Desperate Measures (12 page)

Barbara stood up. She felt stiff, unnatural, not certain where her hands were, whether her feet would work when she had to walk away. “Maybe she saw Leona Marchand drive off, and the boy Daniel dashing back to his pals, and she knew Gus Marchand would be there alone. Maybe she went to plead with him, and he let her know he would dig until he hit pay dirt. Maybe she's the one who picked up that hammer and killed him. I'll leave you alone. Call me if you want anything.”

Neither spoke again as Barbara left the porch and walked around the house. Frank continued to sit on the porch.

The scenario he had outlined was the only one that made sense, he had decided. Hilde had seen something without realizing what it meant and had intended to tell him. She wouldn't have revealed her lover's name; she had been too certain they had covered their trail. Besides, she had been too determined to protect him. Frank had seen her resolve in the past and had admired her tremendously for it. And she wouldn't have fired him, not like that, a phone call late at night.

Now three people were dead, and Barbara might be defending the person responsible for them all. He thought of the many times he had pressed the argument that every accused person deserved the best defense available, that the state had the burden of proving guilt, the defense had the burden of knocking down the state's case if it was biased, if it was screwed by mishandling, if evidence was cooked or missing, if the case failed to meet the requirements of the law in any way.

Wait for the autopsy report, he told himself. As Hilde's attorney, he could get a copy; until then, there was little he could do. But he did not intend to let Barbara pin a murder on her. He had been retained to protect her and, by God, he vowed silently, he would do it.

10

That night, open-eyed
in bed, she kept seeing her father's face, grim, forbidding, hostile even. She had seen that look of hostility before. Her former lover John Mureau had looked at her with that same unconcealed bitterness that in itself was an accusation. You would let this monster walk when he could be guilty, that look said. She had not been able to explain to John, and had never dreamed of trying to explain to her father, who, she had always known, shared her deeply held conviction that everyone, monster or saint, deserved the best defense anyone was capable of mounting.

Until it got personal, she said to herself. Then the rules changed. John had looked at her like that when his children were at risk. Her father had shown that face when a beloved friend died.

She realized with a pang of regret that she had not thought of John Mureau for months, and could think of him now simply as someone she could have had a life with if things had been different. She was unable to summon his face; instead, she was seeing Frank's grim countenance again.

She waited for the telephone to ring, for Frank to call and say that Hilde's death was the result of her diabetes, to say he had been upset, invite her to drop in and have a bite to eat, to say anything at all.

At one on Friday, a week after Gus Marchand's death, Will Thaxton called her at the office. “Hi, Barbara. I've been thinking about that rain check—you know, dinner, jazz, all that. How about knocking off early, let me pick you up, do a little shopping at Trader Joe's, pick up some goodies, and then head out to my house. I can make a mean grilled steak, and I have lots of jazz CDs. Besides, I want to show you the house I was boasting about. And the big selling point: you don't have to dress up.”

There was that note of excitement again. If anyone was listening, she hoped he thought Will's excitement was over seeing her. “That sounds pretty tempting,” she said. “But I have to get back here early. Work.”

“I'll get you back whenever you say the word. Deal?”

“Sure. You cook.”

“About three? I'll pick you up at your office. You'd never find my house without a guide.”

Something had happened, she thought when she hung up. They had to see her, not just talk to her on the phone. She considered the risks of going to Will's house, then dismissed them as negligible. So she had a date with an old school friend. Then she opened the file on the members of the hospital committee, and this time she jotted down their names. She had to kill time until Will arrived at three, and she might as well be doing something.

At one minute before three, she walked out, carrying her laptop. Will pulled to a stop just as she left the outside stairs.

They both said hi, the way old friends do, and she got into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt; as soon as he had engaged the gears and was driving, she asked, “What's up?”

“Don't know,” he said. “Graham called me around noon and said he has to see you. We had an office meeting this afternoon and I couldn't get away sooner. I told him we'd come to the house as soon as we both were free. So, here we go.”

They drove to Trader Joe's and he tossed things in the basket; she picked out wine, and soon they were heading south on Willamette.

“Have you noticed anyone following us?” she asked.

“Not sure. I'm not a pro at this kind of thing. Maybe a green Dodge, six, seven years old at least.

She groaned. Bailey's car.

They drove past a commercial strip on south Willamette, then up a steep hill with a cemetery on the right. The road climbed past it, up to an intersection with Fox Hollow Road, which started to wind around the back of the forested hill. His house was another mile farther. Here the houses were set well back from the road, hidden by trees and shrubs on large lots. His house was invisible until he turned at a driveway that curved in a semicircular approach.

“We have arrived,” he said, stopping at the front entrance to a rambling split-level house. A garage was off to one side, a rose garden on the closer side. No other car was in sight.

“They park in the garage,” Will said, getting out. They retrieved the bags of groceries from the back seat; Barbara picked up her laptop, and they walked to the front door and entered a foyer. Dr. Minick was standing in it.

“I'm glad you could come,” he said.

“What's wrong?” Barbara asked. He looked haggard and tired, worried.

“I'll stow this stuff away,” Will said, starting to move past them.

“I have things to show you both,” Dr. Minick said. “I took the liberty of using your kitchen table, I'm afraid.”

Going to the kitchen, Barbara caught a glimpse of a living room off to one side, a dining room on the other, another hall.… It appeared to be a very spacious house, airy and bright, with scatter rugs on gleaming wooden floors. And, as Shelley had said, abstract art on the walls.

Dr. Minick had drawn vertical blinds in the kitchen, but even so, it was bright with high clerestory windows on three walls.

“Alex is upstairs on the computer, in his chat room,” Dr. Minick said. “I was watching for you and came down when you drove up. I realized later that I shouldn't have left this material on the table, in the event someone else had come. But I wasn't thinking too clearly, I imagine.”

On the table were sheets of paper with words scrawled with a black marker. Barbara moved closer to read them.

TAKE YOUR DEVIL FREAK AND GET OUT!

THE DEVIL WALKS AMONG US! THE WRATH OF THE DEVIL IS UPON US.

Will reached for one of the sheets of paper and Barbara caught his hand. “Don't touch them. We might be able to recover some prints. Who handled these?” she asked Dr. Minick.

“I did, and Alex. They were thumb tacked to trees down by the Old Opal Road. This one was in the mailbox.” He pointed to a longer message that appeared to have been generated by a computer and printer. Big bold fonts, underlined words.

LO, IF THE DEVIL ENTERS YOUR MIDST, SMITE HIM OUT. THE LORD IS WITH YOU. SUFFER NOT THE DEVIL TO DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF THE RIGHTEOUS…

There were seven messages altogether, some hand-printed in block letters, some printed out on a printer. All ugly and frightening.

“I was down at The Station this morning,” Dr. Minick said, “and Benny told me that feelings are running pretty high. Gus and Leona, and now Hilde Franz. People want someone to pay. Leona was liked by everyone—loved by most folks, I guess—and Hilde was popular. But they're frightened. They began to remember that someone fell and broke her leg after Alex moved in; the crop failed one year, goats went dry, the blight appeared in the orchards; the drug scene hit the countryside, on and on. They're frightened, and now three deaths. They want a scapegoat. They'll settle for Alex.”

“When did you find these?” Barbara asked, motioning toward the table.

“I was at The Station around ten, in no particular hurry. I sat at one of the tables waiting for someone to come along and chat, but no one wants to talk to me right now. Benny came out and sat with me for several minutes. He owns The Station. Then I walked home. Someone put those up while I was out.”

Will had looked sick when he read the first message, and looked a little better now, but he said, “I'll start the grill and put on some music, in case your private-eye tail comes in close enough to wonder what we're up to.”

“Do you have a large envelope?” Barbara asked him.

He nodded, left, and returned with a big envelope and tweezers. Watching her pick up the papers with the tweezers and carefully put them away, he said, “Do you have a detective on deck yet?”

She shook her head.

“We do,” he said. “Harris Dougherty. He's good tracing a money trail, other things, but he can lift fingerprints, too. Let's keep this in my office for the time being. It would make sense for my client, Dr. Minick, to bring junk like this to me and for me to try to get to the bottom of it, if a question ever arises.”

Dougherty, she thought, recalling the investigator. Frank called him the Doughboy. But it did make sense for her to stay in the background. Uneasily she nodded, not happy with dividing the responsibility this way.

“When will Alex be down?” she asked Dr. Minick then.

“A little after six,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll think about this while Will's putting together some dinner.”

“Alex won't eat in front of people,” Dr. Minick said.

“He can keep his back turned,” Barbara said. “We need to talk, and we all need to eat. This is a goddamn mess! Will, do you have any wine handy?”

Then, carrying a glass of wine, sipping it now and then, she wandered out to the terrace. Red flagstones, good cedar outdoor furniture. A gas grill. When Will came out and began to do things to the grill, she wandered back inside and began to pace.

Could they go home and pretend nothing had happened? Would the message senders do worse? Dr. Minick could call the police and ask for protection, or at least an investigation. Could they hide out somewhere? One of the places where they had camped in the past? Dangerous, she thought then, if the police took that as a sign that Alex might be avoiding their questions, even trying to escape an inquiry. Was it time to reveal Alex's identity to the police, just so they would know they were dealing with someone of importance, not the neighborhood idiot? Would Alex agree to such a course? She acknowledged with irritation that she was piling one question on top of another, and getting no answers whatsoever.

When Alex finally came down, he looked at the table set for four and shook his head. “I'm not hungry. I'll get something later.”

“Now,” Barbara said. “I'm supposed to be on a date with Will. We will take our plates out to the terrace, and you and Dr. Minick eat in here. And stay out of sight, just in case my shadow is lurking about.” She realized only then that music was playing, Ella Fitzgerald singing “Blues in the Night.”

A little later, on the terrace, Will leaned forward and said, “My mama done tol' me that the life of a criminal lawyer is fraught with uncertainty, is exciting, and a pain in the ass. And my mama was right.”

“Boy, was she ever! The steaks are wonderful. You really can grill a mean steak.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. Lay out the options for them to consider. This is so ugly. A true zealot, or just simple orneriness? I wish I knew.”

When they went back inside, Dr. Minick and Alex were at the sink washing their few dishes. “Thank you, Will,” Dr. Minick said. “That was very good indeed. Do you trust me with your coffeemaker?”

Will laughed. “Go to it. I make lousy coffee, but with the best intentions and the best equipment, and the best beans. Go figure.”

Barbara wanted to hug him.

Then, finally, with coffee at hand, they sat at the kitchen table and Barbara said, “Let me tell you the various courses we can follow. If you have thought of something else, jump right in. It's a free-for-all.”

She told them the different actions they could take, their pros and cons.

Partly turned away from her, Alex did not say a word until she finished. Then he said, “Let me tell you a dream I had a long time ago, years ago. I told Graham, and it's as fresh in my mind now as it was the next day when I woke up. In the dream I'm trotting through a woods, not like the forest here, an eastern woods with deciduous trees. There are leaves underfoot like snowdrifts, crunchy under my feet. I stumble and fall down. I'm not in pain, I just can't get up. Some people come by and see me, and one of them turns me over with his toe. I roll right over. He does it again and again, rolling me like a log, and I'm getting covered with mud and leaves so thick that I'm not really there anymore. I'm a log. Together, some of the people lift me and put me on the fire, another log to be burned.”

No one spoke for a time. Then Barbara said, “I guess the trick is for you to stay on your feet.”

Facing away, Alex laughed. “That's the trick, all right. I'll do whatever you say, up to a point. But I won't go to prison. They'd kill me. And I prefer to pick the time and place and circumstances of my own demise without official help. Now tell us what to do.”