Deadfall (Nameless Detective) (22 page)

“He arranged for it, yes.”

“He made me call you,” she said. “He said they were only going to scare you, make you leave us alone. More lies. I didn’t know they were going to beat you.”

“It’s all right, Melanie.”

“It’s not all right. He did it for her, didn’t he.”

“Yes.”

“Did everything for her, killed my father …”

“No, it was Leonard who did that. Richie didn’t kill anyone; he didn’t know Alicia had killed anyone. He just made it look like Danny Martinez had run away—”

“I don’t
know
anybody named Danny Martinez. What are you talking about?”

“Martinez delivered groceries here, the night your father was killed. I told you about that at Blanche’s, remember?”

“No.” Her headshake was violent this time. “You’re confusing me,” she said. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Why don’t we sit down at the table over there? I’ll explain it all to you from the beginning—”

“No! Shut up, why don’t you just shut
up?”

I shut up. The automatic wasn’t steady in her hand, but her finger was tight now on the trigger.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said. The bright stare shifted away from me for an instant, over to the side door that led outside; but the cockeye seemed still to be fixed on my face. “I can’t breathe, you’re not letting me breathe!”

I wasn’t breathing either. I might have confused her too much; the look on her face now was one of burgeoning paranoia, the kind that can explode into violence at any time. I stood rigid, poised, ready to throw myself at her. She could get a shot off before I reached her but the sudden movement might cause her to shy, to miss. It was the only chance I had if she decided to shoot and telegraphed her intent. If she didn’t telegraph it …

She didn’t decide to shoot. She said, “Get out, get
out
, ” talking to herself, not to me, and took a couple of herky-jerky steps sideways into the kitchen: parallel to me, toward the side door. Then she stopped, and bit her lower lip, and rubbed at her nose; and then she moved again, crossed to the door in that same herky-jerky way. Fumbled for the knob, got the door open. “Don’t come after me, I’ll kill you if you do.” And she was gone.

Some of the tension went out of me, just enough to loosen the rigidity of my body and let me move, too—without hesitation. I couldn’t let her go, the shape she was in, no matter what the risk to me; if she tried to drive she was liable to kill somebody else, an innocent party, with that MG of hers. And if my calculations were right, she only had one bullet left in the automatic’s clip. A Smith & Wesson .38 wadcutter held five rounds; she’d fired four into Dessault and her stepmother, and in her condition she probably wouldn’t have thought to reload.

I got to the door, yanked it all the way open, stumbled through. She was thirty feet away, out from under the portico, half-running toward the front of the house. I yelled her name and the sound of my voice brought her up short, brought her around to face me. I saw her arm go up and I ducked instinctively, dodging sideways; the gun cracked, glass shattered somewhere to my right, and I banged into one of the metal garbage cans, upset it, almost fell over it with pain tearing in my side.

“Melanie!”

It came out like the ghost-echo of a shout, low and strangulated; I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs as I righted myself. She was still standing a few feet away, the gun extended at arm’s length—pulling the trigger frantically now, the hammer making audible clicks as it fell on the empty chamber. I staggered toward her, and she threw the gun at me, just the way you see them do it on television, and turned and ran. But not toward the front garden this time; to the north, away from the house, into the black tangle of the woods.

I ran after her, with one thought boiling in my head: The cliffs, Christ, the cliffs! The trees swallowed her, but I saw through a blur of sweat where she went into them—the path, she was on the path. My side and my head were on fire when I got there and I was sucking air with my mouth wide open, still not getting enough; it felt as if something hot and dry was being forced down my throat, into my lungs. I plunged ahead, let the woods swallow me. Couldn’t see anything except grayness far ahead, the vague shape of her like something impaled against it, the tree trunks like prison bars in a nightmare. I tripped over something, fell, got up. I couldn’t run anymore because I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe; I had to feel my way along, blundering off the trail, back onto it, one hand up in front of my face to fend off low-hanging branches. The dark pressed in on me, added to the feeling of suffocation, so that I had to fend off the cutting edge of panic as well.

I heard her somewhere ahead, or thought I did; then all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears … no, it was the boom of wind-roiled surf, colliding with the rocks at the base of the cliff. Jog in the path—I almost ran into a tree before I realized it. And there she was, twenty yards away, out beyond where the trees thinned. Standing at the edge of the cliff, stiff and still against the fog like a condemned prisoner against a crumbling gray wall.

Melanie!

I yelled the word but only inside my head: I had no voice. I lurched to my left, threw an arm around one of the slender tree trunks just before my legs gave out. Clung there gasping, trying to clear the dizziness out of my head.

Melanie might have been some kind of alfresco statue, both arms down at her sides, unmoving. I couldn’t see her face clearly, couldn’t tell what was written on it. But she didn’t move, didn’t move, didn’t move—and my throat opened up, my lungs worked, the feeling of suffocation faded and strength came back into my arms, my legs. My mind was clear again. I let go of the tree and took a slow step toward her, still deep in the tree shadows so that she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t hear me, either, because of the wind and the surfs hissing cannonade.

Another step. Another—

And she moved, turned to her right abruptly and took a couple of small shuffling sidewise paces toward the edge. Leaned out a ways, with the wind whipping her frizzed hair, swaying her thin gangly body. Looked down, I saw her look down. Then she straightened again, and either saw or heard me somehow because she swiveled her head in my direction.

“I’m going to jump,” she said.

The wind caught the words, tore them apart almost instantly. But I heard them, the awful dull resignation in them. There was no doubt she meant it.

I yelled at her, “No, Melanie!” Hoarse croak: the words couldn’t have carried to her. I yelled them again, took another step.

“I have to,” she said, “I have to jump. Richie … Richie … I killed him. Oh God, I killed him!”

Coming down off the coke high, that was it. The full implications of what she’d done settling in on her, the weight of it building a suicidal depression. I took another step. She didn’t move. Another step, and I was at the edge of the clearing. No more than ten feet separating us. The twisted shape of the cypress growing up from the cliff face gyrated nearby … too far away from both of us for it to be of any use. Nothing anywhere near her except me. And the restless fog. And the black emptiness, waiting out there like something sentient, whispering to her, beckoning to her.

“Melanie, listen to me …”

“You can’t stop me,” she said. “I’m going to do it. I don’t have anything to live for now. I don’t want to live. He’s dead, I killed him. I loved him and I
killed
him.”

“Please, Melanie, please …”

She put her back to me, put her arms out at her sides like a bird about to take flight, and looked down, looked down … and I ran at her, full of terror that was as much for me as for her because this was a high place, because of my vertigo, and I reached her, clawed a hold on her sweater with my good hand

and she jumped

oh Jesus God she jumped with my hand on her

and the sweater tore, I couldn’t hold on, and she

she was gone, tumbling over and over, screaming, gone, and I

I staggered, teetered at the edge windmilling my arms

Deadfall!

and somehow I managed to pitch my body backward and to one side … breath jarred out of me when I hit the ground … and I was sliding, I felt my legs go over the edge, I clutched frenziedly at the rough surface and caught onto something, a rock, something, and I wasn’t sliding anymore, I was pulling myself up and away from the edge …

Safe.

I lay with my head buried in my arms, my cheek against the rough sandstone, listening to the hungry feeding of the surf far below, crying a little. But not for Melanie. Not for Melanie, not for anyone in her God-damned family, not for Danny Martinez, not for any of them.

For me. The one I was crying for was me.

Sunday afternoon, three days later.

Kerry’s apartment.

We had spent a quiet day there, reading, watching tapes of old comedy films on her VCR. It was almost five o’clock and getting dark outside. I leaned over and turned on the end-table lamp. I didn’t like the darkness much right now; it made me uneasy. Beside me on the couch, Kerry was silent. She understood.

The past three days had been bad, worse than the three days after my beating: psychic damage was much harder to deal with than the physical kind. Thursday night had been the worst. Police, ambulances, sirens, questions, more questions; floodlights and winches on the cliff, men milling about, working at the retrieval of Melanie’s broken body from the rocks; exhaustion, half-sleep, nightmares—always the nightmares, like a preview of hell seen over and over but only vaguely perceived. Friday had been bad, too, but Kerry had been there at my flat, and Eberhardt for a while, and they had made it tolerable. Saturday had been a little better. And today better still. Time would fade it all, blend it with all the other similar episodes, all the other views of pain and death, and make it indistinguishable from them. Scar tissue added to scar tissue, hidden away inside.

Alicia Purcell had survived the shooting, at least so far. She was in critical condition; the doctors gave her no better than an even chance. Ben Klein had talked to her briefly, as had the San Mateo County authorities, but she hadn’t told them much—almost nothing, in fact. Maybe she would never tell them anything. That might bother them, but it didn’t bother me. What did it matter if I had doped out some of the details incorrectly or not at all? What mattered was that a lot of people were dead—nasty people but people just the same.

Dead people. That was the crux of everything. My life, my job, was full of dead people; my memory and my dreams were full of dead people. How many more could I bury in my own private graveyard? Not many. Maybe none. I was too old, too tired; I no longer had the resistence or the resiliency to deal with so much ugliness. All I wanted, now, was peace, quiet, freedom from the sordid side of mankind.

I kept thinking about retirement.

The idea scared me a little. I couldn’t imagine myself not working; I remembered the way I’d felt, the emptiness and purposelessness, when I’d lost my license for a few months a couple of years ago. And yet I kept thinking about retirement. It didn’t have to be a full retirement—just from the field. Turn that part of it over to Eberhardt, maybe hire somebody to help him out when we had extra work. Go to the office one or two days a week, do the paperwork, help plan procedure, offer advice if it was needed. Draw half-salary; I could just about live on that, with Kerry helping to share expenses—something we did already. She made a very good salary. I hadn’t talked it over with her, but I knew she wouldn’t mind; she’d welcome the idea, in fact; it would erase the worry, the vestiges of fear, that had been in her face the past week. We could live like normal people. I could learn to enjoy life again.

It might work. It might.

I kept thinking about it.

The movie we’d been watching—an old Cary Grant farce,
Bringing Up Baby
—ended and Kerry got up to stop the machine, push the rewind button. “That’s the last tape,” she said. “We can watch some TV, if you want. Or are you hungry?”

“Not yet.”

“How about a beer?”

“Okay. It’s about that time.”

She went off into the kitchen. Came back in a while with a bottle of Bud Light for me and a glass of something clear and sparkly for herself. I pointed at the glass and asked, “What’s that?”

“Mineral water.”

“Since when do you drink mineral water?”

“Since last week. You know, for a detective you’re not very observant sometimes. I must have gone through two cartons of this stuff the past three days.”

“How come no more wine?”

She shrugged and gave me a solemn look. “I decided you were right, I’d been drinking too much.”

“What made you decide?”

“I don’t know, I guess I just got tired of waking up in the morning with a headache and a fuzzy mouth.”

I smiled at her, touched her cheek with the back of my hand. “You did it for me,” I said, “for my sake.”

“Who says?”

“I say.”

“Don’t be so damn sure of yourself—”

“I love you, Kerry,” I said.

Her expression softened and she leaned over and kissed me, gently, not putting her hands on me. “I love you, too. If you were in better shape I’d prove it to you.”

“I’m not so sore today. Hardly any pain from the ribs. We could do something mildly exotic.”

“Like what?”

I told her like what.

“That might hurt you,” she said dubiously. “Let me think about it.”

The videotape had finished rewinding. She got up and shut it off, but the TV kept running; I picked up the remote control unit. “While you’re thinking,” I said, “I’ll see what’s on the tube. Might be something on I like better than sex.”

She wrinkled her nose at me. I punched the channel selector button on the remote; Kerry had cable, so I had a lot of channels to go through. After five or six I didn’t pay much attention to the flickering images, because I really wasn’t interested in watching anything else.

Kerry said suddenly, with surprise in her voice, “Hey, wait. Back up one.”

I backed up one and she said, “Wow, look.”

I looked. It was one of those religious cable stations, the kind where evangelists of one stripe or another try to spread the gospel according to their interpretation and every few minutes handsome young guys and wholesomely pretty girls sing rousing gospel songs that are supposed to stir your sense of Christian duty to the point where you’ll call in and pledge a generous donation. Right now a guy in a three-piece, dark-blue suit was talking about Sodom and Gomorrah and all the terrible things that went on there, drawing an analogy to all the terrible things that were going on today, right under our very noses, not only in massage parlors and porno movie houses, but in wicked old Hollywood and in New York publishing houses whose editors persisted in “inundating our society with a floodtide of trash”—which struck me as a mixed metaphor—“that uses the printed word to spread a pagan message of filth and perversion.”

The guy was the Right Reverend Clyde T. Daybreak, and he was wearing a big blue-and-white button on his lapel that said THE MORAL CRUSADE.

“Looks like he finally got himself a TV show,” Kerry said. “I wonder how much it cost him?”

“You sound as cynical as me.”

“He’s pretty good, though, isn’t he?”

“If you’re into pagan messages of filth and perversion.”

“I wonder—” she said, and the telephone rang.

“If that’s for me,” I said, “I’m not here.”

“It’s probably Cybil. Sunday’s her day to call.”

She got up and went to answer the phone. I watched Clyde T. Daybreak fulminate in his quiet, forceful way, and I didn’t find him amusing. What he was advocating was censorship, something I consider even more vile than crusading fundamentalists who use God’s name to foment intolerance and to coerce money out of gullible citizens. Pretty soon, mercifully, he quit babbling and the camera pulled back and panned around, letting me see part of his entourage, all of whom were smiling and nodding like marionettes whose strings had just been pulled. I was leaning forward, peering at the faces, when Kerry came back.

“There’s Reverend Holloway,” I said, pointing. “Most of the Holy Mission mavens are there, looks like, except for—”

“—the Reverend Dunston,” she said grimly. “I know. That was him on the phone.”

“What? What did he want?”

“Me. He acted as if nothing had happened, as if Daybreak never even talked to him.”

“But Daybreak must have.” I didn’t want to look at the Right Reverend or his congregation any longer; I shut off the television. “You put the fear of lawsuit into him last week.”

“Well, if he did, then Ray’s defying him. What if he comes here again? What if he starts bothering you again? What if—”

“Hey,” I said, “easy. Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it.”

“But after all we’ve been through—”

“After all we’ve been through,” I said, “Dunston isn’t important. He just doesn’t matter.” I pulled her down beside me. “What’s important is us.”

She let me hold her for a time. Then she drew back a little and said, “I’ve made up my mind.”

“About what?”

“About your suggestion. The mildly exotic one. I still think it’ll hurt you, but if you’re game so am I.”

“I’m game,” I said.

She was right, as it turned out: it hurt me. But not much, and I didn’t care. All I cared about was her. Being with her, loving her. Living a sane and normal life with her.

I kept thinking about retiring …