“You,” Patmore said over the walkie-talkie, “until I’ve told you different, stay right the hell where you are.”
Officer Rollins divided his attention among the three towers, studying them through binoculars.
Patmore ignored Mary. He hadn’t bothered to say hello when she arrived, and he still refused even to look her way.
“If this doesn’t work out,” Lou said, “the chief will swear he never met you.”
6:30 P.M.
A dozen boat parties were in progress all along the harbor. Within an hour there would be a dozen more. Laughter, the squeals of young women, and music from several stereos drifted across the water.
Most of the craft, from the smallest sailboats to the largest motor yachts, were decorated for the season. Strings of colored lights wound around the deck railings and encircled the ports. A few of the biggest yachts, able to tap the power in their huge engines and banks of batteries, were swathed in layers of light, as if weighed down beneath scores of incandescent Hawaiian leis. There were boats with green lights arranged to form Christmas trees on their masts, boats that used golden lights to transform their masts into gigantic crosses, boats carrying life-size statues of Santa Claus, boats with cardboard and Styrofoam reindeer capering across cabin roofs, boats draped with paper chrysanthemums, evergreen boughs, holly, and fresh flowers. The ships blazed against the night.
In his own way Lou Pasternak was proud of King’s Point. He could deliver an hour-long monologue dissecting its many faults, but he never failed to point out that it was, if nothing else, the loveliest beach town in California.
Pretty as it was, however, the harbor could not distract him for more than a few minutes tonight. He finally turned to Mary and said, “Can we talk about Barry Mitchell?”
She jerked as if he’d pinched her.
“Mary?” he said.
“You startled me”
“I’m sorry.”
“What about Barry Mitchell?” she asked.
“He was what... ten years older than you?”
“About that, I think.”
“Do you recall what he looked like?”
“He was tall, a big boy.”
“What color was his hair?”
“Dark,” she said. “Brown, I suppose.”
“His eyes?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You said he killed Alan’s pets.”
“And the few I had as well.”
“Was he caught at it?”
“Alan saw him killing a squirrel we owned.”
“Was he apprehended in the act?”
“No. He was too big for Alan.”
“Were charges ever brought?”
“We had no proof,” she said.
“You had Alan’s testimony.”
“The word of one boy against another.”
“So you stopped keeping pets,” Lou said.
“Yes.”
Max put his arm around Mary’s shoulders.
“Nothing was done to Barry Mitchell?” Lou asked.
“My father’s attorney had a talk with his mother.”
“What did he accomplish?”
“Nothing. Barry Mitchell denied killing them.”
Max asked, “Why all these questions, Lou?”
Lou hesitated, then decided there was no reason to keep his suspicions a secret. “You’ve told me there’s something very unusual about the killer we’re after tonight. Max has told me the same thing. The two of you disagree as to what is unusual about him. But suppose... what if the man we’re tracking is Berton Mitchell’s son?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Why not?” Lou asked.
“He’s dead,” she said.
Lou stared in surprise.
“You mean Barry Mitchell’s dead?” Max asked.
“His mother, too,” Mary said.
“What?”
“His mother died, too. The same night.”
Lou asked, “When did this happen?”
“I was eleven at the time.”
“Nineteen years ago.”
“That’s about right.”
“They died together?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“They were killed by an intruder.”
“A burglar?” Lou asked.
“I suppose so. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t know the killer’s name?”
“Is that important?”
“Did they ever catch anyone?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Who told you about this?” Lou asked.
“Alan.”
“Are you certain he knew what he was talking about?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I think he might have showed me a newspaper clipping about it.”
Lou sagged against the Mercedes, disappointed that yet another theory had been demolished.
But if the wife and son had been murdered just five years after Berton Mitchell committed suicide, why hadn’t Roger Fullet found that information in the
Los Angeles Times’
files on the case?
Something exceedingly strange was happening. He was not a theatrical man given to bursts of melodrama. Nonetheless, he swore he could
feel
evil in the air that night.
A woman’s laughter bounced across the rippled water, high and shrill.
7:00 P.M.
Mary squeezed Max’s hand and waited tensely. Any minute the walkie-talkie would crackle with a report from one of the deputies. Any second there would be news of a man sneaking up the stairs in one of those towers
;
and when it came, the chase would begin in earnest.
7:03.
Mary repeatedly glanced at her watch in the back glow of the police cruiser’s headlights. She shifted restlessly from one foot to the other.
7:04.
For the first time in more than an hour, Chief Patmore looked at her, met her eyes. He wasn’t happy.
7:06.
She was beginning to feel that she had been outmaneuvered, outwitted. For the first time in her career she had encountered an adversary who was a match for her. She was tracking a man against whom all of her psychic abilities provided no advantage.
7:09.
She was numb with fear. “Something’s wrong,” she said.
“What is it?” Max asked.
“The killer’s not coming.”
Lou said, “But you
saw
him do it.”
“And what you see always happens,” Max said.
“Not this time,” she said. “This one’s different. He knows I’m after him. He knows the cops are watching the towers.”
Lou said, “If Patmore’s men have been too obvious—”
“No,” she said. “It’s just that the killer’s able to anticipate me. He isn’t coming.”
Lou said, “Don’t tell Patmore. We’ve got to wait a little while. We can’t give up yet.”
When there was no sign of a suspect at any of the towers by 7:30, John Patmore began to stride back and forth in front of his patrol car, scowling. As the minutes passed, he paced faster.
At 7:45 he picked up the walkie-talkie from the hood of the car
;
for fifteen minutes he talked without pause to Winterman, Holtzman, and Teagarten. Twice he lost control and shouted at them.
Finally he put down the walkie-talkie and came to Mary.
“The man isn’t coming,” she said.
“Was he
ever
really expected?” Patmore asked.
“Yes, of course.” She was miserable. She felt she’d hurt Lou by using his influence and then failing to deliver what she promised.
“What made him change his mind?” Patmore asked.
“He knows we’re waiting for him,” Max said.
“Yeah? Who told him?”
“No one,” Mary said. “He senses it.”
“Senses it? How?”
“He must ... he probably...”
“Yeah?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
“In my office,” Patmore said angrily, “you knew so much this morning. Everything you knew. Now you don’t know anything all of a goddamned sudden. Obviously you also don’t know that if I want, I can get nasty about someone coming to my office, this false crime report, a thing like that, wasting my time and the time of my men only to have some laughs, all for some sort of a lark!”
“Don’t have a stroke,” Lou said. “And don’t try to give Mary a stroke.”
Patmore turned away from her, faced Lou. “You’d share the blame if I pursued this.”
“You don’t have anything to pursue,” Lou said patiently. “You know perfectly well that we didn’t file a crime report—let alone one that was false. We simply came to your office to tell you that we had good reason to believe a crime would be committed.”
Patmore glared at him. “You set me up.”
“John, that is ridiculous.”
“And Percy Osterman helped you. Why? Hell, no. You don’t have to tell me. I see it, why he did. When people here voted, and Percy was against it from the start, for their own police, he was upset. He doesn’t care for me much, does he? He never showed it, but he sure mustn’t.”
Lou said, “You’re all wrong. Be reasonable, John. There’s no conspiracy against you. Mary’s sincere. Percy was sincere. We all are. We—”
“You want to make me look like a fool.” Patmore wagged his finger in Lou’s face. “You damned well better not print in your paper anything about this, about me falling for this psychic crap, because I’ll sue you if you do for libel. I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.” There was an uncharacteristic fire in his usually dull brown eyes.
Mary took hold of Lou’s arm. “I’m wrung out, Lou. I don’t want trouble for you or me.”
“Yeah,” Max said. “Let’s drop it. Let’s go.”
Exasperated with the policeman, Lou said, “John, I’m not going to write about you. I haven’t any desire to make you look like a fool in the Press. You’ve got to realize there’s a psychopathic killer loose in this town and—”
Still seething, Patmore said, “You’ve written about me before.”
Lou was getting angry. “I’ve always written tame loyal opposition’ articles when I’ve disagreed with you. I’ve never been unfair to you. In fact, I think I’ve been too tolerant. It’s not my style to do a hatchet job. God knows, if I’d wanted to make you look like an idiot, I could have done it.”
Mary squeezed Lou’s arm, tugged at him.
Patmore said, “You’re a crummy reporter with a stinking two-bit newspaper, and you’re a lousy drunk to boot.”
For an instant she thought Lou was going to hit him. But he only stared hard at Patmore and said, “A drunk can always go on the wagon and sober up. But a stupid man who has a bottom-of-the-bucket IQ has to live with what he has forever.”
“Shit,” Patmore said. He walked back to the front of the squad car, picked up the walkie-talkie, and called Winterman, Holtzman, and Teagarten out of the towers.
“I’m sorry,” Mary said to Lou. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault he’s an idiot.”
Max opened the car door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
When they were settled in Lou Pasternak’s book-strewn living room once more, Max asked, “What now? ”
“We wait,” Mary said.
“For what?” Lou asked.
Wearily, she said, “We wait for him to start killing people again.”
Friday, December 25
16
THE MOTEL ROOM was dark.
She was lying on her side. She turned onto her back.
She felt claustrophobic, as if the ceiling had begun to descend upon her.
“Can’t shut off your mind?” Max asked.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to doze off first.”
“You were so quiet,” she said.
“Trying not to disturb you.”
“What time is it?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Go to sleep, darling. I’ll be fine.”
“I can’t sleep if I know you’re worried.”
“I keep thinking I hear someone trying the door.”
“No one’s been at the door. I’d have heard it.”
“And I keep thinking someone’s at the window.”
“Not that either. It’s nerves.”
“Screaming mimis,” she said.
“Maybe you should take a sedative.”
“I had a sleeping pill two hours ago.”
“So take another.”
“What is he, Max?”
“Who?”
“The killer.”
“Just a man.”
“No.”
“Yes, Mary. Yes. Just a man.”
Darkness pulsed around her.
“He’s something more,” she said.
“Take another sleeping pill.”
“I guess I should. But I was beginning to cut down. I was beginning to break the habit.”
“After this case you can go cold turkey. But right now the pills aren’t an indulgence. You’ve got good reason to need them.”
“Will you get one for me?”
He fetched a glass of water and the sedative, waited while she took it, switched off the light and returned to bed.
“Move close,” she said.
Her back was against his chest. Her buttocks against his groin. Two spoons in a drawer.
Several minutes passed in warm silence.
At last she said, “I’m getting sleepy.”
“Good.” He stroked her hair.
Still later: “Max?”
“Hmmm?”
“Maybe he can’t help being bad and doing awful things. Maybe he was born bad. Maybe evil isn’t
always
learned. Maybe parents and environment aren’t
always
to blame for an evil child. Sometimes maybe it’s in the genes.”
“Will you hush?”
“Max, am I going to die?”
“Eventually. We all do.”
“But soon? Will I die soon?”
“Not soon. I’m here.”
“Hold me.”
“I’m holding you.”
“I want to be strong.”
“You are strong.”
“I am?”
“You just don’t realize it.”
In ten minutes she was asleep.
He continued to stroke her hair.
He listened to her breathing.
He didn’t want her to die. He hoped she didn’t
have
to die. He wished with all of his heart and mind that she would give up on this case. Let the killing be done. She shouldn’t feel responsible.