Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (66 page)

I hurried inside and inspected his work. It looked great. All I
needed to do now was paint, lay carpet, and install mini-blinds. Then,
I decided, I'd invite the All Souls's moving crew over to help me haul
my bedroom furniture back there. Afterward I'd feed them spaghetti, or
maybe lasagna.

But right now I needed to get ready for my date with George. I
wanted to look particularly good, because I felt apprehensive about it.
Too many things had been left unsaid between us over the last few days.
Tonight we would have to say them all.

It was a drizzly night in February, nearly two years to the day
since Tracy Kostakos died. South Park was shrouded in mist; it hazed
the street lamps and softened the ragged outlines of the burnt-out ruin
that once had been Café Comedie. A casual passerby, new to this place,
might not even notice it, much less guess at the tragedy that had been
played out here.

I'd come, as I often did these days, to walk in the park. The ground
still bore scars where the ambulances had driven, but frequent rains
had begun to heal them, bringing fresh blades of grass. Soon other
reminders would go; eventually there would be none at all.

I walked with my head bent forward, hands thrust in my pockets,
barely noticing the damp. The park was familiar territory now; I came
here so often that the old black men who congregated on the benches on
nice days were starting to think of me as a regular. One of them had
waved to me the other afternoon.

If anyone had asked me why I kept returning to this place, I would
have been hard pressed to give an answer. It had something to do with
trying to make sense of it all, but I didn't
expect anyone else to understand that—because I didn't really
understand it myself.

Trying to make sense of Tracy Kostakos, whose greed for everything
the world has to offer had destroyed both her talent and her life.

Trying to make sense of Marc Emmons, who had allowed himself to be
used until love turned to hatred, hatred to violence.

Trying to make sense of the evil at the core of Rob Soriano, and the
primitive rage it had triggered in me.

There was senselessness, too, in the fact that Bobby Foster,
although innocent, was still incarcerated, due to the ponderously slow
machinations of our criminal justice system.

Senselessness in the fact that George wasn't with me.

That Saturday night he'd sat across from me in a North Beach
restaurant, candlelight showing new lines of pain etched into his
rough-hewn face. Held my hand as he told me he was moving back to the
Palo Alto house, to be near Laura while she remained in the psychiatric
clinic and, later, to support her when she was discharged as an
outpatient.

"It won't be forever," he'd said, "but it's something I have to do.
I owe it to her. To myself. In a way, to you."

I shook my head, unable to comprehend.

"I know I can't ask you to wait for me," he added. "I don't see why
you would. But when it's all over, when she's on her feet again, I'll
come to you, see if you'll still have me."

"We could just—"

"I know what you're going to say. I can't do that to either of us.
You shouldn't have to share a burden that's really mine alone; I
couldn't stand to always be leaving you with the knowledge that I'd be
going home to another woman."

"So what…?"

"When I've worked this out, we'll see if you want to start again. I
know I will."

He was an honorable man, George Kostakos. But sometimes on cold,
lonely nights, I cursed him for that honor. And when I was feeling
particularly low, I wondered if his scruples would have remained intact
had I not been the one who exposed the sad truth about his daughter's
life and death.

The drizzle was turning to real rain now. I ignored it, turned up my
collar, kept walking. South Park was silent, deserted. A pall had
settled over it these days, thick as the pall of the smoke from the
fire. I wondered if it would ever come alive again. If I would.

A car turned in from Third Street. Its headlights blinded me. I
shielded my eyes, waiting for it to pass.

It pulled to the curb a couple of yards away from me. A voice said,
"Hey, lady, want a ride?"

Rae, in her old Rambler American.

I went over and leaned down, looking through the window at her.
"What are you doing here?"

"Detective work. I followed you. I've followed you here several
times now. Don't you think you ought to give it up?"

"Give what up?"

She gestured out the window at the park. "All of this. The past. Get
on with your life."

Normally I would have been furious at such interference. But
suddenly I knew that this was the one person who did understand. At
least as much as I did.

"What we're going to do," she went on, "is go get some Thai food. I
found a great new restaurant. Cheap, too."

"Rae—"

"Then there's this little club, way out by the beach. Jazz. I'm
friends with the drummer. The piano player's interesting; you'll like
him."

"Rae, no fix-ups."

"It's not a fix-up. We'll just stop in, have a few drinks. I usually
get them on the house. If we stay till closing, they'll take
us out for burgers—Clown Alley's open twenty-four hours—and Jim—that's
the piano player—knows of this ferry service that runs bay cruises all
night long, even in the rain."

I started to say no. Hesitated. Looked back over my shoulder at the
park, cold and sodden in the darkness. Straightened and looked over the
roof of the car at the deeply shadowed ruins of Café Comedie.

"Why the hell not?" I said.

Rae was right: it was time to get on with it.