He put none of this into words. His insane plan to take Rakubian’s life — and it was insane, he knew that now — was his own private cross. No good purpose would be served in sharing it with his son, with anyone ever.
“Before, after, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I screwed up, that’s all. Maybe put us all right back in jeopardy again.”
“You think whoever wrote those notes is the person who killed Rakubian?”
“Has to be. No one else knows he’s dead.”
“ ‘What did you do with his body?’ Yeah. Killed him and left the body there in the house, and the next thing he knows the body’s gone and everything’s cleaned up. Must’ve been some shock when he found that out.”
“A shock, yes.”
“But how’d he know it was you? He wouldn’t’ve still been hanging around when you got there.”
“May have come back for some reason, saw my car. Or guessed it was me somehow.”
“What I don’t get is why he waited two months, why he started sending those notes. I mean, he was home free. What’s the point of hassling you and Angie?”
Hollis shook his head.
“He sent this one to her at her new apartment,” Eric said. “She’s been living there less than a week. How’d he know where to find her?”
The answer to that was plain enough. Hollis said nothing, let Eric come to it on his own. It didn’t take him long.
“Somebody we know,” he said.
“I don’t see any other explanation.”
“Who? Jeez, Dad, I can’t imagine anybody we know hating us that much.”
I can. One person.
“Who’d want Rakubian dead besides us? Or care what you did with his body? Or want you and Angie to suffer any more than you already have?”
One person, one motive that makes any sense.
He shook his head again. A headshake was neither a lie nor an evasion.
Eric said, “What’re we going to do?”
“We’re not going to do anything. You’re going back to Santa Barbara on the five-fifty flight.”
“Listen, I—”
“No argument, please. There’s nothing you can do at home.”
“I can help find out who’s doing this.”
“How? What can you do that I can’t?”
“... If you identify him, what then?”
“Cross that bridge when the time comes.”
“You can’t turn him in without implicating yourself. He knows you got rid of the body, covered up, he’d tell the police—”
“His word against mine,” Hollis said. “He can’t be absolutely certain it was me and he can’t have any idea where Rakubian is buried. He’d never be able to prove he didn’t do it himself.”
“The cops might still believe him.”
“I won’t turn him in if I can avoid it. The threat of it alone might be enough to get him off our backs.”
“Suppose it isn’t? What if he tries something... if he has a gun or a knife?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Dad... you’re not thinking of going after him with a weapon?”
Another headshake that was neither lie nor evasion. “There are other ways to protect myself. I may have cancer, but I’m not a cripple yet.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Eric’s mouth tightened; Hollis could almost see the shutter come down behind his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Hollis said, picking his words carefully now. “I know you’re concerned, I know you want to help. But this thing could drag on for a while, turn out to be a hell of a lot less dangerous than it seems. You can’t quit your job, put your life on hold indefinitely.”
No response.
“Let me handle it. If there’s anything you can do, I’ll call you right away. I mean that — right away.”
Another dozen beats. Then, “What about Mom? Does she know?”
“About the notes, yes.”
“But not about Rakubian being dead or what you did.”
“No. It would’ve meant telling her I believed you were guilty, and I couldn’t do that to her.”
“You going to tell her now?”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“I am,” Eric said. “She has a right to know the whole story. So does Angie. Tell them both, Dad. We’re all in this together.”
Eric’s gaze was intense, and Hollis understood that the need for family unity was just as important to him. He’d been able to teach him that much, at least. He understood, too, that if the closeness, the new bond that had formed between them here was to be maintained, he must neither argue nor fail to follow through. He nodded, gripped his son’s arm.
“You’re right,” he said. “We’re all in this together, we all need to know what we’re dealing with.”
Somebody we know.
Ryan Pierce.
Driving home, looking at it from different angles as objectively as he could, he came up with Pierce every time. Motive for killing Rakubian: the same as Hollis’s, as Eric’s — to eliminate the threat to Angela and Kenny. The old Pierce might not have been capable of violence, but the new Pierce was a different story. He’d changed, all right, only not in the way Angela and Cassie believed; hardened into a man with definite convictions and a twisted set of values. And the one thing he wanted more than anything else seemed to be a new life with his ex-wife and his son. Motive for sending the notes: to make Angela dependent on him, leverage to convince her to remarry him. Secondary motive: to punish Hollis for standing against him.
It had to be Pierce. He wanted it to be Pierce, because then there was no immediate danger to anyone in the family and the solution to the problem was relatively clear-cut. The only real danger was in his sticking around, manipulating Angela. Confront him, then, and threaten him — with the law, but also with telling her he was a murderer. Point out that even if he tried to shift the guilt to Hollis, it wouldn’t work because she was still Daddy’s girl — she would never take his word over her father’s. Convince him that his only choice was to pack up and move away and never come near any of them again.
But be careful, don’t just bull ahead. Think through how he was going to handle Pierce, exactly what he would say to him. The more prepared he was, the greater the leverage to pry him out of their lives once and for all.
He felt better by the time he reached the Los Alegres exit — empowered again. He had decided something else, too, by then. He was not going to tell Cassie or Angela what he’d told Eric, not just yet. He was still committed to no more lies or evasions; he would simply withhold the truth a while longer. Until he talked to Pierce. Until he had him good and tight by the short hairs.
17
Sunday Morning
Cassie went to church at ten o’clock.
Hollis went to the garage to clean, oil, and load the Colt Woodsman.
When he was done he rewrapped the .22 and put it in the Lexus’s glove compartment. Then he left a note for Cassie, saying he’d gone on an errand, and drove to Angela’s apartment.
She and Kenny were there; Pierce wasn’t. But Hollis would have known he’d spent the night even if Kenny hadn’t blurted it out three minutes after his arrival. Angela was calm today, smiling, the picture of Sunday-morning domesticity. She poured him a cup of coffee, another for herself, while Kenny climbed onto his lap and chattered about some new video game Pierce had given him. That was when the boy made his slip.
“Dad’s gonna live with us all the time,” he said.
“Oh, he is. Did he tell you that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When?”
“Last night when he tucked me in.”