She stood and nearly ran out of the restaurant.
I put money on the table and followed her, caught up as she was getting into a red Mustang convertible. The car looked new, but there were dings and dents all along the driver's side.
"Uh-uh, no more," she said, starting the engine. "You get a quickie mind-fuck for your ten bucks, and that's it."
"Just wanted to thank you," I said.
"Polite, too," she said. "I really don't like you."
30
Robin said, "Bad love. The hypocrisy."
"The bastard coins a phrase to describe poor child rearing, but has his own private meaning for it."
"Victimizing little kids." Her hands tightened around the handle of a wood rasp. The blade caught on a piece of rosewood, and she pulled it free and put it down.
"And," I said, "if this woman's experience was typical, the victimization was perfectly legal. De Bosch didn't sexually molest anyone, and none of the physical things he did would fall under any child-abuse statutes but Sweden's."
"Not the poking and slapping?"
"No bruises, no case, and usually you need deep wounds and broken bones to get anywhere legally. Corporal punishment's still allowed in many schools. Back then, it was accepted procedure. And there's never been any law against mind control or psychological abuse- how can you pin down the criteria? Basically, de Bosch behaved like a really rotten parent, and that's no crime."
She shook her head. "And no one ever said anything."
"Maybe some of the children did, but I doubt anyone believed them. These were problem kids. Their credibility was low and their parents were angry. In some cases de Bosch was probably the court of last resort. This woman came back to her family traumatized but perfectly compliant. They never suspected the summer at the school was anything but successful."
"Some success."
"We're talking ultrahigh levels of parental frustration, Rob. Even if what de Bosch did had come to light and some parents had pulled their kids out, I'll bet you others would have rushed to enroll theirs. De Bosch's victims never had any legal recourse. Now, one of them's evening the score his own way."
"The same old chain," she said. "Victims and victimizers."
"The thing that bothers me, though, is why the killer didn't strike out against de Bosch, only the disciples. Unless de Bosch died before the killer was old enough- or assertive enough- to put together a revenge plot."
"Or crazy enough."
"That, too. If I'm right about the killer being directly traumatized by Delmar Parker's accident, we're talking about someone who was a student at the school in 1973. De Bosch died seven years later, so the killer may still have been a kid. Felons that young rarely commit carefully planned crimes. They're more into impulsive stuff. Another thing that could have stopped him from getting de Bosch was being locked up. Jail or a mental institution. That fits with our Mr. Gritz- the ten years unaccounted for between his leaving Georgia and getting arrested here."
"More frustration," she said.
"Exactly. Not being able to punish de Bosch directly could have heated him up even further. The first murder occurred five years ago. Myra Paprock. Maybe that was the year he was released. Myra would have been a good target for him. A trusted disciple, dictatorial."
"Makes sense," she said, looking down at her workbench and arranging some files, "if de Bosch really killed himself. But what if he was murdered and made to look like a suicide?"
"I don't think so," I said. "His death was too peaceful- overdose of medication. Why would the killer butcher subordinates and allow the boss to get off so easy? And a ritual approach- one that fulfilled a psychological need- would have meant leaving the best for last, not starting with de Bosch first and working backwards."
"Best for last," she said, in a tremulous voice. "So where do you fit in?"
"The only thing I can think of is that damned symposium."
She started to switch off her tools. The dog tagged after her, stopping each time she did, looking up, as if seeking approval.
"Alex," she said, removing her apron, "if de Bosch did commit suicide, do you think it could have been due to remorse? It doesn't mean much, but it would be nice to think of him having some self-doubts."
"The woman asked me the same thing. I'd have liked to say yes-she'd have loved to hear it, but she wouldn't have bought it. The man she described didn't sound very conscience laden. My guess is his motivation was just what the papers printed: despondence over ill health. The slides his daughter flashed at the symposium showed a physical wreck."
"A wrecker," she said.
"Yeah. Who knows how many kids he messed up over the years?"
The dog heard the tension in my voice and cocked his head. I petted him and said, "So who's the higher life-form, anyway, bub?"
Robin picked up a broom and began to sweep wood shavings.
"Any other calls?" I said, holding the dustpan for her.
"Uh-uh." She finished and wiped her hands. We stepped out of the garage and she pulled down the door. The mountains across the canyon were clear and greening. Drought-starved shoots, trying for another season.
All at once the big, low house seemed more foreign than ever. We went inside. The furniture looked strange.
In the bedroom, Robin unbuttoned her work shirt and I unsnapped her bra and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in my palms and as I touched her, she arched her back. Then she stepped away from me and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Let's get out of here, Alex- out of the city."
"Sure," I said, looking over at the dog, head-butting the bedcovers. "Do we take him with us?"
"I'm not talking summer vacation, just dinner. Somewhere far enough to feel different. He'll be fine. We'll leave food and water, the air-conditioning on, give him a couple of chew-bones."
"Okay, where would you like to go?"
Her smile was barren. "Normally I'd say Santa Barbara."
I forced myself to laugh. "How about the other direction- Laguna Beach?"
"Laguna would be peachy." She came over and placed my hands on her hips. "Remember that place with the ocean view?"
"Yeah," I said. "Calamari and pictures of weeping clowns- wonder if it's still in business?"
"If it isn't, there'll be someplace else. The main thing is we get away."
• • •
We left at seven-thirty, to avoid the freeway jam, taking the truck because the gas tank was fuller. I drove, enjoying the height and the heft and the power. A tape Robin had picked up at McCabe's was in the deck: a teenager named Allison Krause, singing bluegrass in a voice as sweet and clear as first love and running off fiddle solos that had the wondrous ease of the prodigy.
I hadn't called Milo to tell him about Meredith.
Another scumbag, he'd say, world-weary. Then he'd rub his face…
I thought of the man on the tape, chanting like a child, reliving his past…
Bad thoughts intruding.
I felt Robin tighten up. Her fingers had been tapping my thigh in time with the music, now they stopped. I squeezed them. Strummed the fingertips, let my hand wander to her small, hard waist as the truck roared in the fast lane.
She had on black leotards under a short denim skirt. Her hair was tied up, showing off her neck, smooth as cream. A man with a functioning brain would have thanked God for sitting next to her.
I pressed my cheek against hers. Let my shoulders drop and bobbed my head to the music. Not fooling her, but she knew I was trying and she put her hand high on my thigh.
A babe and a truck and the open road.
By the time I reached Long Beach, it started to feel real.
• • •
Laguna was quieter and darker than I remembered, the art fair over, nearly all the tourist traps and galleries closed.
The place with the squid and clowns was no longer in business; a karaoke bar had taken its place- people getting slogged on margaritas and pretending to be Righteous Brothers. The painful sounds made their way to the sidewalk.