I knew the Lion House, the entire zoo grounds all too well. Several years back I had been hired by the Zoo Commission to investigate a rash of thefts of rare and endangered animals, reptiles, and birds that were being sold off to unscrupulous private collectors. I’d spent three long, cold nights patrolling the grounds in the company of two other watchmen before the case took an unexpected and violent twist: one of the watchmen was found murdered in a lion cage under bizarre circumstances. That night and the case’s resolution were still sharp in my memory.
I don’t usually discuss my investigations with anyone other than the principals, Tamara, and Kerry. And there are some cases, some dark byways, that I reserve strictly for myself—the stuff of no one’s nightmares but my own. But as Emily and I stood in the Lion House, steps away from the cage where the dead man had lain, I found myself giving the kid a watered down version of that night’s events. I’m not sure why. A half-conscious attempt to bond with her, maybe, give her a little more knowledge of who I am and what it is I do.
The impulse was right. She listened raptly, not big-eyed as some girls her age might have been, but with a kind of solemn, analytical interest. When I was done, she asked some thoughtful, adult-type questions that I tried to answer in kind. Then, after a little time, she asked, “Were you afraid? Not when you found that poor man ... when you were out in the dark all alone?”
“Well, an empty zoo at night is a pretty scary place.”
“It wasn’t empty, really.”
“That’s true. All the animals were here, but they were locked in their cages and compounds.”
“Animals aren’t scary. People are. The dark is.”
I said gently, “Are you afraid of the dark, Emily?”
“Sometimes.”
“Me, too. Sometimes.”
“Of people, too?”
“I have been. I probably will be again.”
“People you know? Or just strangers?”
“A few of both.”
“I’m scared all the time,” she said.
“Scared of what?”
“Everything. Everybody. The dark. Tomorrow.”
Calm voice, but threaded with anguish. It made me ache for her.
“I have to sleep with a light on,” she said. “I can’t stand the dark. I hate it, being afraid all the time ... I just can’t help it.”
“You won’t always feel that way.”
“What if I do? I’m afraid of that, too.”
“It won’t happen. Kerry and I won’t let it happen.” It sounded lame and patronizing even in my own ears, but I didn’t know what else to say. What can you say? “You don’t feel scared when you’re with us, do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“You know we wouldn’t hurt you, or let you be hurt.”
“I know. Not that kind of scared.”
“What kind then?”
She shook her head.
“Come on, now. What kind?”
“You ... might not always be here. You might go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Neither is Kerry.”
“My mom and dad didn’t think they were, either. But they did. They went away, both of them.”
“You’re afraid we might die?”
“You could,” she said. “An accident, like what happened to my dad. And your job ... I know it’s dangerous. Somebody could ... do something....”
Careful, now. Denial was a lie, and I could not lie to her. No lame, patronizing answer to this, no glib and meaningless reassurances. She’d finally opened up a little, given me a better look at her emotions, introduced me to a couple of her private demons. If I said the wrong thing, she might shut the door again and keep it shut.
I asked her, “Emily, do you believe anyone is ever really safe?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do. Think about it. Is anyone safe all the time, every minute of every day? Safe from being hurt in some way, from dying?”
She said, “No,” almost immediately.
“That’s right. Things can happen, unexpected things, bad things. Some we can prevent, guard against. Others we can’t. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Thinking about all those bad things isn’t going to change what happens. But it’ll change you if you let it. Pretty soon you won’t be thinking about anything else. You won’t even want to go out of the house for fear something bad might happen. You’ll be afraid all the time, all your life. You’ll never feel safe.”
I paused, but she didn’t say anything. Just looked up at me with those big, sad brown eyes. So I went on with it, taking a little different slant. “When we were in the aviary and you laughed at the way the two macaws were scolding each other ... did you feel safe then?”
“ ... Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because everything’s all right here, now. There’s nothing to be afraid of in the daytime at the zoo.”
“That’s part of it, but there’s something else, too. You weren’t afraid, you felt safe, because you were having a good time. Thinking good thoughts. That’s the whole secret to not being afraid—thinking good thoughts.”
She said without sarcasm or irony, just making a statement, “Don’t worry, be happy. Like in the song.”
“Pretty simple philosophy, I know, but it’s true and it works. You believe it?”
“I don’t know.” Too smart, too introspective, too deeply scarred for any quick and easy fix. But willing to listen, willing to consider the possible validity of adult wisdom. “I want to, but ... I don’t know.”
“Give it some thought later on,” I said. “Right now, we can either stand here and talk some more about being scared and people dying, or we can go get a soda and a hot dog and then check out the koalas and the monkeys and feed the sea lions. Your choice.”
She produced a shy little smile and took my hand. “I am kind of hungry.”
“So am I. You like sauerkraut on your hot dog?”
“Ugh,” she said.
“Okay, then, we’ll load up with mustard instead.”
Things were fine again after that. She ate all of her hot dog, drank all of her Diet 7-Up. In the Primate Center some of the monkeys and apes were like stand-up comics, mugging furiously for the onlookers and performing any number of outrageous antics designed to hold center stage; one baboon in particular had both of us laughing out loud. Like everybody, she thought the koalas were cute and cuddly and wished she could hold one. Feeding the sea lions seemed to please her most of all. We stayed for the whole show, and she went through four packages of chopped-up fish. She might’ve been making a determined effort to enjoy herself, to please me, but if so it was a seamless act. Her pleasure seemed genuine.
It was nearly five when we left the zoo grounds. The fog had rolled in, and the temperature had dropped several more degrees as night approached. In the car I put the heater on first thing, and while it was warming up and Emily and I were thawing out, I checked in with Tamara.
“Carolyn Dain called twice,” she said. “I tried to call you three times.”
The note of exasperation in her voice said I was in for another communications lecture. Tamara had been trying to talk me into carrying a cell phone, or at least a pager or one of those little hand-held message computers; she kept insisting that a car phone wasn’t enough, that I was out of touch too often while away from the office. Maybe she was right. But to my old-fashioned, technophobic way of thinking, there were too many electronic gadgets in the world and I did not care to get involved with any more than the necessary minimum. I don’t believe people should be ringing and beeping in public places. And I especially don’t believe in the modern rite of invading others’ space and privacy by engaging in loud, one-sided conversations, business or personal, thereby foolishly calling attention to yourself the way the monkeys in the Primate Center had done. There’s too damn little common courtesy these days, without me adding to the general decline.
“I told her.”
“And?”
“She wants you to deliver it. Sounded kind of upset, second time she called.”
“Upset?”
“You know, nervous, like something was bothering her.”
“Her husband, maybe. Is she home now?”
“Said she was. Wanted me to bring the money out to her, but I told her that wasn’t my job. This girl don’t make no house calls with bags full of cash.”
“You’re right, it’s my job. Okay, I’ll swing in now and pick up the money and deliver it. If she calls again, tell her I’m on my way.”
“Want me to wait til you get here?”
“No need. Go ahead and lock up when you’re ready.”
I would have preferred to drop Emily off at the condo, but when I called I got the machine and then remembered that Kerry’d said she might have to work late tonight. Emily said she didn’t mind going with me. In fact, the prospect seemed to please her—a way to prolong our day together.
So we drove downtown and I took her upstairs to the office. She’d been there once before—I felt she ought to see where I conducted the business part of my life—and she hadn’t seemed particularly impressed. You couldn’t blame her. It was a big, old-fashioned loft, once an artist’s studio, with a high ceiling, nondescript decor, a couple of windows that offered an impressive view of the ass-end of the federal building downhill, and a suspended light fixture that looked like a grappling hook surrounded by clusters of brass testicles. Emily had grown up in a deliberately shelted environment in Greenwood, an affluent community down the Peninsula; this was a whole new world to her.
Tamara was gone, so we had the place to ourselves. While I opened the safe, Emily fetched Cohalan’s briefcase from under my desk. Then she stood quietly watching as I transferred the stacks of currency.
When I was done she said, “Why do people think money is so important?”
“Not everybody does. Just some people.”
“Like my mom and dad.”
I was not about to go there with her. “They think that if you have enough of it, you can buy all the things you want and it’ll solve all your problems. But they’re wrong. What they don’t realize is that money can only change the outside of you. You’re still the same person inside, rich or poor, good or bad.”
She nodded. “I don’t want a lot of money when I get older.”
I didn’t ask her what she did want because I was pretty sure I knew—the basics, anyway. She wanted stability and the illusion of safety. She wanted people she cared about not to die suddenly. She wanted to be noticed and nurtured and allowed to grow up to be her own person. She wanted not to be hurt any more. She wanted to be loved.
But I would not go there with her, either. Not verbally. Actions were what counted, not words. So I said, “That’s a good attitude to have,” and smiled at her and let it go at that.
Daly City was gray and wet with fog and black with early night. When the beachfront stables of the San Francisco Riding Academy loomed spectrally ahead, I slowed and made the first inland turn off Skyline. It occurred to me as I did that Emily might like to take lessons at the academy, since she’d been enrolled at one of the exclusive stables in horsy Greenwood. I asked her, and she said, “Well, maybe.” She didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. Could be riding was a pursuit Sheila or Jack Hunter had pressed on her in their desire to fit in with Greenwood’s elite. I wouldn’t make the same mistake. If Emily decided she wanted to join the academy here, the decision would be entirely hers.
Carolyn Dain and Jay Cohalan lived in a modest tract home a couple of streets to the east. I found the place and pulled up in front. The house was painted a yellow color that had a faint greenish tinge in the fog; the only other thing that distinguished it from the lines of single-family dwellings in the neighborhood was a ow of cypress shrubs that had been trimmed into topiary shapes in the narrow front yard. The driveway was empty, but light shone behind drawn drapes in the picture window.
Emily asked, “Can I come with you?”
“Better if you wait here. I won’t be long.”
She said, “Okay,” and settled down with her hands folded in her lap. She was good at waiting, being by herself. She’d had plenty of practice when her selfish, fearful parents had been alive.
I got the briefcase from the trunk, hurried through the windy drizzle of fog. The doorbell made a discordant noise inside, as if there was something wrong with the chiming mechanism. Almost immediately the door opened inward. I said, “Ms. Dain?” because I couldn’t see her behind it, and at the same time took a couple of steps into a dim hallway lit only by a spill of lampglow from the living room.
As soon as I cleared the far edge, my head swiveling to look around the door, it came swinging past me with enough force to create a swishing sound. I heard it slam, saw a dark shape moving—registered man, not woman—and in the next instant something slammed across the side of my neck and jaw. Slash of pain, flare like lightning behind my eyes, and I was off balance, stumbling, throwing an arm up as the shape crowded in on me. Grunt, his or mine. A downsweeping blur—
This time the blow glanced off my upraised elbow, cracked hard across my ear, knocked me down in a roaring confusion of heat and sparks and black-streaked hurt.
SIX
I DID NOT LOSE CONSCIOUSNESS EVEN FOR A second, but I was cockeyed and disoriented, trying to crawl and get up at the same time. I heard and felt him scrabbling above me, the onion-laden hiss and pant of his breath. He tore the briefcase out of my grasp. I tried to fight him, but my body wouldn’t obey the command; the only motor responses it seemed capable of in those first few seconds were crawling and struggling to rise.
My head bumped into something, wall, and just as that happened, his weight came down hard on my back, crushed me flat to the floor. I heard myself gasping and choking for air. A knee bored between my shoulder blades, something hard jabbed the nape of my neck. Words filtered through the addled haze, the noise I was making: “Lay still, you old fuck.” I’d been squirming; I quit that, not because he’d told me to but because my wind and strength were starting to come back. The object moved higher on my neck, to the bone above my left ear. Steadied there, digging into skin and hair. I knew what it was then: the muzzle of a short-barreled revolver.
“All right,” he said.
Clicking sound, soft and yet as loud as an explosion—the hammer being thumbed back to cock.
He’s going to kill me!
Terror mushroomed. My body surged in a wild effort to twist, turn, roll away, get my hands up.
He squeezed the trigger.
The hammer fell, I heard or thought I heard the click as it fell. Then I heard him say “Shit!” because nothing had happened, the gun hadn’t fired, it must have jammed jammed jammed—
There was a great, savage tearing sensation inside me, as if I were ripped apart and put back together whole all at once. Fury consumed terror, burned the haze out of my mind. I heaved up, bellowing like an animal, and pitched him off to one side. Flopped half around so I could see him through a smear of blood and pain—big, dark, thick bushy eyebrows, bald on top, nobody I’d ever seen before.
He clubbed at me with the useless gun, missed, connected glancingly off my shoulder as I lunged up from the waist. I clawed at his face, dug in nails, ripped a deep furrow in his cheek. He made a screeching noise, missed me again with a reflexive swipe. By then I was on my knees, still bellowing, my hands like pincers groping for his throat. Rage-crazy, all reason flayed out of me ... if I’d succeeded in getting him by the throat I think I might have kept on squeezing until his face and tongue were swollen black and he was as dead as he’d tried to make me.
But he got that goddamn gun in under my clutching fingers and kicked it up against my jaw, solidly enough to snap my head back, leave me exposed. A second direct jolt drove me back
ward into the wall, scrambled my head again. If he’d followed up he might have been able to finish what he’d started, only he didn’t realize it. He’d had enough of me, enough hurt of his own. And the money was all he really cared about anyway. I heard more than saw him stagger to his feet, stumble over something, regain his balance, and lurch out of there with the briefcase.
As much as I hungered to chase after him, my body would not permit it. Too much abuse and my supply of adrenaline used up. I knelt there with my head hanging, shaking it, spraying droplets of blood. The door was open; the cold, moist night air started me shivering. I rubbed wet out of my eyes, found that I was in the living room doorway. It took a little time, seconds, minutes, to gather my feet under me and haul myself upright along the jamb. The rage had ebbed some. Now my head was clearing and I could think again ...
Emily!
The wildness came rushing back. I shoved off the wall, took two or three rubber-legged steps toward the door.
And she was there, Emily, materializing phantom-like out of the foggy dark. I had to blink and stare to be sure I was really seeing her. She was running, but her steps faltered as she came inside; one hand splayed up against her mouth. “Daddy! Oh, God, you’re hurt!”
I stood swaying, weak again, draining again. If she hadn’t caught hold of my arm and steadied me, I might’ve gone down. Little girl, thin, weighed no more than ninety pounds, but she had surprising strength—adult strength.
“Daddy, you’re bleeding....”
The first time she’d called me Daddy, it hadn’t really penetrated; this time it did, made me want to grab her and hug her close. Made me want to cry. Why it affected me that way, given the condition I was in, I don’t know. Maybe because it revealed just how deeply her feelings for me ran.
“Not as bad as it looks,” I said. The words had a liquidy sound, as if they were bleeding too.
“Should I call nine-eleven?”
“No, nobody yet. Let me sit down for a minute.”
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