t have a bun in my . . . oh, the bun in my oven. You mean the bun Camilla mentioned Friday night at Rosie’s?”

  “What other bun is there?” she asked.

  “Forget it. We’ll talk later.”

  I pressed the button disconnecting her, and then stared down at the instrument I was holding. I pressed the button that said Talk and listened to the dial tone, which was actually emanating from the telephone sitting on the office desk right above me. This was how Ned Lowe had managed to tap into my phone line without ever entering my well-fortified work space.

  25

  Monday, September 25, 1989

  What I realized then, which was just as appalling in my opinion, was that in addition to his tapping into my phone line, he’d dragged in his aluminum-frame backpack and red sleeping bag. The man had been bivouacking under my office floor for nearly a week. I swept the beam of my flashlight across the area, focusing on a portable radio, a homely supply of canned goods, a can opener, and a small Coleman stove complete with wind baffles in case a hurricane blew through. All of this was neatly arranged on a wooden produce crate he’d toted in from outside. He’d set his hiking boots to one side of the crate and he was collecting his trash in a plastic grocery bag. How thoughtful of him. In addition, he had a small bottle of Tennessee whiskey and a Thermos with a twist-off lid he was using as a cup. I pictured him at the cocktail hour, propped on one elbow, surveying his dirt kingdom while he sipped his sour mash and reviewed his day.

  When had he come up with this idea? It occurred to me that the day he’d broken my kitchen window, he might have been conducting an experimental mission to test the feasibility of the plan. The bungalows on either side of mine were unoccupied and the downtown neighborhood is scarcely populated at night. Once he moved in, all he had to do was wait until dark and he could come and go as he pleased. In the interim, he could nest under my office during daylight hours, safe from prying eyes. Except for his bathroom needs (which I was hoping he tended to elsewhere), he had a cozy little habitat with all the comforts of home.

  I crouched and stuck my head in the vent opening.

  To the left, there was a gasoline can that seemed odd unless he was using unleaded fuel in his little cook stove. There was another possibility, of course. The last time he was on the run, he’d set his recreational vehicle on fire and escaped on foot. I hadn’t seen any trace of the bright red Oldsmobile he’d stolen, but Erroll was right about its being too conspicuous to drive for long. Ned would torch the car. He’d probably ditched it somewhere and hoofed it here on foot. Burning the car seemed extreme when all he had to do was wipe down his fingerprints and abandon it. It might take a week, but someone would steal it, strip it, or a nearby resident would become suspicious and have the car towed off to the impound lot.

  I checked the area to the right, where I spotted a Havahart trap suitable for groundhogs, raccoons, and other medium-sized beasts. The spring-loaded door had snapped shut and the trap was empty. Maybe he baited it at night in case a skunk decided to take refuge in the base camp he’d established for himself. I picked up a faint noise. I cocked my head and squinted. The sound came again; a metallic jingle that sounded like the rattling of a length of chain. It crossed my mind that it might be Ned, but I didn’t think so. There was no indication I’d interrupted him unless he’d heard me out on the sidewalk and had slipped into the shadows out of sight.

  I pulled my head out of the opening and paused to study my surroundings. Had the noise come from outside the crawl space or from within? It was shady between the two buildings, almost to the point of being chilly. I let my gaze linger at the section of street I could see in the gap between the two bungalows. The neighborhood was quiet, which is why I like it. Ned must have liked it for much the same reason. So little traffic. So few pedestrians. He couldn’t have anticipated my being onto him, since I’d just figured it out myself. This put me one step ahead of him for once.

  Now that I knew where he was holing up, all I had to do was call Cheney Phillips and have him stake out the location until Ned showed up again. Cheney, Jonah, or someone in law enforcement would rally the troops, set up the snare, and catch Ned Lowe in the loop. In the meantime, I intended to leave no sign that I’d been there. Let Ned proceed on the assumption that his lair was undiscovered. As long as he didn’t show up in the next ten minutes, I was fine. I had no fantasies about nailing him on my own. Forget a citizen’s arrest. I know when I need help and this was clearly a situation that called for the big guns. I thought about dialing 9-1-1 on the spot, but a police response with sirens wailing would tip him off if he were anywhere in the area. This had to be played with subtlety, without alerting him that I had discovered what he’d been up to.

  My legs were beginning to ache from my crouching position: knees bent, buttocks resting on my heels. I eased my head and shoulders into the vent and let my gaze travel acr
oss the barren landscape. Beyond Ned’s diminutive settlement, the crawl space was enveloped in gloom, though the dark wasn’t absolute. Three other vent openings, one on each exterior wall, admitted a faint illumination, but no discernible air flow. The dirt sloped to the left, creating more headroom toward the center of the space.

  I was still staring into the shadowy depths when a squealing ruckus erupted. I was so startled, I jumped, banging the back of my head forcefully on the wood-framed opening. Shit! For a moment, I thought I’d pass out. My heart thumped hard from the shock and I struggled to catch my breath. The throbbing was intense and I felt darkness close in on me and then retreat, leaving me cross-eyed with pain. I put a hand against the back of my head, where a knot was already rising in response to the self-inflicted blow. I pulled my hand away and checked my fingers, hoping I wasn’t bleeding, which I was not.

  What the hell was that?

  There was a strangled wailing sound that made me jump a second time. Obviously, it was some kind of animal. I couldn’t see what it was because a cinder block pier cut short my line of sight. A nest of rats? A raccoon? Maybe the beast was caught in a second Havahart trap, though I had no idea why Ned would need two. There was a moment of quiet and then the frenzied scuffling started up again. The animal had to be staked to something because its panic was palpable. There was a sudden piercing smell of urine and feces where the creature had lost control of its bowels trying to free itself. Even a sleepy-eyed opossum could turn vicious if cornered. I didn’t want to get anywhere near wildlife that frantic, but I needed to understand what was going on. As far as I knew, there were no beasties living under my office, so whatever it was, Ned had brought it in with him. But why?

  Ned was a man who liked to do things for effect. Witness his savage beating of Phyllis Joplin in a time frame that guaranteed my finding her. He’d camped under my office for the shock value. He must have enjoyed thinking about my reaction when I realized where he’d been this past week. He might even have intended to alert me to the fact that he was five feet below me every time I sat down at my desk. No point in being clever without an audience.

  So what was his intention? Having set the stage, what additional form of savagery did he have in mind? The low howl started up again. The animal was clearly agitated. I hesitated. Really, it wasn’t my problem. My job was to get to a clean phone line and notify law enforcement. What bothered me was the idea of leaving any creature at the mercy of such a man.

  Was I going to have to go in there and have a look?

  I didn’t see a way around it. I considered circling the bungalow and trying the vent opening on the far side of the building, which would have given me a clear line of sight, but I knew the remaining vent covers were nailed shut. The last thing I wanted to do was set up a banging, hammering announcement that I was on Ned’s case.

  I shrugged out of my jacket and laid it down on the dirt just inside the hole. I took off my holster, removed the H&K, and tucked it in the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. Awkwardly, I eased in through the vent opening, first extending my left leg, and then the rest of me, bent double, and hoping like hell I wouldn’t knock myself in the head again. Once in, I hunkered in a space that was barely sufficient to allow me to duck-waddle my way toward the cinder block pier that blocked the animal from view. I told myself all I had to do was get close enough to see what I was dealing with. If I couldn’t free the creature myself, I’d call Animal Control and have them send someone over to save the poor thing. I hated the idea of tipping my hand, but in the greater scheme of things, it was better to keep Ned’s sick nature in mind and do what I could to prevent any further brutality.

  I decided I could make better progress if I lowered myself to my hands and knees and either crawled or hunched my way across the dirt, using my elbows and toes to propel myself. The soil smelled metallic. I didn’t dare look up at the subfloor just above me because it might have been a hotbed of spiders and centipedes, either of which would have had me levitating. At the very notion, my heart gave one big thump and then a series of little ones, like an internal jolt with aftershocks following. I put my head down, trying to still my panic. Was the goal worth the risk? I was assuming Ned arrived and departed after dark. But what if he showed up now? I wasn’t certain what frightened me more—coming face-to-face with a frantic animal or finding myself fifteen feet from freedom with Ned Lowe putting in an unexpected appearance and blocking my escape.

  It didn’t bear thinking about. It did occur to me that once I exited the crawl space and returned to my office, I’d have to make sure Ned hadn’t let himself into the bungalow while I was under it. I didn’t want a replay of the choking incident and I wasn’t quite ready to test my martial arts skills, as I was only coming up on week five. I crawled forward a few feet and looked back at the vent opening, which seemed smaller. The distance between me and the outside world was lengthening and I still couldn’t identify the animal except for the occasional gyration as the creature flung itself this way and that in its attempt to flee whatever restraints were binding it. I would have abandoned the attempt altogether but I knew how Ned’s mind worked. The thing about psychopaths is that from the time they’re little children, they’re incredibly cruel. Even before their pathology is fully developed, they are cold and clinical, completely without empathy.

  I groped my way by inches, reassured by the bulky gun I’d shoved into my waistband at the small of my back. I had my flashlight at the ready and three more feet to go. No point in worrying about the risk since I’d committed myself. It might be folly, but I’d gone so far now that it was easier to proceed than to retreat. I dragged myself another foot and a half, bracing myself on my elbows while I pushed down on the toes of my shoes for thrust. I leaned forward and peered into the dark. I turned on the flashlight again and swept the beam into the area behind the cinder block pier.

  When I understood what I was looking at, I uttered a low cry of surprise and disbelief. It was Ed; limp with exhaustion, eyes closed, fur matted. Ned had buckled him into a body harness that hung from one of the floor joists. I’d seen similar harnesses at pet stores: a lightweight nylon vest for use if you thought your cat would enjoy being walked like a dog. Most cats don’t care for this idea at all. The vest wasn’t causing Ed any pain. The problem was that the O-ring in the back center of the harness was attached to a metal eye Ned had screwed into one of the joists. He’d made sure the chain connected to the harness was so short, the cat’s feet barely touched the ground. How long had the cat been dangling like that? Ed’s struggle must have been amusing to Ned because there was no possibility of escape.

  I gathered Ed in my arms like a baby, supporting him with a hand under his belly in hopes he’d feel secure. He fought me at first, already conditioned to do battle. Sweet Ed, with his one green eye and one blue, with his little stub of a tail. His heart was rat-a-tat-tatting hard and I knew the fight or flight reaction had thrown his whole system into hyperdrive. I sat down, hunched over, my head canted to one side to avoid contact with the floor joists. I kept my left arm lifted sufficiently to keep him level instead of sagging under his own weight. He was shivering with tension, but I would have been willing to swear he knew who I was.

  My initial impulse was to unbuckle the harness, but I realized if I freed him, he’d be out of there like a shot. If he made a beeline for the vent opening and escaped, he’d be vulnerable to Ned’s recapturing him, which was unthinkable. I waited and when he was calmer, I leaned back and straightened my body so I could reach into my jeans pocket where I’d stashed the Leatherman. Oops. Not there. I remembered then that I’d slipped it into the pocket of my windbreaker, which was a good twenty feet away. I reached up and felt for the eye screw, which I was able to turn, but only with great effort. I was using my thumb and index finger, which gave me very little purchase. I’d been weight lifting in the months since Ned half choked me to death, so at least I had strength in my arms. Even so, it was a
strain holding the cat in my left while I was forced to work with my right arm lifted above shoulder height. I found sweat trickling down my face and twice had to stop to mop the side of my face on my sleeve.

  I renewed my effort, knowing the sooner I got out of there, the better. This was slow going and once I succeeded in unscrewing the piece, I’d still have the cat to contend with as I hunched and dragged myself back over to the vent. I heard a car door slam out on the street. My heart did a quick two-step. I paused. As though sensing my worry, the cat contorted himself, arching his back in a bid for freedom. He was agile and quick and though I managed to subdue him temporarily, I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to maintain control of him. There had to be a better way to go about this.

  My gaze fell on the telephone company handset that had allowed Ned to eavesdrop on every phone call I made. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before. All I had to do was call for help, which was a more sensible solution to the problem than wrestling with a cat and unscrewing a metal eye at the same time. I picked up the sound of footsteps scratching on the walk between bungalows. I snatched the handset in my right hand and punched in Henry’s number with my thumb, trying to keep the cat calm at the same time.

  One ring.

  Under my breath, I was saying, “Come on, come on! Pick up.”

  I leaned sideways and looked toward the vent hole, which was now eclipsed by someone standing there, the light dimmed by half.

  Two rings.

  Henry and Pearl and Lucky must still be out hunting for the cat.

  Three rings. Four.

  The answering machine picked up and I had to wait while Henry went through his cheery greeting. At the beep, I whispered, “Henry, this is me. Listen I’ve got a situation here. I’ve got Ed and I’m un—”