What was left of Grey Ghost Two was up on the hydraulic lift. The mechanic, a kid barely nineteen, gave a low whistle as he shone his flashlight at the sprung undercarriage of the car.
“Not just the brake line, the steering mechanism, too.”
They had known Penny would be with him, Dunc thought. Wouldn’t have known about the baby, but that wouldn’t have stopped them. Their baby. Dead. The child he hadn’t wanted had become almost as devastating a loss as Penny herself.
“Why wasn’t the tampering found?” he asked at last.
“Nobody looked,” said the kid. “What made you want to?”
“When I went to pick up the car on Monday morning, it had been moved. But I didn’t do anything. I just let it go.”
“They must have cut the line almost through, then taped it to hold until it got a real good pump. A lot of brake fluid must of spilled out on the floor. Funny you didn’t see it.”
“I wasn’t looking,” said Dunc, sorrowful to his very soul.
The kid was shining his light again, talking about the steering linkage. Dunc couldn’t stand to hear any more.
The car wasn’t turning, wasn’t slowing, Penny screamed...
“Sell it for salvage,” he said. “Keep the money.”
At the bus depot he bought a ticket for L.A. Dark as his thoughts were, a great weight had been lifted from him. Someone else had killed Penny, not him.
The bus came, Dunc found a window seat, leaned back and shut his eyes. He was pretty sure it had been Pepe, but Pepe wasn’t the only one who might have wanted to kill him. Rephaim, Seventh Priest of Mechizedek, thundering biblical curses at him. Hector, acolyte to Rephaim, trying to run him down. Probably in jail, both of them, but he had to eliminate them as suspects.
The bus from L.A. dropped him at Sepulveda and Mission Road. He walked from there. It felt strange to be back in San Fernando. Like returning to a nest he’d helped build and finding it full of fledglings. The seminary was completed; young men in black gowns moved between the buildings, plantings were in, the raw earth was covered with grass.
Dunc waited until the slightly stooped, silver-maned man in the mission’s gift shop had sold a tourist couple some holy medals and a rosary. Then he said, “Hello, Rephaim.”
The man whirled. Recognition dawned. Some erstwhile fire flashed in those eyes. “You!” Rephaim said in half-whisper.
“I didn’t turn you in.” Dunc stepped closer, suddenly needing this man’s absolution. “I didn’t turn anyone in. I was just trying... trying to...”
“To do good,” said Rephaim, so low Dunc could hardly hear him. “I too. I got probation, some kind soul gave me a job here because I am a man of God and because they felt guilty about...” A pause. “So I sell rosaries, here, where it all started...”
“And Hector?”
“No probation for Hector. My church is gone, my people are scattered, my acolyte is imprisoned...”
“But you are still the Seventh Priest of Melchizedek,” said Dunc in sudden fierceness. “No man can take that from you.”
“Yes,” said the old man, wonder in his voice, more light coming into his eyes. “Yes! And God works in mysterious ways.”
That evening a different L.A. bus dropped Dunc on Figueroa in Highland Park, pulled away in a swirl of diesel fumes. He walked through the gathering dusk. Together he and Penny had prowled every inch of these nighttime streets arm-in-arm, laughing, whispering, stopping for long giddy kisses...
And now he didn’t even know where she was buried. Dubuque, Iowa. What was that? Were there flowers on her grave? A headstone? He’d been her husband, but when he’d called her sister Betsy about the funeral, she had cursed him and hung up.
He paused in front of the little white two-story house. The lights were on, he could hear faint television. What would his reception be? More curses? He rang the bell. Aunt Goodie opened the door, stared for a moment, then cried, “Dunc!” and threw her arms wide to receive him.
“It was a beautiful service,” said Goodie. “And the cemetery is on a wooded knoll near Loras College, overlooking the Mississippi.” The three of them were at the kitchen table, iced tea untouched beside them. “We so wished you were there, Dunc.”
“Not her sister,” he said quietly.
“She even went after Goodie for letting Penny go out with you,” added Carl. “As if we could have stopped her.”
Goodie said defensively, “It was just too much for them, losing her that way. Penny was everybody’s favorite, a ray of sunshine. Her father was killed before she was born.”
“By convicts,” said Carl.
“Wait a minute,” said Dunc. “Her dad was killed in an accident and her mom raised the two girls on the union life-insurance money.”
Goodie waved him silent with a small dismissive hand.
“That’s just what we told the girls at the time. Penny’s daddy was a guard at Iowa State Prison, in charge of a flood-control work gang on the river.” Her voice was low. “The prisoners broke loose and killed him.”
“And mutilated his body,” said Carl.
Dunc felt all the blood drain from his face. He gripped the edges of the table fiercely. Of course that was years before Hent, but...
“The girls never knew any of that,” said Goodie almost briskly. “Betsy was bitter, she remembered her dad. She must have felt bad when we all made such a fuss over the new baby. Penny was born early, just a week after her daddy died. She was just a lovely, loving child who grew up into a loving woman. A woman who loved you, Dunc, with her whole soul.”
His emotions were churning, it was like he was helping murder Hent all over again, and here was retribution, so neat, so clean. Black anger welled up in him at the comic vindictiveness of it. The sport of the gods.
“Dunc?” Goodie was staring at him.
“I’m okay,” he said reassuringly. “It’s just so soon...”
Tomorrow, Las Vegas. Confirm what had happened that July fourth night that m some twisted way had led to Penny’s death. And then... Then, by God, do something about it. Henri had said the man was expected at the Flamingo midweek...
A week had gone by. Ten days. No word from Dunc. No body in a ditch. The routine of the office had resumed, with Drinker fighting to keep all the balls in the air at once. Just now it was April, striding up and down his living room, cigarette in hand, pouring out words half in rage, half in fear.
“Harry came to my room last night. He hasn’t done that in months. Months! And he wanted to sleep with me.”
“What else could you do but oblige him?” sneered Drinker.
“He is my husband, for Chrissake.” She glared at him. “Anyway, this morning we did it again...” Drinker was suddenly, perversely, almost dizzily excited by the fact that Harry had been inside her just scant hours earlier. “And then he said that after this trip on Saturday he is going to sell the boat, stay home, and get me to fall in love with him all over again.”
She had dropped into his easy chair, blowing smoke through her nostrils, legs planted apart so he could see up her skirt. His groin was almost instantly heavy with arousal. Following his gaze, she savagely slammed her knees tight together.
“No more for you, damn you, until you do it.”
“Do what?” he asked mildly.
“Kill him, goddamn you! Blow the son of a bitch to hell!” Her eyes were blazing. “For money — or for me.”
“For you, lady.” Drinker’s voice was thick, heavy. He was unbuckling his belt. “Take off your panties. Show it to me.”
She slid lower in the chair, smiling wickedly. “I’m not wearing am panties.” She opened her legs wide. “See?”