“Read it,” he said. “It’s her suicide note — Paula’s note. If it raises any questions in your mind, call me. Give me a name. Just one name is all I need. And tell your friend that he doesn’t have to worry about trouble with the police; the law can’t touch him if he had anything to do with it or not.”
Debbie somehow got away, down the steps, down the driveway, the envelope clutched in one hand. Walking jerkily back toward school on Linda Vista, she took out the note and read it. It shook her.
I am doing this because of something intolerable in myself...
Debbie’s steps slowed, then quickened triumphantly again. Of course. Paula had been an old woman; she hadn’t been able to face life without Ricky. Something intolerable in myself. Yes, shame had driven her on. You read about it all the time. The older women, seeking the younger and younger lovers, finally killing themselves from shame.
As for the rest of it, that Harold Rockwell thing, she was sure that had happened the way the professor had said it had, but that didn’t mean Rick or any of the others were mixed up in it — even though it was the sort of thing it wouldn’t surprise her to hear about that icky Julio doing. Julio, whose eyes always undressed her when he looked at her. She felt a faint disgust with herself. To have even for an instant felt any doubt of Ricky, after this past weekend together! She wouldn’t say anything to him about today; it would be too much like questioning his actions. Their love was still too new, too fragile and wonderful, to risk that way.
Curt stood on the front porch, watching the girl go down the driveway toward the blacktop. She soon was lost to his view behind the trees and undergrowth, but he continued to stand there abstractedly. So it went on. Talking with her dormitory house mother, talking with her parents — not that they necessarily would know who Debbie’s special boyfriend was. Parents or school authorities seldom did these days. Failing there, talking with her special girl friends among the students. Maybe, if necessary, putting Archie Matthews back on it.
He stared unseeingly at a green Rambler which dawdled on Linda Vista toward the university, in the direction Debbie had gone. In his brief glimpses through the foliage, Curt could not see the driver.
The trouble was he had handled it wrong. Pushed too hard, too fast. Left her no way to turn, so she had to deny to herself that her boyfriend could be involved. It also bothered him that she had believed so strongly. Maybe he was wrong; he had to be sure before he moved against anyone. At least he had the threat against Jimmy Anderson; he hadn’t told Debbie about that. He still had that as a lever.
Rick
Tuesday, August 26th — Friday, August 29th
Chapter 23
Rick drew on his cigarette, and the glowing tip cast a faintly theatrical glow over the angles of his face. He and Julio wore swim trunks hut neither had been in the water; it was just that nothing said out here by the pool could be heard except from the kitchen windows, and they were closed.
“Not Debbie,” he repeated doggedly. “I know her, Julio.”
“Yes, man, Debbie.” Julio’s voice was low and intense. “I followed her out there, and waited down the road until she came out again.”
“What the hell are you doing following her anyway?”
Julio’s face was just a blur in the gathering darkness. “Remember the Fourth of July? She said something about you and older women? That showed that she knew about Paula Halstead, so I have followed her ever since, waiting for her to show that she is dangerous.” Then as if sensing Rick’s unasked question, he laughed harshly. The laughter seemed to congeal in his throat. “Yes, last weekend, too. To the cabin. Did you think Julio so dumb as to believe you were not making her? Will the others be so dumb as to believe you when you say she is not a danger?”
The redwood fence blocked off the evening breeze, but Rick still seemed to find the evening getting chilly. He shivered. He’d told Debbie that Paula Halstead had been in love with him, and here was Debbie going to Halstead’s house. Could she be wiggy enough to tell Halstead that story Rick had made up? For the first time he felt things closing in about him. Debbie. Halstead. The rest of the guys. Julio.
If. He looked over at Julio, just a pale blob on the cement beside him now, as the darkness thickened.
If Julio wasn’t making it all up because he was paranoid or something about getting his hands on Debbie. Now that he thought of it, what the hell was Julio following Debbie around for when she was with Rick? Was Julio maybe thinking that Rick should no longer be the moving force of the group? This was Rick’s problem, Rick Dean would handle it. It was time for him to regain the offensive.
“Well, what do you think?” demanded Julio impatiently. “Do you not think the others will agree with my idea that we should—”
“I think you’re full of shit,” said Rick viciously.
Julio’s mouth sagged in surprise. It was always that way: Rick would switch moods, change gears, and neatly be in command again. Rick was going on, his facile imagination working smoothly.
“I told Debbie to talk with Halstead — pretend to be interviewing him for the first fall-term edition of the student newspaper — about his wife’s death.” His lips curved in self-satisfaction as he put it into Julio, watched the bastard squirm. “You know the way Deb is with me, Julio, I didn’t give her any reason why I wanted her to ask. I never have to give Deb reasons. She does anything I say. Anything. But, since you’re so damned chicken—”
“I am not chicken,” denied Julio thickly.
“I said, since you are so chicken,” Rick went on, “I’ll ask her what she found out. Just for you, so you can sleep at night. I have a date with her tomorrow night, in San Leandro. I’ll ask her then.”
Once Julio was gone, however, Rick sat down in one of the canvas deck chairs and thoughtfully lighted another cigarette. It was all very well to say to Julio that he was on top of things, but he knew he hadn’t told Debbie to go see Halstead. It was that Julio didn’t know how to handle chicks. He came on too hard with them. Chicks took everything personal, you had to make them think that they somehow had injured you.
He drew on the cigarette, watched the tip glow. Tomorrow was Wednesday, the twenty-seventh. He really had to find out what was going on, before things went sour. The real danger was that fruiter, Rockwell. So he’d screwed Halstead’s wife, hell, she’d begged for it; and now she was dead, they couldn’t prove a thing there. But Rockwell still was around. Christ, Rick’s old man would freak if he was arrested for that. He still could feel that queer’s face grinding into the gravel, almost.
Caliban jumped up on the couch beside Rick, regarded him warily from quarter-sized eyes. Caliban’s throat was achingly white and the tip of his nose was pink; he weighed thirteen pounds. Rick ran a hand down his back and then, because Debbie was still out in the kitchen telling her ma about the movie, shoved Caliban on the shoulder, hard, trying to knock him on the floor. The cat merely yielded with the push, like a boxer slipping a punch, gave a single indignant rowhr! and jumped off the sofa with wounded dignity. Dogs were okay, wagging their tails and everything, but a cat wouldn’t even purr unless he wanted to.