Joe, crouched beneath the little console, saw not only the scene Emmylou described, he saw the earlier scene as well, saw his nightmare, the driving rain sluicing against the little shack in the windy night, saw and heard the two women yelling at each other, Hesmerra and Greta. Saw the young woman race out to her car and take off into the stormy night, saw the second car, dark and sleek, skid against the hill as it raced to follow her.
Emmylou said, “The killer saw Sammie that night. He knew there were two witnesses, not just a homeless man.”
“But if he knew that, why . . . If he killed Sammie, why did it take him four years? It couldn’t have taken four years to find her, in his small village.”
Emmylou shook her head. “He found her before that. Maybe a year ago. He must have been looking for her. Yes, it’s a wonder it took him that long. She was real careful, stayed away from people, shopped when the stores were busy so she could get lost in a crowd. Other times, she kept to herself, that was the way she lived anyway.
“He found her when she was walking up in the hills, just at dawn, barely light. A car passed her, a dark two-door. It slowed, the driver did a double take, swerved into a driveway, turned around and pulled to the curb. The minute it slowed she slipped away through an overgrown yard. She watched him from there, and then ran. Through the backyards to another street, through the backstreets and then through yards where a car couldn’t follow.
“But days later,” Emmylou said, “he tracked her down, he discovered where she lived, and he began to watch her—just to watch, and follow.
“She thought he meant to scare her, keep her afraid so she wouldn’t talk. She thought maybe he was afraid to kill again. Or,” Emmylou said, “that he hoped she’d lead him to the other witness. Sammie pretended to be unaware of him, she thought that was her best protection. She thought sooner or later he’d decide she wasn’t going to the law and he’d back off, would give up watching her.”
“Why didn’t she file a report, that she was being followed? Why didn’t she tell us what this was about?”
Emmylou shook her head. “What was she going to say? She said the cops, even with Birely’s report on file, did nothing to find the man the first time, so what were they going to do now?” Emmylou gave Detective Ray a wan smile. “Sammie wasn’t fond of cops—of the police. Maybe because of her brother. The law hassles him a lot.”
“He has a record?”
“Not that I know of, but he’s been picked up for loitering, and . . . the homeless get hassled, that’s the way things are. He calls himself a hobo. Travels up and down the coast, stops in the village now and then and calls her. He won’t stay at her place, though. When he shows up . . . when he showed up,” she said, “he wouldn’t stay with her. She’d bring him a meal, wherever he was, and they’d visit a while. If the weather was bad he’d stay there under that bridge with the other homeless, that’s where he was headed that night. Or he’d stay down by the river where you always see smoke rising, and in a few days he’d move on again.
“That night, Sammie had come up to the bridge to meet him, she was working as a checker at the same market where I worked. She worked a different shift than me. She got off at nine, pulled on her slicker, left her car in the parking lot and walked up there in the rain, brought him some deli chicken, hot coffee, and a piece of apple pie in a plastic bag. They were headed under the bridge to get out of the rain when the Jaguar hit Greta’s car, she said it happened so fast, and they were just a few feet from where the car came over.”
“Did they ever get a look at the driver? The report says Birely didn’t.”
Emmylou shook her head. “Only that bright light in their eyes, blazing on Greta’s face, and past her onto them. But Sammie remembered the car, those sleek Jaguar lines. Birely told the police that, that should be in the report.
Kathleen nodded. “If they couldn’t see the driver, how could she be sure, later, who was following her?”
“She didn’t know who else would follow her, who would watch her, and watch her house. She was certain, even though he had a different car, a black Audi. Maybe he sold the Jaguar, or maybe he hid it away. There must have been damage to the right fender, though I guess he’d have had that fixed, maybe up the coast somewhere.”
“Once he started following her, and she saw him, did she know, then, who he was?”
Emmylou reached to the desk, took another doughnut, began to break it into little pieces on her paper plate. Beneath the console, the cats waited, glancing at each other.
Kathleen said, “Emmylou?”
She looked up at Kathleen. “She knew him. I know him.”
“Do you want to tell me? Do you want to see Sammie’s killer caught?”
Emmylou just looked at her.
“If you know him, Emmylou, do you have any idea why he would kill Greta?”
Emmylou said, “He was her lover. He was the father of her child.”
Quietly, Kathleen waited.
“Greta was sixteen when Billy was born. No one knew who the father was, except Greta herself, and Hesmerra. The father gave her money to support the child, if they’d keep quiet. But after eight years, apparently Greta wanted more. Maybe decided she wanted to live better, that he wasn’t giving her enough. She threatened him, threatened to tell his wife the truth.”
“And his wife was?” Kathleen said softly. Only the silent tap of her toe on the little rug beneath her desk signaled her impatience.
“Debbie Kraft,” Emmylou said. “Erik Kraft is Billy’s father. Debbie’s own husband got her little sister pregnant, not some high school boy.”
In the shadows, the two cats were very still. Amazing where human lust could lead, the resultant twists of human deception. Kathleen said, “Hesmerra knew he killed Greta? But still she was friends with him? She accepted money from him, when she knew he’d murdered her daughter? She let him buy her whiskey, like some kind of cheap bribe?”
“Money to support Billy,” Emmylou said, “such as it was. And, yes, to buy whiskey. Payments from the man who murdered her child, to keep her from going to the police, from telling what she knew and starting an investigation.”
Joe could feel his claws kneading at the hard floor as the little bomb of truth pulled the various fragments together: a married couple, the husband dallying with his wife’s little sister. Impregnating the girl, paying to keep her silent. And then when Greta rebelled, he killed her. Afterward he paid the boy’s keep or paid Hesmerra blackmail money, whichever way you wanted to put it.
And then when matters changed between him and Hesmerra, he killed her, too? When for instance he found out Hesmerra was snooping into his business affairs, into his illegal transactions, he poisoned her whiskey and set fire to her house? A grease fire, on the stove. How simple to replicate, once Hesmerra lay dying.
Kathleen said, “Does Billy know that Erik Kraft is his father?”
Emmylou shook her head. “I’m sure he doesn’t. If that’s the case.”
“What does that mean?”
“Hesmerra had some suspicion it could have been Perry Fowler. Fowler was nosing around Greta for a while, about the same time Erik was seeing her. He came around the house a number of times. He said, to see if Hesmerra needed anything. She was his mother-in-law, too, and she thought he felt guilty Esther didn’t have much to do with her. Hesmerra always thanked him, but then sent him on his way. He always came just at suppertime, when he knew Greta would be home, never earlier in the day. She said sometimes there would be a look between them, that made her wonder. Later, after Billy was born, Fowler didn’t come anymore.”