What friendship? 1 feel as if I don't even know you anymore. You leave money around my house as if I'm nothing more than the damn maid. I don't remember the last time we ate a meal together. You never talk to me.
You're so obsessed with this damn book. You see what's happened to Pat Harvey. Can't you see that the same thing is happening to you?"
Abby just stared at me.
"It's as if you've made up your mind about something," I continued to plead with her. "Why won't you tell me what it is?"
"There's nothing to make up my mind about," she said quietly, pulling away from me. "Everything's already been decided."
Fielding called early Saturday morning to say there were no autopsies, and exhausted, I went back to bed. It was midmorning when I got up. After a long, hot shower I was ready to deal with Abby and see if we could somehow repair our damaged relationship.
But when I went downstairs and knocked on her door, there was no answer, and when I went out to get the paper I saw her car was gone. Irritated that she had managed to avoid me again, I put on a pot of coffee.
I was sipping my second cup when a small headline caught my attention:
WILLIAMSBURG MAN GIVEN SUSPENDED SENTENCE
Steven Spurrier had not been cuffed and hauled off to jail following his arraignment the day before as Abby had predicted, I read, horrified. He pleaded guilty to petit larceny, and because he had no prior record and had always been a law-abiding citizen of Williamsburg, he was fined one thousand dollars and had walked out of the courthouse a free man.
Everything's already been decided, Abby had said.
Is this what she had been referring to? If she knew Spurrier would be released, why would she deliberately mislead me? I left the kitchen and opened the door to her room. The bed was made, curtains drawn. Inside the bath, I noticed drops of water in the sink and the faint scent of perfume. She had not been gone long. I looked for her briefcase and tape recorder, but could not find them.
Her.38 was not in its drawer. I went through dressers until I found her notepads, hidden beneath clothes.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I frantically flipped through them. I streaked through her days and weeks as the meaning became clearer.
What had begun as Abby's crusade to discover the.truth about the couples' murders had turned into her own ambitious obsession.
She seemed fascinated by Spurrier. If he was guilty, she was determined to make his story the focus of her book, to explore his psychopathic mind. If he was innocent, it would be "another Gainesville," she wrote, referring to the spree murders of university students in which a suspect became a household name and later turned out to be innocent. "Only it would be worse than Gainesville," she added. "Because of what the card implies."
Initially, Spurrier had repeatedly denied Abby's requests for interviews. Then late last week, she had tried again and he had picked up the phone. He had suggested they meet after the arraignment, telling her his attorney had "made a deal."
"He said he had read my stories in the Post over the years," Abby had scribbled, "and had recalled my byline from when I was in Richmond. He remembered what I had written about Jill and Elizabeth, too, and remarked that they were 'nice girls' and he'd always hoped the cops would get the 'psycho.' He also knew about my sister, said he'd read about her murder.
That's the reason he finally agreed to talk to me, he said. He 'felt' for me, said he realized I understood what it was like to 'be a victim; because what happened to my sister made me a victim, too.
'I am a victim,' he said. 'We can talk about that. Maybe you can help me better understand what that's all about' "He suggested I come to his house Saturday morning at eleven, and I agreed, providing all interviews are exclusive. He said that was fine, he had no intention of talking to anybody else as long as I told his side. 'The truth,' as he put it. Thank you, Lord! Screw you and your book, Cliff. You lose."
Cliff Ring was writing a book about these cases, too. Dear Lord. No wonder Abby had been acting so odd.
She had lied when she had told me what was going to happen at Spurrier's arraignment. She did not want me to suspect that she planned to go to his house, and she knew such a thought would never occur to me if I assumed he would be in jail. I remembered her saying that she no longer trusted anyone. She didn't, not even me.
I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-fifteen.
Marino wasn't in, so I left a message on his pager. Then I called the Williamsburg police, and the phone rang forever before a secretary answered. I told her I needed to speak to one of the detectives immediately.
"They're all out on the street right now."
"Then let me speak to whoever's in."
She transferred me to a sergeant.
Identifying myself, I said, "You know who Steven Spurrier is."
"Can't work around here and not know that."
"A reporter is interviewing him at his house. I'm alerting you so you can make sure your surveillance teams know she's there, make sure everything's all right."
There was a long pause. Paper crinkled. It sounded as if the sergeant was eating something. Then, "Spurrier's not under surveillance anymore."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said our guys have been pulled off."
"Why?"
I demanded.
"Now, that I don't know, Doc, been on vacation for the past-"
"Look, all I'm asking is you send a car by his house, make sure everything's all right."
It was all I could do not to scream at him.
" "Don't you worry about a thing."
His voice was as calm as a spill pond. "I'll pass it along."
I hung up as I heard a car pull in.
Abby, thank God.
But when I looked out the window, it was Marino.
I opened the front door before he could ring the bell.
"Was in the area when I got your message on the beeper, so I - "
"Spurrier's house!"
I grabbed his arm. "Abby's there! She's got her gun!"
The sky had turned dark and it was raining as Marino and I sped east on 64. Every muscle in my body was rigid. My heart would not slow down.
"Hey, relax," Marino said as we turned off at the Colonial Williamsburg exit. "Whether the cops are watching him or not, he ain't stupid enough to touch her: Really, you know that. He ain't going to do that."
There was only one vehicle in sight when we turned onto Spurrier's quiet street.
"Shit," Marino muttered under his breath.
Parked on the street in front of Spurrier's house was a black Jaguar.
"Pat Harvey," I said. "Oh, God."
He slammed on the brakes.
"Stay here."
He was out of the car as if he had been ejected, running up the driveway in the pouring rain. My heart was pounding as he pushed the front door open with his foot, revolver in hand, and disappeared inside.
The doorway was empty when suddenly he filled it again. He stared in my direction, yelling something I could not hear.
I got out of the car, rain soaking my clothes as I ran.
I smelled the burnt gunpowder the instant I entered the foyer.
"I've called for help," Marino said, eyes darting around. "Two of them are in there."
The living room was to the left.
He was hurrying up the stairs leading to the second story as photographs of Spurrier's house crazily flashed in my mind. I recognized the glass coffee table and saw the revolver on top of it. Blood was pooled on the bare wood floor beneath Spurrier's body, a second revolver several feet away. He was facedown, inches from the gray leather couch where Abby lay on her side. She stared at the cushion beneath her cheek through drowsy, dull eyes, the front of her pale blue blouse soaked bright red.
For an instant I didn't know what to do, the roaring inside my head as loud as a windstorm. I squatted beside Spurrier, blood spilling and seeping around my shoes as I rolled him over. He was dead, shot through the abdomen and chest.