Leviathan (26 page)

Fifteen minutes later, Sachs was stretched out on the sofa in Maria’s studio, drifting off to sleep. He could give in to his exhaustion because he had already worked out a plan, because he was no longer in doubt about what to do next. Once Maria had told him about Dimaggio and Lillian Stern, he understood that the nightmare coincidence was in fact a solution, an opportunity in the shape of a miracle. The essential thing was to accept the uncanniness of the event—not to deny it, but to embrace it, to breathe it into himself as a sustaining force. Where all had been dark for him, he now saw a beautiful, awesome clarity. He would go to California and give Lillian Stern the money he had found in Dimaggio’s car. Not just the money—but the money as a token of everything he had to give, his entire soul. The alchemy of retribution demanded it, and once he had performed this act, perhaps there would be some peace for him, perhaps he would have some excuse to go on living. Dimaggio had taken a life; he had taken Dimaggio’s life. Now it was his turn,
now his life had to be taken from him. That was the inner law, and unless he found the courage to obliterate himself, the circle of damnation would never be closed. No matter how long he lived, his life would never belong to him again. By handing the money over to Lillian Stern, he would be putting himself in her hands. That would be his penance: to use his life in order to give life to someone else; to confess; to risk everything on an insane dream of mercy and forgiveness.

He never talked about any of these things to Maria. He was afraid that she wouldn’t understand him, and he dreaded the thought of confusing her, of causing her any further alarm. Still, he put off leaving as long as he could. His body required rest, and since Maria was in no hurry to get rid of him, he wound up staying with her for three more days. In all that time, he never set foot outside her loft. Maria bought new clothes for him; she shopped for groceries and cooked him meals; she supplied him with newspapers every morning and afternoon. Beyond reading the papers and watching the television news, he did almost nothing. He slept. He stared out the window. He thought about the immensity of fear.

On the second day, there was a small article in
The New York Times
that reported the discovery of the two bodies in Vermont. That was how Sachs learned that Dwight’s last name had been McMartin, but the piece was too sketchy to offer any details about the investigation that was apparently under way. In the
New York Post
that afternoon; there was a second story that emphasized how baffled the local authorities were by the case. But nothing about a third man, nothing about a white Toyota abandoned in Brooklyn, nothing about any evidence that would establish a link between Dimaggio and McMartin. The headline announced:
MYSTERY IN THE NORTHERN WOODS
. That night on the national news, one of the networks picked up the story, but other than a short, tasteless interview with
McMartin’s parents (the mother weeping in front of the camera, the father stone-faced and rigid) and a shot of Lillian Stern’s house (“Mrs. Dimaggio refused to talk to reporters”), there were no significant developments. A police spokesman came on and said that paraffin tests proved that Dimaggio had fired the gun that killed McMartin, but Dimaggio’s own death was still unexplained. A third man had clearly been involved, he added, but they still had no idea who he was or where he had gone. For all intents and purposes, the case was an enigma.

The whole time Sachs spent with Maria, she kept calling Lillian’s number in Berkeley. At first, there was no answer. Then, when she tried again an hour later, she was greeted by a busy signal. After several more attempts, she called the operator and asked if there was trouble on the line. No, she was informed, the phone had been taken off the hook. Once the report was shown on television the next evening, the busy signal became understandable. Lillian was protecting herself from reporters, and for the rest of Sachs’s stay in New York, Maria was unable to get through to her. In the long run, perhaps that was just as well. No matter how urgently she wanted to talk to her friend, Maria would have been hard-pressed to tell her what she knew: that Dimaggio’s killer was a friend of hers, that he was standing next to her at that very moment. Things were awful enough without having to grope for the words to explain all that. On the other hand, it might have been useful to Sachs if Maria had managed to talk to Lillian before he left. The way would have been smoothed for him, so to speak, and his first hours in California would have been considerably less difficult. But how could Maria have known that? Sachs said nothing to her about his plan, and beyond the brief note of thanks he put on the kitchen table when she was out shopping for dinner on the third day, he didn’t even say good-bye to her. It embarrassed him to behave like that, but he knew she wouldn’t let
him go without some explanation, and the last thing he wanted was to tell her lies. So once she had gone out to do the shopping, he gathered his belongings together and went downstairs to the street. His luggage consisted of the bowling bag and a plastic sack (into which he had dumped his shaving equipment, his toothbrush, and the few articles of clothing that Maria had found for him). From there he walked over to West Broadway, waved down a cab, and asked the driver to take him to Kennedy Airport. Two hours later, he boarded a plane for San Francisco.

She lived in a small, pink stucco house in the Berkeley flats, a poor neighborhood of cluttered lawns and peeling façades and sidewalks sprouting with weeds. Sachs pulled up in his rented Plymouth a little past ten in the morning, but no one answered the door when he rang. This was the first time he had been in Berkeley, but rather than go off to explore the town and come back later, he parked himself on the front steps and waited for Lillian Stern to appear. The air throbbed with an uncommon sweetness. As he paged through his copy of the
San Francisco Chronicle
, he smelled the jacaranda bushes, the honeysuckle, the eucalyptus trees, the shock of California in its eternal bloom. It didn’t matter to him how long he had to sit there. Talking to this woman had become the sole task of his life now, and until that happened, it was as though time had stopped for him, as though nothing could exist but the suspense of waiting. Ten minutes or ten hours, he told himself: as long as she turned up, it wasn’t going to make any difference.

There was a piece in that morning’s
Chronicle
about Dimaggio, and it proved to be longer and fuller than anything Sachs had read in New York. According to local sources, Dimaggio had been involved with a left-wing ecology group, a small band of men and
women committed to shutting down the operations of nuclear power plants, logging companies, and other “despoilers of the earth.” The article speculated that Dimaggio might have been on a mission for this group at the time of his death, an accusation strenuously denied by the chairman of the Berkeley chapter of Children of the Planet, who stated that his organization was ideologically opposed to all forms of violent protest. The reporter then went on to suggest that Dimaggio could have been acting on his own initiative, a renegade member of the Children who had disagreed with the group on questions of tactics. None of this was substantiated, but it hit Sachs hard to learn that Dimaggio had been no ordinary criminal. He had been something altogether different: a crazed idealist, a believer in a cause, a person who had dreamed of changing the world. That didn’t eliminate the fact that he had killed an innocent boy, but it somehow made it worse. He and Sachs had stood for the same things. In another time and another place, they might even have been friends.

Sachs spent an hour with the paper, then tossed it aside and stared out at the street. Dozens of cars drove past the house, but the only pedestrians were the very old or the very young: little children with their mothers, an ancient black man inching along with a cane, a white-haired Asian woman with an aluminum walker. At one o’clock, Sachs temporarily abandoned his post to look for something to eat, but he returned within twenty minutes and consumed his fast-food lunch on the steps. He was counting on her to come by five thirty or six o’clock, hoping that she was off at work somewhere, doing her job as she always did, continuing to go through the paces of her normal routine. But that was only a guess. He didn’t know that she had a job, and even if she did have one, it was by no means certain that she was still in town. If the woman had disappeared, his plan would be worthless, and yet the only way to find out was to go on sitting where he was. He suffered through the early evening hours
in a tumult of anticipation, watching the clouds darken overhead as dusk turned into night. Five o’clock became six o’clock, six o’clock became seven o’clock, and from then on it was all he could do not to feel singed by disappointment. He went out for more food at seven thirty, but again he returned to the house, and again he went on waiting. She could have been at a restaurant, he told himself, or visiting friends, or doing any number of other things that would explain her absence. And if and when she did return, it was essential that he be there. Unless he talked to her before she entered the house, he might lose his chance forever.

Even so, when she finally did turn up, Sachs was caught by surprise. It was a few minutes past midnight, and because he was no longer expecting her by then, he had allowed his vigilance to slacken. He had leaned his shoulder against the cast-iron railing, his eyes had shut, and he was just on the point of dozing off when the sound of an idling car engine roused him back to alertness. He opened his eyes and saw the car standing in a parking space directly across the street. An instant later, the engine went silent and the headlights were turned off. Still unsure whether it was Lillian Stern, Sachs climbed to his feet and watched from his position on the steps—heart pounding, the blood singing in his brain.

She came toward him with a sleeping child in her arms, scarcely bothering to glance at the house as she crossed the street. Sachs heard her whisper something into her daughter’s ear, but he couldn’t make out what it was. He realized that he was no more than a shadow, an invisible figure hidden in the darkness, and the moment he opened his mouth to speak, the woman would be frightened half to death. He hesitated for several seconds. Then, still unable to see her face, he plunged in at last, breaking the silence when she was halfway up the front walk.

“Lillian Stern?” he said. The moment he heard his own words,
he knew his voice had betrayed him. He had wanted the question to carry a certain warmth and friendliness, but it came out awkwardly, sounding tense and belligerent, as if he were planning to do her harm.

He heard a quick, shuddering gasp escape from the woman’s throat. She stopped short, adjusted the child in her arms, and then answered in a low voice that seethed with anger and frustration: “Get the fuck away from my house, mister. I’m not talking to anyone.”

“I just want a word with you,” Sachs said, beginning to descend the stairs. He waved his open hands back and forth in a gesture of negation, as if to prove he had come in peace. “I’ve been waiting here since ten o’clock this morning. I’ve got to talk to you. It’s very important.”

“No reporters. I’m not talking to any reporters.”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m a friend. You don’t have to say a word to me if you don’t want to. I’m only asking you to listen.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re just another one of those filthy pricks.”

“No, you’re wrong. I’m a friend. I’m a friend of Maria Turner’s. She’s the one who gave me your address.”

“Maria?” the woman said. There was a sudden, unmistakable softening in her voice. “You know Maria?”

“I know her very well. If you don’t believe me, you can go inside and call her. I’ll wait out here until you’re finished.”

He had reached the bottom of the stairs, and once again the woman was walking toward him, as if freed to move now that Maria’s name had been mentioned. They were standing on the flagstone path within two feet of each other, and for the first time since her arrival, Sachs was able to make out her features. He saw the same extraordinary face he had seen in the photographs at Maria’s house, the same dark eyes, the same neck, the same short hair, the same full lips. He was nearly a foot taller than she was, and as he looked down at her with
the little girl’s head resting against her shoulder, he realized that in spite of the pictures, he hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful.

“Who the hell are you?” she said.

“My name is Benjamin Sachs.”

“And what do you want from me, Benjamin Sachs? What are you doing here in front of my house in the middle of the night?”

“Maria tried to get in touch. She called you for days, and when she couldn’t get through, I decided to come out here instead.”

“All the way from New York?”

“There wasn’t any other choice.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Because I have something important to tell you.”

“I don’t like the way that sounds. The last thing I need is more bad news.”

“This isn’t bad news. Strange news, maybe, even incredible news, but it’s definitely not bad. As far as you’re concerned, it’s very good. Astounding, in fact. Your whole life’s about to take a turn for the better.”