Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (14 page)

I left the MG next to the fence and went up to the gate. It was
secured by a hasp and padlock, but its hinges had given way on one
side, providing enough of an opening for me to wriggle through. Inside,
a rutted driveway led through a thicket of pyracantha bushes. I
followed it, batting their berry-laden branches aside.

The cottage was weathered shingle, with a sagging front porch and an
equally sagging roofline. All its windows were shuttered. To the left
was a dilapidated garage, its double doors also secured by a padlock.
An ancient apple tree spread its branches over the porch's roof; as I
walked toward the cottage, I breathed the sour odor of many seasons'
windfall fruit.

The wooden steps groaned as I mounted them. In the shadows of the
porch lurked a motley collection of wicker furniture and a rusted
old-fashioned glider swing. I was certain no one had sat on any of them
in years. I tried the door, found it locked, then checked the shutters
and found them secure. Next I went down the steps and over to the
garage.

The padlock held its doors firmly, but there was a side window that
hadn't been shuttered. I went up to it, rubbed off some of the
accumulated grime, and looked inside. Nothing but a potting shelf with
a rusted metal watering can on it, and a jumbled assortment of garden
tools.

I circled the house, hoping to find a similarly unshuttered window,
but met with no success. Behind the building was a stand of pepper
trees that blocked the view of the river. I made my way through them
and climbed the levee. Beyond it, the land dropped off to a dilapidated
dock; a derelict fishing boat was beached on its side perhaps twenty
yards from the shoreline. The boat lay under the drooping limbs of a
willow; a flat-armed cactus had grown up over its gunwales. Once the
gunwales had been trimmed with blue, the rest of the boat white, but
now it was all speckled with rust and faded. The sides of its tall
cockpit had caved in.

The river was wider here than at the public fishing access; its gray
waters rippled and gleamed dully. To my left I could see the docks of
the houses I'd passed earlier, and the power-and sailboats tied up at
many of them, even at this time of year. To my right the river
stretched toward San Pablo Bay; the bridge I'd crossed earlier spanned
it, soaring and graceful. Several powerboats moved in the channel.

The wind blew cold and steadily here. I shivered, stuffed my hands
in my pockets, and moved toward the shelter of the willow tree. There I
leaned against the splintered bow of the boat, turned my collar up, and
thought, Why?

I felt reasonably certain that this deserted cottage had been
Tracy's destination on that winter night. The Barbours who owned this
place had to be connected with her roommate Amy; it would be too much
of a coincidence otherwise. Also too much of a coincidence that she'd
received a traffic citation at the beginning of a road that dead-ended
here. A citation in a stolen car, the report on which hadn't yet been
entered into the computerized network when the highway patrol stopped
her. A car that had been stolen off the lot at Café Comedie, where she
worked and had access to keys.

But why steal a car? Why not just borrow one? Or rent one? And what
had someone with Tracy's dislike of driving—a dislike so strong she
refused to own a car—been doing journeying over dark country roads in
the middle of a rainy night? Why come here at all?

And where had she gone next?

The wind blew stronger. The storm clouds had moved down from the
hills and over the bay. I glanced at my watch. Only two-fifty. It
seemed later because of the impending storm. There was nothing else to
see here; I'd do well to go back to my car—

But there was something more to see. Over to one side, in my
peripheral vision. A motion, something wafting about in the wind.

It was a long strand of yarn. No, a piece of cloth that looked to
have been torn from something. Wool. Once red, perhaps, now faded to
pink.

I scrambled up onto the boat and reached for the strand. It was wool
all right, held firm between the jagged edges of one of the cracked
boards of the pilot house. I fingered it, looking down into the sharply
canting cockpit. My flesh rippled unpleasantly. I felt in my bag for my
flashlight, shone it through the opening.

Nothing but warped planking. And a hatch cover that shouldn't have
been there…

I lowered myself into the cramped space and shoved at the hatch
cover. It moved only a few inches. I set the flashlight down and
tugged. It came up with unexpected ease, throwing me off balance. I let
it crash backward and regained my equilibrium. Then I grabbed the
flashlight and shined it through a large hole in the floorboards.

What I saw first were the exposed ribs of the boat. The air in there
was dank and musty. I moved the flash down, to where the ribs formed a
V at the keel.

She was there. What was left of her.

Nothing but bones now, and those appeared to have been disarranged
by small animals. The llama's-wool cape and jeans were largely eaten
away, but most of the red rubber rain boots remained, faded and pitted
like Swiss cheese. I drew back, grasped the hatch cover for support,
shut my eyes against the sight.

Even in the blackness behind my lids I could still see her pitiful
skeleton.

Poor funny lady—all that talent and ability to bring forth laughter
reduced to bone fragments and a few scraps of cloth. Somehow degrading
that the red rubber boots could outlast the human being.

I opened my eyes, felt them sting with tears. Then I snapped off the
flash and backed out of the cockpit. When I jumped down from the boat,
I took in the fresh, ozone-charged air in great gulps. My knees were
trembling, but I didn't want to lean against the ruin that had served
as Tracy's coffin.

The feelings of elation that had buoyed me as I drove up here were
gone now, replaced by a deep gloom. I'd found what I
wanted—indisputable proof that Bobby Foster's confession was false—but
while it would open up a whole new line of inquiry, it might still lead
right back to my client. The police could claim that he'd concocted the
confession expecting not to be believed, as a smoke screen to keep them
from finding out what he'd really done with her. Given the condition of
her remains, there would be no way of pinpointing the exact time and
date of death; even though Bobby had been at the club at about the time
Tracy had received the traffic citation, it could be argued that he'd
come up here at some other time and killed her, then ditched the car
down south in
an effort to confuse investigators.

But whatever had happened, she had certainly been dead the whole two
years. Had probably been dead since the early hours of that February
morning. All this time, while the people who loved her had waited and
hoped and suffered…

And then I thought of George.

What was it he'd said to me?

Please don't find Tracy alive, Sharon. And if you do, don't bring
her back to me.

Well, I hadn't. But I doubted that would ease his pain. What he had
thought unbearable two days before would now seem infinitely preferable
to the reality of his daughter lying for close to two years in this
makeshift grave. And what he had thought bearable would now seem
intolerable.

Much as I dreaded it, I felt that I had to be the one to break the
news to him.

The windows of George's borrowed house were dark when I arrived
there at a little after eight that evening, but a light shone in the
Moorish arch that framed the front door. A piece of paper was taped to
the door itself, fluttering in the chill wind. I hurried up the walk to
read it.

I was tired and edgy after spending over two hours dealing with the
Napa County sheriff's department. They'd been understaffed due to the
holiday, and therefore slow in responding to the call I'd made from a
cottage several doors down from the Barbour place. The medical
examiner's people were even slower, their work hampered by the rain.
The investigator in charge—a man named Stan Gurski, who looked like a
former linebacker and spoke as softly as a minister—questioned me in
detail about my case. Afterward he said he would contact Tracy's
parents to break the news and request the name of her dentist so
records could be obtained for making an identification. I explained
that her mother was in poor emotional health and ought not to be
notified by a stranger. And, I added, I would like to break the news
to her father; I knew him and felt I owed him that much.

Gurski was agreeable, so I called George and told him how I had
found her. He was badly shaken but in control. When I asked about
dental records, he said he didn't know who Tracy had gone to in recent
years; the family dentist had died shortly after she'd moved to San
Francisco. Then I remembered Jay Larkey mentioning that he offered his
employees a full medical and dental package at the Potrero Clinic.
George said yes, he recalled that, too, and asked that I tell the
sheriff's department to contact the clinic.

Then he was silent a long time before adding, "When you're done up
there in Napa, would you come here, please?"

I didn't have to ask why. I simply agreed.

After I hung up, I told Gurski about the clinic and offered to
expedite the release of Tracy's records by calling Jay Larkey. Reaching
the club owner proved to be a problem, however. Café Comedie was
closed, and there was no answer at Larkey's home number. Finally I
thought of the Sorianos; perhaps they knew where he was. Gurski
obtained their unlisted number in the affluent Marin County suburb of
Tiburon and again allowed me to make the call. I spoke with Kathy,
explaining briefly about finding Tracy's body. She displayed no emotion
whatsoever, just said she and Rob had no idea of Jay's whereabouts but,
if he got in touch, would tell him to contact the Napa authorities.

"He's going to be upset about this," she added accusingly, as if I'd
deliberately contrived to wreck his holiday. When I hung up, I banged
the receiver down harder than was necessary.

Gurski gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Thanks for your help.
If we can get hold of her records today, we can make an ID tomorrow.
Tuesday, latest."

"That's fast, considering tomorrow's a holiday."

He smiled thinly. "This is an important case. Capital case that was
mishandled badly from the start. We'll move on it." From the way he
spoke, I gathered he harbored visions of showing up the SFPD; a case
like this could be a career maker for Gurski.

I said, "I hope there's not going to be a lot of publicity until you
know for sure."

"Do you see any reporters around here?"

"Well, no, but there might be a leak—"

"I don't tolerate leaks in this office."

I believed him. After telling him I'd check in with him the next
day, I sped back to the city, keeping a wary eye out for the highway
patrol.

Now, as I approached George's door, I saw that the piece of paper
taped to it was a note, addressed to me. It said, "Look for me by the
lagoon."

I went back down the path and crossed the street. Unlike up in Napa,
the weather here was clear. The rotunda and colonnade of the Palace of
Fine Arts were floodlit, pinkish against the black of the trees and
sky. Occasional arc lights shed a soft-white glow on the cement path
and set the lagoon's water glimmering; the gently sloping lawn was deep
in shadow. Not a soul was in sight save the dejected silhouette of a
man slumped on a bench near the water's edge. I quickened my pace and
went to stand in front of him.

George looked up at me, his eyes as sheened and unfathomable as the
lagoon, his rough-hewn features sharpened by pain. For a moment I
couldn't speak. Then I said, "I'm sorry," and extended my hands toward
him.

He grasped them and drew me down onto the bench beside him. His
fingers were icy, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.

I asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I just couldn't stay in that ridiculous house. Even the dark
is preferable. Did the sheriff's department arrange to get hold of
Tracy's records?"

"Not yet, but they'll have them soon."

He merely nodded.

"Have you told Laura?" I asked.

"No, no one. Not until… No one."

We sat holding hands for a while. I had no words of comfort to offer
him; there were none that could comfort. He asked me for no more
details, and I didn't volunteer them. It was too soon for that, or to
discuss the implications of when and where she had died. The wind rose,
rippling the water of the lagoon, and I shivered, thinking of the
rippling water of the Napa River. George pulled me into the circle of
his arm, his fingers tangling in the hair that tumbled about my
shoulders.

He said, "I must have sounded like a high-minded son of a bitch the
other day, loftily telling you I didn't want my daughter back because
of the 'monstrous thing' she might have done."

"To some people you might have sounded that way. To me you didn't
because, frankly, I didn't believe you."

His arm tightened around me. "Oddly enough, I believed myself—at the
time. But when you called and told me you'd found her—where and how
you'd found her—I knew how badly I'd deluded myself. Anything—no matter
how monstrous—would have been preferable to this."

"I know."

Now he shivered. I moved closer to him, my cheek grazing the front
of his down jacket. He put his other arm around me and held me tight;
his body pulsed with restrained tension. When I looked up at his face,
I saw a white stone mask, immobile except for two tears, one sliding
slowly down either cheek. I reached up, wiped one away. He touched my
hand with his lips.

For a moment I wanted to pull back, to run from this man who had
already made a crack in the wall I'd so carefully erected around my
emotions. But I remained still as he put his fingers under my chin,
tilted my face up toward him, and kissed me.
He drew away, looking quizzically at me, then kissed me again. And I
felt the foundations of my self-protective isolation begin to crumble.