SUMMER of FEAR (28 page)

I still own every detail of that scene, but they are far from useful in
everyday life, in fact they are counterproductive. Occasionally, one
detail—for example, the wall calendar in the lobby, picturing the July dog (a
papillon) with a piece of human brain matter stuck to its surface, obliterating
the dates 17, 18, 24, and 25—slips from its appointed place and I have to guide
it like an escaped mamba back into the box. Sometimes—rarely, so far—they all
manage to get loose at once, and I have a situation best described as
untenable.

So bear with me now, if you choose, some of the particulars—trapped but
relentlessly active—that I will carry to my deathbed, such as the body of a
woman (Elsie Stein, fifty-one) strewn raglike in the lobby corner behind the
desk, face gone, head open and emptied, the gold Star of David necklace still
attached and dangling in a red-black pond that rippled in the currents of a
ceiling fan, all illuminated by the desk lamp, still on
_;
such as the
lobby calendar marred with her brains and the comet of fluids that struck the
wall around it; such as the first room on the left down the hallway, the door
to which said
vipooches only
and
contained in the very center of its floor an actual arrangement of small canine
bodies stacked in opposing threes like firewood, the top row of poodle,
miniature dachshund, and Pomeranian having slumped out of alignment and rolled
off; such as the sweetish gag of urine and blood in that place; such as the
room marked
cat house
, in which
all six guests ended their six or fifty-four lives in one corner—two tabbies,
Siamese, two calicoes, a black, draped with such feline grace as to appear
asleep if not for the heads; such as the outdoor row of kennels, six on one
side of a cement walkway and six on the other, over the gates of which hung the
larger dogs, like towels, drying on the chain link, shattered, leaking
audibly---each drop distinct and resonant—into the narrow drains that ran along
the front of each row and deposited by invisible slope their contents through
circular screens at the end of the row each drain clogged red and black and
stagnant; such as the guest house beyond the kennel run, squatting quaint and
yellow beneath the eucalyptuses, potted pansies, and carnations on the steps,
this small cottage, door open, housing sprawled and naked in the bedroom
Leonard Stein (fifty-six) facedown and still clutching a long-barreled .38, a
large, plump man with thin white legs bowed even at rest, the trail of black
ants scintilla but orderly from his head to where they vanished cargo-laden
through a corner crack in the floorboards; such as Dorsey, mixed-breed toy that
had dodged the slaughter and wailed alone from the narrow space between the
wall and the refrigerator the kitchen and had to be pried out, trembling, with
a broom handle by none other than stoic Martin Parish, who announced in a voice
almost a whisper that the sound was going to drive him crazy but that was
understood by us others, given the context, as a brief escape from the
helplessness of death to the terrified demands of the only thing left living
there; such as, an hour later, the largely mute crowd that gathered at the
crime scene tape suspended across the road between a crepe myrtle and a
cottonwood, these faces bereft of everything but fear somehow fully understanding
the scene behind the tape—old gray couple dispirited and solemn, a boy of
perhaps ten who sobbed and inquired repeatedly after the condition and
whereabouts of "Tiger," his mother with one hand pressed lightly to
her face in an extended signal of tragedy while the other rested on the
corn-silk pale hair of her boy: such as, almost astonishingly, the group of
youngish women and older men arriving en masse, each bearing a walkie-talkie,
each wearing the blue T-shirt marked
citizens' task force
and sporting the silk-screened face of Kimmy Wynn,
each conspicuously aware of and silently acknowledging how unsuitable he and
she had been to the task, how superfluous and minor and absurd they were, what
a great and unintended insult was their presence—you could see the profound
shame on their faces mixed with the one faintly redeeming conviction they had
left: to stick this one out, at least do what they could, even if nothing more
than to bear witness to their own gross ineffectuality and confirm the terrible
lopsided rout in a battle that their God was supposed to help them with because
they believed He would; such as the ashen faces of Winters and Wald; such as
Karen Schultz on the steps of the rear porch, her head resting on her arms
resting on her knees and her back shaking; such as the chopper fiercely cutting
the sky to little effect on the vultures who simply lowered their orbit so
their shadows met the ground clearly and you could see the dark shapes of wings
gliding across the road and angling without effort up the walls of the old
house and finally into the trees, only to circle and pass again; such as the
Labrador I nearly tripped over at the far end of the compound where the small
yard met the canyon scrub, an animal beaten but still breathing, very rapidly,
too damaged to do more, his smooth old dog's teeth red in his panting mouth and
drops of blood still shining around the base of a staunch native oak; such as
the fact that I sat down near that oak finally because my legs felt aching and
old, sat there for a long while because it was the only thing I was absolutely
positive I could do, and do well.

Later, my
legs still shaking and a storm of disgust brewing my heart, I walked into my
house, to be greeted by Grace. She was wearing a kitchen apron belonging to
Isabella, a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

"Gad, Russell, your face is gray," she
said.

I don't think I answered her. I poured a large whiskey over ice, took it
into my den, and shut the door. I stared out the window. I fanned through the
mail Grace had left stack on the desk: the usual assortment of bills and junk
fliers—and rather serious-looking envelope from case manager Tina Sharp. I
filed it, unopened, with the unpaid medical bills. It was half an hour before I
could lay eyes on another human being again. I felt as if my soul had been
dragged through a sewer. Final I went back out.

Standing there with her legs exposed beneath the apron and a
wooden spoon in her hand, she looked like either advertisement for the spoon or
an intro for some men's mag "sex in the kitchen" spread. Images of
Elsie Stein flickered in my mind as I looked at my daughter, subliminal
postcards from hell.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Some people and animals died."

"Is that why all the helicopters are out
there?"

"Yes."

"It must have been horrible."

"It was truly horrible, girl."

I poured another large whiskey over ice and shut the door to my study
behind me.

My father called to say that Amber had left without his permission. She
claimed to have urgent private business. She was calm and apparently unafraid
to be out alone.

"I'm sorry, Russ. I was on the pot when she
drove off."

"It's okay for now. There's nothing you can
do."

"I hear something wrong in your voice," he
said.

"The Eye hit here in the canyon."

"People you know?"

"Kind of."

"Do you need me there?"

"Wait for Amber. Later, Dad."

I wrote the Ing piece first, based on Mary's partial identification of
the picture and full conviction that the voice on the conference speaker was
that of her son, William Fredrick.

My article on the latest killing spree by the Midnight Eye was finished
an hour later. It simply projected out of me like vomit, and I felt the same
sense of spent foulness that a good retching would have left. I faxed both
pieces off to Carla Dance and Karen Schultz, then made another drink and sat
out on the deck. The two Sheriff's Department choppers and one borrowed from
the Newport Beach PD roared through the sky above, their blades popping dully
against the canyon sides. Two network news birds hovered low, getting
establishing shots for the seven o'clock segments. I talked briefly with Carla,
who was checking facts—how many dogs, exactly, were hanging on the fence; did
Ing graduate from high school in 1972 or 1973; was "Tiger' cat or a dog?
She told me the crime-scene report was the best she'd ever read and speculated
that there might be an award in it for me. The ice in my whiskey had melted and
I felt sick.

Grace joined me in the shade of the deck, a shade that still registered
102 degrees on the thermometer nailed to the side of the house. The choppers
persevered overhead. Grace looked lovely and composed; I sensed in her a desire
to ameliorate the apparent darkness of my mood. She noted that the ice in my
glass was gone and took it into the house for more. Grace did not speak as I
explained to her what had happen on Red Tail Lane. I cannot remember what I
said. My gorge rose as I finished the outline, and my mouth went dry and my
face got cold. Through the open screen doors, I could hear the television
newspeople slurring out the latest on the Midnight Eye's deeds in Laguna Beach.

I closed my eyes, saw the sun burning orange again my eyelids,
concentrated on the slow, even pounding of my heart. "Grace, you ever wish
something big, like God, would pick you up by the heels with a pair of tongs
and just like dip you into something wet, and when you came out, you'd clean
and fresh again?"

"Oh, yes. I've pictured it as something like mercury, something
silver and smooth that goes into your body, then drains out through the pores,
and all the ugliness goes out with it."

"Yeah."

Eyes still closed and my head resting against the rough redwood of the
house, I found Grace's hand with mine and squeezed it gently. Contrary to the
early morning of July 5, when I had last taken her stiff and reluctant hand,
now she remained gentle and confident within my own and I sensed no notion on
her part to withdraw from me. Her hand seemed, at that moment, the single most
valuable thing in my world. Then I felt it grow tense.

"Don't take that away," I said.

It relaxed slightly and remained firmly within my own.

"Grace, I like the sound of your voice. Tell me a pleasant story,
one with meadows or lakes or something, tell me something happy that happened
to you."

"Well... okay, Russell, but I don't know any happy stories."

"You must know one."

"But I don't."

"Then make one up."

"I can't."

The sun continued its hot touch upon my eyelids and the sounds of the
canyon traffic diminished, no doubt a result of the roadblock set up by Winters
in meager hope of intercepting the Midnight Eye, or perhaps a witness. The whiskey
surged around in my blood, unable either to fuel me or soothe me. I thought of
Isabella and her surgery the next morning. I thought of life without her. There
seemed to be nothing on earth to look forward to.

"Then tell me about you and your mother," I said. "It
doesn't have to be happy, just true."

Grace sighed and her hand tensed. I squeezed it
harder.

"What do you want to know, Russ?"

"I don't understand why you're so afraid of
her."

"There are lots of things you don't
understand."

"Tell me why. Tell me
something.
Let me hear your voice."

"Well... Russell, you must know that Amber is a profoundly selfish
person. She is also extremely insecure and self-doubting. With every year I
became older and more mature, she became more competitive. It was a revelation
to me, at the age of thirteen, that my own mother was jealous of me."

Her hand grew stiffer, but I made no move to let it
go

"Jealous?" I was imagining horrible things now from the
Pampered Pet Palace, and it seemed that Grace's voice was the only antidote.
"I wish you'd explain that."

"For example, Amber and I gained the attentions of very handsome
young sommelier in a Paris restaurant one fall. He was thrilled to have our
table—you could sense his desire just in the way he worked a cork from a
bottle. It was also clear that he was interested in me. Amber, of course, in
all her fake Continental sophistication, invited him—Florent—to a party her
suite on a Friday night. Florent and I had a wonderful talk out on the balcony
while the other guests were inside. He told me he was more affected by my
beauty than he'd ever been by a woman before. I told him I understood and would
accept his call the next evening. Don't I sound like Amber now—'would accept
his call'? It was all
so...
obvious,
so predictable. The next morning, I got from Amber a one-way ticket back to
Orange County, via Los Angeles, and was met at the airport by Martin. The
phrase that still sticks in my mind was, 'Never,
ever
try to come between me and one of my men again. I have
not raise you to be a whore.' Amber said it from the back of the limo as I
climbed out at De Gaulle. I'll never forget
the...
aggression in her eyes."

I heard the choppers thumping overhead.

"One might argue that Amber saw in you a thirteen-yea old girl
getting in way over her head."

Grace's hand tightened with an unexpected strength.