The forty-mile trip back had been made in silence. Every time my jazz song ended she punched into Top 40. Every time her song ended I punched back to jazz. This was how, as far as I knew, most mature and responsible adults behaved.
“You really were a jerk.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
Silence again as the neon glowed in the harsh cold night. An early Christmas tree had appeared on top of an appliance store. The decorations, given my mood, seemed almost obscene.
“You’re taking me home?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And where are you going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll bet I know.”
“Where?”
“To the guy who went out to see Mrs. Rutledge.”
“I guess that has crossed my mind.”
“You bastard.”
“I just didn’t think you’d be in the mood. After the bodies this afternoon—”
“Get something straight, Dwyer. Just because I get depressed once in a while doesn’t mean I don’t come from very strong stock.”
“Right.”
“What is ‘right’ supposed to mean?”
“Just, that you’re sounding tired and cranky and a tad hysterical.”
“You don’t sound so hot yourself, you asshole.”
“Well, does that mean you want to go with me then?”
“You’re darn right it does.”
I pulled into a drive-up phone to get his address from a directory. He lived where the rest of the extremely successful yuppies did, in the rambling hills ringing the east side of the city. The section had become a hymn to redwood and the great god Porsche.
His address gave me an idea. I called the guy from my security agency who’d run a credit check on several people for me. My man sounded as if he’d been asleep for the past four hours. He tried to sound happy to hear from me. He wasn’t especially convincing.
“Didn’t turn up a hell of a lot that was especially interesting.”
I mentioned the name of the man I was about to see.
“He was the only one with any promise.”
Then he checked off some extremely interesting stats. I thanked him, promised him a steak dinner, and hung up.
“We may have our man,” I said.
“Well, I suppose now you’re going to tell me. Right?”
“David Baxter.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Uh-uh, the guy at my agency tells me he’s way overextended, a prime candidate to be a blackmailer. He’s desperate for money.”
Fog moved across the streets in the hills like something alive. The interior of the car still echoed with our exhaustion and shot nerves and misplaced anger. I put a hand over and held it there and finally she took it, but without any enthusiasm. I withdrew it. Then a few minutes later she put out a hand. I didn’t have much enthusiasm for her gesture either. She sighed and shoved both her hands into her pockets.
Through the shifting white moisture you could glimpse expensive homes of the modern variety, mostly variations on the ranch style, which clung to the contours of steep hills. Country-style mailboxes announced the names of owners. I drove past the one we were looking for, then had to back up to find it.
Before I whipped up into the drive, I said, “I’m tired of fucking arguing.”
“So am I.”
“I’m sorry you had to see the bodies this afternoon.”
“So am I.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re better off going back to an agency.”
“I’m really thinking about it.”
“I don’t blame you.”
I really didn’t.
The drive, narrow, steep, was like shooting up a tunnel. I used the fog lights to get me even with a picket fence and then I stopped the car.
I opened the door, started out. Then I looked back at her.
“You all right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
But I knew better. Her hands were shaking and her eyes were dead and glazed and without their remarkable luster.
“I’ve never seen anything like that before, Dwyer.” I could tell she wanted to cry. I wished she could.
This time when I held out my hand she took it and held it very, very tightly.
“Would you mind if I just sat here?” she asked.
“Of course not. I just need to ask him a few questions.”
“You really think he did it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh, Dwyer.” Then the tears burst. “Just get out of here, would you?” she said.
I looked at her, realizing with a terrible force that I loved her.
I closed the door.
My shoes in the damp grass sounded the way they had the day I’d met Jane Branigan in the park — sucking up the moisture of the ground. Through the fog I saw a light burning in the front of the house. I squished across the lawn and reached the porch and rang the bell. The chimes were absurdly loud and happy-sounding in this twilight zone.
Nothing.
I clanged the chimes again.
An owl answered, a throaty, eerie, pulsing noise against the night.
It took minutes for me to hear it, and at first I couldn’t identify it. Then the sound began to assume a shape for my mind to perceive — like a form gathering substance, approaching out of the fog.
A woman moaned.
I thought of Donna in the car. But she was too far away. I moved carefully, like a blind man, closer to the picture window. I put my ear to the cold glass. The moaning came from inside. I put my arms out stick straight and walked carefully toward the door. I didn’t want to trip on anything and knock myself out.
The knob would not turn.
I felt through the murk and found that the upper half of the door was glass. I took off my jacket and slammed my fist into the smooth surface. The glass shattered. No problem then to reach inside and turn the knob.
The house smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. In the corner of the living room a small night-light burned. The room was modern and severe and harsh.
The footsteps came from the back of the house — steps slapping against tile. A door slammed. Then I heard the steps on the damp lawn outside.
I ran to the back of the house to see if I could catch the owner of the footsteps. But in the kitchen, in a pool of blood even worse than the one Frankie and Drac had lain in, were the Baxters.
They had been shot several times in the face and chest. Their killer must have had to reload at least once.
The smell, the high, iron, rank smell of fresh blood, made me nauseous. Blood had sprayed against the white stove and the yellow dishwasher. Shining liquid dollops of it shimmered in the dim illumination from the porch light out back.
Incredibly, then, Lucy Baxter’s arm moved. Just a twitch. But I saw it and knelt down.
My first thought was to see if I could give her CPR. She reached up and grabbed me by the lapel with startling strength.
“She’s got it,” she said.
She was a caricature of a good-looking woman. But now her features were exaggerated. The blood, thick and slow in the corner of her mouth, drooled across my hand.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Who’s got what?”
“Eve,” she said. “Eve’s got it.”
I realized there was time only for a few questions. I gently put her back down, stuffing my jacket under her for a pillow. I got up and soaked a dishrag in cool water and started to clean her face.
She floated in and out of consciousness. A part of me watched her die, fascinated, curious about what she was experiencing. Was she seeing a white light? Hearing angels sing? Or only sensing a vast, waiting nothingness?
She came up out of her death long enough to grab my hand once again as I daubed at her face with the dishrag.