SUMMER of FEAR (22 page)

"Okay, Monroe," said Marty. "Put her in and pack it down
hard. Chop-chop. Nighttime's a-wastin'."

Keyes taped the first few minutes of the burial. Alice Full sank one
spadeful at a time into the sandy canyon earth. My palm tore and bled and
burned. My balls throbbed; my stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself.
My legs were weak and my arms ached as the middle finger of Alice's beckoning
right hand finally vanished beneath the sand. Another half hour and I'd
finished everything, right down to smoothing out the extra dirt and
replacing—root balls and all—the three clumps of fuchsia gooseberry that Parish
had ordered me to exhume before started digging. I replaced the boulders and
rocks properly so their damp undersides were against the soil, where they be
longed. I hauled some beaten dry grass and strew it around. Marty used a
flashlight to make sure my shovel smoothed out the last of the footprints as I
backed out. A coyote might have been able to tell we'd been there—a deer,
maybe, or Black Death and his buddies, for sure—but few men I knew would ever
guess.

I led the way back down the hills, the video light bouncing on the path
ahead of me, then leaving me in darkness. The fog clung around us. The pick and
shovel were balanced over my shoulder. My adrenaline was spent and a deep
weariness spread inside me as I labored down toward my house. "Just for
the record, Marty," I said, "if someone sees this video, who took
it?"

"Grace."

"Why?"

"Because you two are sickos? How would I know? People make movies
of girls getting their throats cut in coitus. Back down to your garage,
Monroe."

I stashed the tools in a corner, then Parish motioned me over to my car.
He pointed to the trunk. "Open it," he said.

"What now?"

"I spent an hour in your house tonight, looking for something that
belongs to me. I think it's in your trunk. Open it, or I'll pry it open."

I fished out the keys with a raw, blistered hand and lifted the trunk
door. Marty smiled, flipped through the contents of his evidence box, then
lifted it out and set it on the floor.

"Amber's a fool," he said, that placid, heavy-jawed expression
coming back to his face. "A beautiful, crazy fool. She always adored the
men who treated her like shit. I tried, but I actually wasn't good enough at
it. She must be nuts about you again. Go figure. But you're a fool, too,
Monroe. You and Amber are a perfect pair. You can spend the rest of your lives
trying to mess each other up. You deserve each other. My money's on Amber,
though—she's got stamina and lots of cunning. You? All you've got are brief
moments of inspiration."

"Why the change, Martin? A few nights ago you were down to your
skivvies in her bedroom, ready to get it on with your memory."

Marty leaned back against my car and let his bloodshot blue eyes wander my
face, then the evidence box, then the window against which the fog moved like a
snake. "Amber came to me when she saw your lousy cover-up—the new nig, the
bloodstain, the fresh paint. She needed me. And I was willing to put it all on
the line for her. My heart went out, like it always did. Wish I'd learned
earlier to control that thing. I showed her how you and Grace had tried to kill
her. I offered to leave JoAnn and try to make it work again. Us, Amber and me.
She listened. She agreed. Of course, Amber agrees to everything, then does
whatever she wants, right So, in spite of all that, she ran off again. To
you.
To the son of a bitch who tried to kill her."

Martin's face was a momentary study in confusion and disbelief. But some
inner strength—the sheer muscle of madness, I presumed—brought his confusion
back under control and forced it to conform to something that could pass for
reason.

"And somehow, when I realized she'd gone to you
again,
I saw
myself from the outside. It was like a light went on. I saw myself standing
there in my underwear, just like you saw me. I was ashamed. I was more than
ashamed—I was nothing Then I was floating above it, and suddenly I was free. It
all just snapped."

Snapped.
How many times had
Art Crump used that dire verb? The idea hit me then that Martin had already
traced Amber to my father's cabin and done to her what he had meant to do to
her the night of July 3.

"And I realized, Russ, that when there's nothing left to fill the
cup, just throw away the goddamned cup. I'm free, and I'm going to stay this
way."

Free because he'd gotten to Amber? "What is it you want from me,
Martin?"

Marty smiled, a vile, bitter thing. "If Amber winds up like Alice,
I'll make sure my best dick gets a copy of this video. I might be free of her
now, but I don't want you to bash her skull. I'd rather have her alive than
have her money—I don't need it. If I hear any noises from you about Marty
Parish and Amber Mae Wilson, I'll deliver the video. I'll have a copy of it and
an explanation in a safe-deposit box, with instructions to my lawyer what to do
if I come to any sudden,
uh...
reversal. If you bother me in any way, Monroe, if I even dream that you're
brushing up against me in a way I don't like, I'll deliver the video. You exist
to write articles that reflect well upon Dan and me. You do not exist in any
other capacity. Fart in the same room with me, Monroe, and I'll deliver the
tape. I own you. And I own your daughter, too. And remember, if I do hand it
over, nobody on earth is going to believe one word you say about me being in
Amber's house or me and some silent deputy forcing you to perform a low-budget
funeral. And it's not just because you had a corpse in your freezer."

"Why else?"

Marty stepped forward and drove a finger into my chest. "Because,
you, Monroe, are one crazy, desperate bastard. It's written all over your face.
And I got it on
tape."

I thought for a moment, but Parish's insane logic seemed, in terms of
practical application, not very insane at all. He might suffer, but he could
make it work. He had the department behind him, a good reputation. Any dick
could establish my motive and opportunity in about one day—-to the tune of half
a million dollars, an embittered heart, a vengeful, neglected daughter. Parish
had my blood and hair mixed into the earth of Alice's grave. He had Keyes as an
alibi, and the exact date and time of "my crime" indelibly tracked by
the camcorder clock. Yes, Martin had built a good case.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"I don't know. She dumped the box and her story on me then drove
off."

"And didn't tell you where?"

"Sounds like her, doesn't it, Marty?"

"Sorta does."

"Well, there you have it," I said.

"Have
this,
Monroe."

His fist caught me low—just above the groin. All I could do was turn
with it, trying not to take it full. But my reflexes were slow and I got most
of it, and the next thing I knew I had landing on my side and rolled partway
under my car. I stared up at the rusting muffler.

"That was for the other night at the
beach," said Martin

When I lifted my head to look, I could see two sets legs climbing up my
driveway toward the Sheriff's Department car.

I rolled onto my side and brought my
knees to my stomach because that was what the pain told me to do. I looked my
right-rear shock. I closed my eyes. I lay there for a long while because things
were coming clear to me. Oh, the clarity that can come with pain. One: Marty
had killed Alice that night because he believed she was Amber. He had disposed
of the club. Two: He'd mocked up the scene to look like the Midnight Eye, a
serial killer that only Winters, Parish, Schultz, and possibly Chet Singer even
knew was on the loose. Three: He'd change his mind when he saw the opportunity
to silence me—I, who had blundered into his plot—with Alice's body, which until
tonight—I guessed—had occupied a similar space in Marty's own freezer. Four: He
had done the cleanup. Five: He now had back in his possession any
self-incriminating evidence he might have left at Amber's and any planted
evidence he had wished to add. Six: I now had a body buried not far from my
house that I could—for all practical purposes—do little to explain.

I crawled out from under the car and went inside to the phone. My father
answered on the fourth ring. He was okay. Amber was okay—though I made him get
up and check her room.

"Are
you
okay?" he asked when he got
back on.

"I'm in smithereens, Dad."

"I can be there in half an hour."

"No. There's nothing you can do."

"Izzy?"

"Worse. She was talking like a child yesterday. It... hurt me to
see that."

All of my fear for Isabella came rushing in then, and all of the grisly
horror that Marty Parish had visited upon my life. I felt the same frantic,
gut-wrenching terror I'd felt once at the age of ten, hopelessly lost on a
camping trip with my mother and father. But this fear was stronger by far. I
wanted nothing more than to cry. But I would not, though not for the reasons
given by pop psychologists who bemoan the male indoctrination that tears are
for girls. No. I would not cry because I was truly afraid that it would take
something out of me—some fury, some emotion—that I was going to need in the
coming days. I was hoarding anything that could be used as a weapon.

"I think the knife is a bad idea," said my
father.

"I know it's a bad idea. But nothing else is
working."

A long silence followed. "I had a visit from your mother tonight.
She still senses distress. You know, she had some wise words for me. She's
fine. If you were real quiet for a while, she'd come to you, too."

"Ah hell, Dad, I know you miss her, but make
some sense for a change."

Another silence ensued, during which I regretted my
words, before he spoke again. "Don't let the storm take you with it, son.
Somehow, you've got to get your head above it. I know I sound like a lunatic or
some New Age fop, but when she comes, well, I just
feel
her."

"How is Amber?"

"Cooperative. Even gracious. She spends most of
her time alone in the guest room—some of it on the phone. She scared."

"It's important you be with her."

"The Remington is handy, but to tell you truth,
I'd like a little better idea what I'm facing."

"One Sheriff's captain with a mean streak, and
possibly a buddy or two of his."

"I'm plainly outgunned."

"Stay inside. If they come to you, it's your
advantage. Don't be afraid to call the cops. I mean the local cops, not the
Sheriff's Department. The one thing this guy doesn't want is scene."

"We don't have any local cops. We're county out
here.

"Shit, that's right." I felt my guts
bunching up for another spasm of pain.

"Give me his name, son. It's the least you can
do."

"Martin Parish."

"Marty?"

"That's right. He's lost it. He's in line for
money if Amber dies, but I'm not even sure it's the money he's after. All I a
tell for sure is, he's in a rage."

"He killed her sister, thinking it was
her?"

"That's correct."

"Have you talked to Winters?"

"I don't have any proof. Yet."

"Oh boy."

My father was quiet for a long moment. "I like having her around."

"The second something seems wrong, call
me."

"I love you, son. Pray to your mother. She'll be there for
you."

I hung up. Guns and ghosts, I thought—two verities for my aging father.

I lay down on the sofa in my den and stared out for a while at the shifting
fog. Sundry horrors passed through my mind, most of all, perhaps, the icy touch
of Alice's body against my own. But even that feeling was soon surpassed by the
image of the Midnight Eye staring out the window of his stolen Ford Taurus, the
mute superiority in his face, the heft and power of his arm and hand. My body
began to shake. Each recent blow from Martin established its own specific ache.
I heard that howling up in the canyon, the one that Isabella had named the Man
of the Dark. Isabella! How distant were her arms, her voice, the comforting
proximity of her beating heart. Oh woman, do not leave me. I wept. I got up and
closed all the windows and doors, setting the dead bolt twice to make sure it
was right. I left on all the lights. I made sure my .357 was loaded and ready
and set it under the pillow that for five years had been graced by nothing less
beautiful than my wife's dreaming head.

If fear of the
Lord is the beginning of knowledge, what is the beginning of fear? I have an
answer, for myself at least. The beginning of fear is to understand that you
are without power. It took me half a lifetime—40 years—to realize this. Oh, I
can hear the protestant brayings of those who are "taking responsibility
for their own lives," or "are God," but I'm not talking about
the mundanities of happiness, success, self-fulfillment weight loss, life
without alcohol, or who is okay and who is not. I'm talking about powerlessness
in the face of death, in the face of life, in the face of madness, love,
disease, desire, in the face of all things beautiful and terrible that govern
our every moment whether we know it or not. And I am talking about the fear of truly
realizing that your best may not be good enough, that may, in fact, be very
little good at all. To understand this is to become fluent in the language of
terror, to become intimate with the contours of the pit. It is the wisdom of
the man before the firing squad. But fear—true fear—is not a reason for anyone
to do something as simpleminded as to surrender. No. The acts of the powerless
are among the lasting nobilities of the race. To advance with a stomach knotted
in terror is more than courage. Fear is beauty.