Another knock on the door. This time it was Della Feldman who stepped inside.
“Somebody else to see you, Chief.”
“If it’s the mayor again—”
“Audrey Sixkiller.”
“Audrey? Tell her I’m busy. I don’t need my hand held.”
“That’s not why she came. Something important to tell you, she says.”
“What is it?”
“Tell you, nobody else,” Della said.
“... All right. Send her in.”
I was back on my feet when Audrey entered. She winced when she saw the bandage, the swelling and discoloration, but all she said was, “Dick, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. But the damage isn’t permanent.” Not on the outside, anyway.
She took a step toward me, as if she had it in her mind to touch or embrace me. It must’ve been my expression that stopped her, caused her to bite down on her lower lip. Poor Audrey. She was twice the woman Storm had been, probably twice the woman Eva was; but I didn’t want her close to me, not now. Empty inside, scooped out. Nothing left for her or anybody else.
I asked her if she wanted to sit down and she said no. Then she said, “Dick, how certain are you John Faith is guilty of Storm’s murder?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Something happened a while ago that makes me wonder. Is there any chance he’s innocent?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned. What happened?”
“A phone call. As I was leaving to feed Mack.”
“From?”
“The man who tried to break into my house.”
“The man who—!”
“He as much as said so.”
“... What else did he say?”
She took a breath. “That I’d be dead soon. That he’d make me as dead as Storm Carey. It didn’t sound like an idle threat.”
My face throbbed and burned. This, now, on top of everything else. “His voice... familiar?”
“No. Muffled, disguised.”
“Faith,” I said. “It could’ve been Faith.”
“But he’s dead, drowned...”
“Is he? I’m not so sure of that.”
“Even so, it couldn’t be him. Where would he go to make a phone call? Why would he?”
I shook my head. I wanted it to be Faith; simplify things, give me another reason to hate him. “Okay, maybe not. But it still could’ve been Faith in that ski mask the other night.”
“How could it be? The caller—”
“Sicko taking advantage of the situation, playing games to scare you.”
“No, Dick. The only people who know about the prowler are you and me and Verne. It’s the same man in both cases — I’m sure of it. On the phone... he said my gun wouldn’t stop him the next time. He couldn’t know I shot at the prowler unless—”
“All right,” I said. “Same man, and he’s not Faith.”
“His threat to make me as dead as Storm... couldn’t that mean he’s the one who killed her?”
“No. Her house wasn’t broken into and she wasn’t raped. She knew the man who did it. She let him in.”
“She knew John Faith?”
“Yeah. She invited him there last night.”
“Then... why would he kill her?”
“An argument, he lost his head and picked up that paperweight... Christ, Audrey, stop questioning me on this! Faith did it, nobody else. And the bastard who’s stalking you — I’ll find out who he is and I’ll get him, too. I promise you that. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I know you won’t.”
“I mean it. One woman dead—”
I couldn’t make myself say the rest of it. But Audrey understood. More than I’d thought she did. She said, “I’m sorry about Storm, Dick. I want you to know that. I really am sorry.”
The words, the sympathy and compassion in her eyes, built a sudden sharp impulse to pull her close after all, let her comfort me, find some strength in her strength. But I couldn’t do it. It was like there was a wall of glass between us. I kept my distance, hurting inside and out, feeding on the hurt. And all I could think to say was, “I’ll put an end to it, one way or another. I’ll get them — I’ll get them both.”
Trisha Marx
Ms. Sixkiller’s house was locked up tight. I hunted around in the backyard and found a rock and took it to the bathroom window on the north side. I kept thinking that this was crazy, that I was gonna get myself in some serious trouble here. But I couldn’t just leave John Faith lying there in the boat, cold and wet and wounded, after what he’d done for me on the Bluffs. Nobody’d help him if I didn’t. And suppose the wrong person found him next time, a cop or somebody who wanted to play Rambo?
The window breaking made a lot of noise, but there wasn’t anybody around to hear it; the houses on both sides were empty. I reached inside and flipped the catch and then shoved the sash up far enough so I could wiggle through. A sliver of glass pricked my finger as I swung down off the toilet, but I hardly even felt it. My heart was pounding worse than the first night the bunch of us broke into Nucooee Point Lodge to party.
First thing I did was open the medicine cabinet. There was a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some adhesive tape, and gauze pads. I grabbed all of those and took them with me.
In our house there’s a linen closet that opens off the upstairs hall, but the hall here didn’t have one. So I had to look around for a couple of minutes before I found Ms. Sixkiller’s extra sheets and blankets in the closet in her bedroom. One blanket was heavy, made of wool; another was the all-weather thermal kind that keeps in heat and keeps out cold. I tucked both under my arm and then hurried through the kitchen to the back porch. I figured it’d be easier to go out that way, instead of back through the bathroom window, and it was. The screen door wasn’t hooked, and the lock on the outer door was the push-button kind.
The police launch was still way up shore; I made sure of that before I ran out onto the dock. I climbed down the ladder one-handed — lifted the tarp again and pushed the blankets and stuff inside the boat, then climbed the hoist frame and dropped down next to where John Faith was lying. The way he’d been shaking when I left him, I was afraid I’d find him dead. But he was still breathing, hard and raspy. I touched the side of his face. His skin was cold and hot at the same time, and all puckered and sort of gray. Was that how you looked and felt when you had pneumonia?
Fumble-fingered, I unfolded the wool blanket and shook it out. But then I thought: It won’t do him any good with those wet clothes plastered to his body. He wasn’t wearing much, just a shirt and a pair of Levi’s and socks, no shoes. The shirt had two bloody holes in it under the left shoulder, a small one in back and a bigger one in front. Two wounds. Shot twice, or maybe only once with the bullet going in one side and coming out the other.
The thing to do was to get everything off. Well? It wasn’t like I’d never undressed a guy before. I managed to unbutton the shirt, but parts of it were stuck to the wounds and I was afraid to pull the fabric loose. Instead, I undid his belt and the top button of his Levi’s. Unzipping the fly took longer on account of it stuck partway down. Then I took hold of the belt loops on either side, started to work the soaked pants down around his hips—