Returning from the kitchen, he handed me a sweating bottle of ice-cold Corona, a wedge of lime floating in the long neck. It tasted wonderful.
PJ sat down and began talking again. "Straw, I mean Beryl, I guess I may as well call her Beryl, was scared shitless. To be honest, when I heard about what happened, I wasn't really surprised. I mean, it freaked me. But I wasn't really surprised. I told her to stay here. I told her to screw the rent, that she could stay. Walt and me, well, I guess it was funny, but it got to where she was sort of like our sister. The fuckhead screwed me, too."
"I beg your pardon?" I asked, startled by his sudden anger.
"That's when Walt left. It was after we heard about it. I don't know. He changed, Walt did. I can't say that what happened to her was the only reason. We had our problems. But it did something to him. He got distant and wouldn't talk anymore. Then, one morning, he left. He just left."
"This was when? Several weeks ago, when you found out from the police, when they came to Louie's?"
He nodded.
"It's screwed me, too, PJ," I said. "It's totally screwed me, too."
"What do you mean? How the hell's it screwed you, other than causing you a lot of trouble?"
"I'm living Beryl's nightmare." I was barely able to say it.
He took a swallow of beer, his eyes intense on me.
"Right now I suppose I'm running, too-for the same reason she was."
"Man, you're making my brain bleed," he said, shaking his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Did you see the photograph on the front page of this morning's Herald!"
I asked. "A photograph of a police car burning in Richmond."
"Yeah," he said, puzzled. "I sort of remember it."
"That was in front of my house, PJ. The detective was inside my living room talking to me when his car was torched. It's not the first thing that's happened. You see, he's after me, too."
"Who is, for Christ's sake?" he asked, even though I could tell he knew.
"The man who murdered Beryl," I said with great difficulty. "The man who then butchered Beryl's mentor, Gary Harper, whom you may have heard her mention."
"Lots of times. Shit. I'm not believing this."
"Please help me, PJ."
"I don't know how I can." He became so upset he jumped out of the chair and started pacing. "Why would the pig come after you?"
"He suffers delusional jealousy. He's obsessive. He's a paranoid schizophrenic. He seems to hate anyone connected with Beryl. I don't know why, PJ. But I have to find out who he is. I have to find him," I said.
"I don't know who the hell he is. Or where the hell he is. If I did, I'd find him and tear his fucking head off!"
"I need that manuscript, PJ," I said.
"What the fuck does her manuscript have to do with it?" he protested.
So I told him. I told him about Gary Harper and his necklace. I told him about the phone calls and the fibers, and the autobiographical work Beryl was writing that I had been accused of stealing. I revealed everything I could think of about the cases while my soul withered in fear. I had never, not even once, discussed the details of a case with anyone other than the investigators or attorneys involved. When I was finished, PJ silently left the room. When he returned, he was carrying an army knapsack, which he placed in my lap.
"There," he said."
I swore to God I would never do this. I'm sorry, Beryl," he muttered. "I'm sorry."
Opening the canvas flap, I carefully pulled out what must have been close to a thousand typed pages scribbled with handwritten notes, and four computer diskettes, all of it bound in thick rubber bands.
"She told us never to let anybody have it should something happen to her. I promised."
"Thank you, Peter. God bless you," I said, and then I asked of him one last thing.
"Did Beryl ever mention anyone she referred to as 'M'?"
He stood very still and stared at his beer.
"Do you know who this person is?" I asked.
"Myself," he said.
"I don't understand."
" 'M' for 'Myself.' She wrote letters to herself," he said.
'The two letters we found," I said to him. "The ones we found on the floor of her bedroom after she was murdered, the ones that mentioned you and Walt, were addressed to 'M.'"
"I know," he said, shutting his eyes.
"How do you know?"
"I knew it when you mentioned Zulu and the cats. I knew you'd read those letters. That's when I decided you were all right, that you were who you said you were."
"Then you've read the letters, too?" I asked, stunned.
He nodded.
"We never found the originals," I muttered. "The two we found are photocopies."
"That's because she burned everything," he said, taking a deep breath, steadying himself.
"But she didn't bum her book."
"No. She told me she didn't know where she'd go next or what she'd do if he was still there, still after her. That she'd call me later on and tell me where to mail the book. And if I didn't hear from her, to hold on to it, never give it up to anyone. She never called, you know. She never fucking called."
He wiped his eyes, averting his face from me. "The book was her hope, you know. Her hope of being alive."
His voice caught when he added, "She never stopped hoping things would turn out all right."
"What exactly was it that she burned, PJ?"
"Her diary," he replied. "I guess you could call it that. Letters she'd been writing to herself. She said it was her therapy and that she didn't want anyone to see them. They were very private, her most private thoughts. The day before she left, she burned all her letters except two."
"The two I saw," I almost whispered. "Why? Why didn't she burn those two letters?"
"Because she wanted me and Walt to have them."
"As a remembrance?"
"Yeah," he said, reaching for his beer and roughly rubbing tears from his eyes. "A piece of herself, a record of thoughts she had while she was here. The day before she left, the day she burned the stuff, she went out and photocopied just those two. She kept the copies and gave us the originals, said it sort of made us indentured to each other-that was the word she used. The three of us would always be together in our thoughts as long as we had the letters."
When he walked me out, I turned around, throwing my arms around him in a hug of thanks.
I headed back to my hotel as the sun settled, palms etched against a spreading band of fire. Throngs of people clambered noisily toward the bars along Duval, and the enchanted air was alive with music, laughter, and lights. I walked with a spring in my step, the army knapsack slung over my shoulder. For the first time in weeks I was happy, almost euphoric. I was completely unprepared for what awaited me in my room.
16
I did not recall leaving any lamps on and just assumed the housekeeping staff must have neglected to switch them off after changing the linen and emptying the ashtrays. I had already locked the door and was humming to myself as I passed the bath when I realized I was not alone.
Mark was sitting near the window, an open briefcase on the carpet beside his chair. In that moment's hesitation when my feet didn't know which way to move, his eyes met mine in speechless communication, thrilling my heart and seizing it with terror.
Pale and dressed in a winter gray suit, he looked as if he had just arrived from the airport, his suit bag propped against the bed. If he had a mental geiger counter, I was sure my knapsack was making it click like mad. Sparacino had sent him. I thought of the Ruger in my handbag, but I knew I could never turn a gun on Mark James and squeeze the trigger if it came to that.
"How did you get in?" I asked dully, standing very still.
"I'm your husband," he said, and reaching in his pocket, he displayed a hotel key to my room.
"You bastard," I whispered, my heart pounding harder.
His face blanched. He averted his eyes. "Kay-"