SUMMER of FEAR (41 page)

I smiled inwardly, though I don't know what was showing on my face then.
Amber's look of hatred was unabated.

"That's a good story, but it doesn't match Grace's. She told me
everything. And she's told Martin Parish, too."

I knew I was on my most tenuous ground here, lying absolutely that Grace
had confided in me. If the bond between them was as strong as I feared it might
be, Wald would dig his heels and hold fast. If not, he might begin to weaken
and contradict himself.

He shrugged. "Whatever Grace told you is from the mouth of one
crazy babe. I've done what I can to protect her. I've done what I can do to
help. Yes, I've made love to her, and she me. I admit my pure unadulterated
desire for her and proudly cop to the fact that I was screwing her while you,
Amber, we trying to make me grovel at your royal feet. Boy, did that feel good.
I'll also admit that I taught her to be the most sensual tender woman in the
world. But I give up. If she wants me take the rap for this one, then all I can
say is, it's time to get good lawyer."

He stood. I took the gun. "You're saying we'll see you court,
Erik?"

"Last place I plan to end up. You know, that would ruin my whole
career. You can't live down a scandal like this, even when the DA throws up his
hands and realizes he doesn’t have a case. But Parish and Haight? An unbeatable
combination with regard to nailing
your
butt, Russ. You'll be in court
long before my sorry ass gets there. That bastard Parish gets hold of
something, he's tougher to shake than a pit bull, and he's got hold of you.
He's a moron, but he's a determined one. You're holding the bag, Russell.
You're the one who buried Alice Fultz in your own backyard. By the time you get
Martin fangs off your balls, you'll forget what it even felt like to have a
pair."

He smiled and looked at Amber. "You? Look at
yourself. The world's prettiest cunt."

Amber stepped forward, then slapped Wald across the
face.

He leaned with the blow, refusing to surrender his smile. "You
people are below me. You can't touch me. A money-grubbing whore and a dumb
ex-cop who thinks he can write. It's a wonder anything
as...
beautiful as Grace could have come out of you."

Amber's voice shook as she spoke. For once in my life, I sensed not one
bit of acting in her. "You won't get away with any of this, Erik. For what
you did to Grace. And what you did to Alice."

"You dumb bitch—I've already gotten away with it. My only real
regret is that I never quite had the pleasure of smearing your brains over this
carpet."

With this, Martin Parish stepped from one of the two walk-in closets
that house Amber's considerable wardrobe. In one hand, he held the tape
recorder, its red light still blinking, and in the other his monstrosity of a
revolver, the .44 Magnum.

"Woof, woof," he said.

Wald looked at him, then at Amber, then at me. "We all know that
tape's inadmissible. That's the last thing I'll say without my lawyers. Well,
second to the last. The last is, fuck all you dullards. I'm just plain better
than you and I proved it. I'll marry your daughter while you rot in jail,
Monroe. Parish—don't even think you can touch me. I'll grind you up like the
dog meat you are. Stick with your case against Russell here. You and I can go
on fighting crime together."

Parish shook his head. "Sure, Erik. We know. Until you manage all that,
though, put out your hands so I can cuff you. You're about to be questioned in
the death of Alice Fultz and the statutory rape of Grace Wilson. We'll make
that call to your lawyer from the county building."

"Don't forget possession of stolen goods,"
I said.

"Namely,
my automatic. If all had gone according to Erik's new plan, some beat cops
would be discovering a murder-suicide here in this room, sometime tomorrow
morning."

When Parish had locked Wald's hands behind his back
he turned Erik around to face him and slugged him in the stomach so hard, I
could hear the wind whistle from Wald's throat. Wald staggered but somehow
remained erect, his martial-art training no doubt putting him in good stead. So
Parish hit him again, and Erik, gasping for air, went down like a dynamited
building.

"What
a beautiful sight," said Amber. "Not that I could
ever
recall
it happening."

Parish
called Dispatch, summoned the two units that were waiting down the street, and
gave the go-ahead for the arrest of Grace Wilson, who, as we had predicted, was
waiting in Wald’s home for his triumphant return. Parish reported that the Eye
had not been apprehended at LAX, in spite of massive, if somewhat belated,
efforts on the part of the Sheriff's Department and Airport Authority.

Five
minutes later, four large deputies took Erik away. The three of us—Amber,
Parish, and I—then stood there in Amber's bedroom, where all this madness had
begun. I cannot vouch for what the others were thinking, but for myself, I felt
as if I was on one side of a shaky and dangerous pyramid had nearly toppled
over and killed us all. And there was still little stability to it, because
what remained as fact were Marty’s and my twin obsessions with this woman, our
partaking in her past, our invasion of her present, and a terrible truth about
Grace that we had finally begun to understand. Of lesser importance but still
very much in my thoughts, was the fact that Martin and I had been so completely
convinced of the other's guilt, so subtly pitted against each other by Wald. I
felt that I had betrayed an honest man who was once a friend. The puzzled and
uncomfortable expression that hung upon Martin's face suggested he felt the
same.

About my
daughter, I could only feel sickness, guilt, and remorse.

Later that night,
as I lay alone in my bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, my thoughts began to
drift toward Isabella, sleeping alone in her contraption-heavy bed at the
hospital. I began to make a mental list of all I could do to prepare the house
for her arrival. I was thankful that we had had the wheelchair lift installed
when we did—loud and obnoxious as it was—because she would be needing it all
the more in the coming days. I resolved to get fresh flowers for every room in
the house and to wash all the windows inside and out, because sunlight was a
constant delight to Isabella Monroe.

When the phone rang at 3:00
a.m
., I was sure of the caller.

"You made it," I said.

"I boarded three minutes after talking to you. I was sorry to have
missed all the activity. But maybe the good Los Angeles police found another
nigger to beat up and the night wasn't a total waste for them."

"Where are you?"

"Sh-sh-sh-sh. Your intercept will tell you that. In a land far
away. I'm done in Orange County for now. Tell your r-r- readers that. Then tell
them I'll come back whenever I'm ready. It was a terrible thing you did, making
them believe I am William Ing. And to have forced that pathetic Mary Ing to
identify m-m- my voice. If the people had understood my mission, they would
have supported me."

"I doubt it."

"You underestimate the intelligence and power of
the white man and woman."

There was static on the line and a background sound
suggesting hollowness and human activity. I wondered whether he was calling
from an airport.

"We know who you really are," I said.

"You don't even know what I used to be," he
said. "You are like street sweepers. You find the garbage only when it
fall:

"What do you want?"

"How is Isabella?"

"We don't talk about Isabella. Parish took down
Wald and Grace for Alice Fultz."

After a moment of silence, the Eye laughed again,
that serpentine escape of breath. "I'll miss Orange County. In your
article about our farewell conversation, tell all our friends and readers that
the Midnight Eye will return when he is most needed. The cleansing will
continue."

"I've got a message for you, too. I'm not
writing any more about you. You want to talk, call someone else. You're not
news here anymore, Ing. Have a nice life, and die soon."

With this, I hung up. I called Carfax.

"New York City," he said with a hint of
annoyance in his voice. "JFK airport."

I brought
Isabella home two days later, on Monday, the twelfth of July. Through a
home-health-care network, I arranged—at an affordable rate—for a live-in nurse
to be with us for one week. Her name was Dee. She was a very tall, big-boned
woman with the round, smooth face of an infant and huge, gentle hands. It was
difficult to tell how old she was, and I did not ask. Her hair was straight and
honey-colored and she wore it back in a ponytail. She must have weighed well
over 180 pounds.

Isabella slept most of the time. Our conversations were short; the
trauma of what had happened overtook her often and without warning. We sat on
the deck and looked at the canyon. Isabella was happy to see Our Lady—the
formation of the supine woman with the lights of the city showing up from her
middle—and even laughed when Black Death perched on a power pole and turned his
unbecoming pink head our way.

Izzy ate heartily the meals
prepared by Dee, who turned out to be a very good cook. Dee would never join us
at the table, however; she took her meals in the guest room and left Izzy and
me all the privacy we needed. But when it was time for Izzy's bath or nap or
medication, Dee took over with a quiet proprietary air and dismissed me with a
shy smile. It was obvious that Dee was investing more in Isabella than the simple
reality of
X
hours for
Y
dollars. Isabella was hers, if only for
week, and Dee was not about to let one bit of her concern go unapplied.

During the first
day following the arrests of Wald and Grace Martin, Parish kept me informed by
phone of the status of the questioning. After nearly a full day of separate,
high-pressure, relentless interrogation, Martin's entire team of detectives had
gotten nothing from Grace or Wald except slightly elaborate versions of what
Wald had told me that night at Amber's: that he had followed Grace there and
together they had found Alice body. They were both professing innocence and
extreme outrage at what was being done to them.

With
almost twenty-four hours having passed since the detention, only twenty-four
more remained before either charges were brought or Grace and Erik were
released. I was astonished to find Parish actually considering that
possibility. An unsteadness had crept into his voice as that first day lingered
on without results, and by late that night he was openly doubtful that either
Grace or Wald would contradict each other, much less confess, I asked him for
the tenth time to let me see her.

"No.
We need to do more than just place them there he said. "They've rehearsed
the story well. No chinks, yet.
I
'
m
trying to pry Grace away, let her
believe he's selling her out. No go. They anticipated that. I managed two
search warrants for the weapon, but we both know they won't find it. I got the
judge to give us the porno stuff and any clothing that will match up with the
fibers Chet has in the lab."

"Those fibers could just as well be from our clothes, Martin."

"Yeah. I may have a trump card in that box of evidence I collected
myself. Chain of custody is going to be a problem. Winters is
uh...
fairly furious with some of
my...
activities. I'll keep you
posted."

"Let me see Grace."

"Not while this is going on. It just wouldn't be
a good idea."

"She might talk to me."

"For the first time in her life? She's acting more like she'd spit
in your face."

"Time is short, Martin."

He considered for a moment. "Tomorrow afternoon, if we haven't made
any progress."

"What did
the airlines tell you on the Eye?"

"He traveled
Continental under the name of Mike Eis. Tall guy, smooth-shaven, scars on his
face. Cash only."

"And?"

"The trail
went stone-cold at JFK."

By noon the next
day, Parish had made no progress at all with Grace and Wald. Peter Haight was
feverishly trying to build charges against Wald for statutory rape, and one
against Grace for breaking and entering, but these were thin shadows of the
actual events that had occurred at their hands, and we all knew that shortly
after midnight we would either have to spring them or charge them on shaky
evidence. Chet Singer was doing legitimate workups on Martin's bootlegged
evidence.

Parish let me into the interrogation room at slightly aft 3:00
p.m
. Grace was dressed in her street
clothes still, and she was not handcuffed. Parish and two lumpish deputies
waited outside the closed door, watching, I knew, through the window that to us
inside was nothing more than a mirror.

Grace looked exhausted and offered me little more than expression of
tired recognition.

"Russell."

"Hi, Grace."

"Have you come to ask about my last meal?"