“We’re aggressively pursuing a number of promising leads,” FBI spokesman William Joslin told a press conference earlier today. “It’s only a matter of time before these people are brought to justice.”
But a Chicago police official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said, “It’s almost like they’re thumbing their nose at us-trying to prove there’s nothing anybody can do to stop them.”
With no suspects in custody, widespread concern is on the rise.
24
Monks cut the last of the pressure-treated two-by-ten deck joists with a Skilsaw and laid it on a stack with the others, then paused to rest, wiping a film of sweat from his forehead. He glanced out to the hazy Pacific horizon for signs of incoming weather, as he had gotten in the habit of doing. It was early March. Spring came more slowly to the North Coast than to other parts of California, and storms were still frequent. But this was a clear day, and the afternoon sun was warm on his shoulders.
He had found out why Lia-he still thought of her as Marguerite-had recognized tools like bolt cutters and pipe wrenches. Her mother, Sara Ferraro, was a professional builder, with her own all-female construction company. She lived in the hills above a little town called Elk, about fifteen miles south of Mendocino and a two-hour drive from his own home in Marin County. He had spent quite a bit of time here over the past couple of months, and had volunteered to rebuild the deck behind her house, one of those things that she had been meaning to get to for years but never had the time. His carpentry skills were decent, but nowhere near Sara’s level, and he was feeling under the gun, performance-wise.
His watch read 4:43 P.M. Sara often worked late, but this was Friday, so she’d be home soon. He figured he had just enough time left to set the joists in place. Then he would have the completed substructure to show off to her.
Standing in the middle of the deck’s twelve-by-sixteen-foot rectangle, he fit the two-by-tens, one by one, into the metal hangers he had nailed at twenty-four-inch intervals along the rim joists. He was careful to keep the lumber crowns pointing up-that was important, he had learned from her, for load-bearing members.
When he finished, it looked pretty good, and he was feeling pleased with himself.
Then he noticed that some of the joists were as much as a quarter-inch higher than the rim joists where they met.
“What the fuck,” he said. When he got his tape measure and checked, he found out that the two-by-tens varied from about nine inches in depth to almost nine and a half inches. The bigger ones were sticking up too high. He dropped the tape back into his tool belt, feeling disgusted, ripped off. What the hell kind of world was this when you couldn’t trust lumber dimensions?
He could hardly leave the joists as they were-that would create humps in the decking. He supposed he would have to pull them out again and notch them underneath-a major, and time-consuming, pain in the ass.
But not today. He got a cold bottle of crisp Kronenbourg beer from the kitchen, then went back out and sat on the lumber pile. The beer was cold and rich, and that dry pilsner taste was just right for the end of a sweaty day of physical work.
In the weeks after the fire at Freeboot’s camp, Monks had dealt extensively with law-enforcement authorities, and had lobbied hard to get Marguerite a deal without jail time. The courts took into account her brainwashing and her help in escaping, and agreed that there was nothing to be gained by punishing her. She had been sent to live with relatives in Phoenix. Privately, Monks thought her cooperation seemed more dutiful than wholehearted, but as long as she kept her job and stayed out of trouble, the law would consider her on probation.
Monks had driven her and the Sara to the San Francisco airport to send her off. When the boarding gate closed, Sara, tough and fiery through the entire ordeal, had collapsed against him and said, “Now take me home and fuck me, will you?”
That first coupling had been more combative than gentle, and it had lasted some time. He had his own tensions to work out. He had battled with guilt about taking a lover while his son was still missing, and with the fear that both he and Sara were in brittle states-using each other for the wrong reasons, which could come around to harm them. It might have been better to cut clean. But it was also really good, and as those things will, it kept happening.
Mandrake was in a long-term care ward for juvenile diabetics, and much improved; tests had found him free of HIV or other serious complications. Monks had been to see him once-an official visit to consult with medical and social services authorities. Mandrake’s reaction to Monks was one of wariness and withdrawal. Psychologists had decided that it would be best if Monks faded from his memory, along with all the trauma that he represented. Monks agreed, but it hurt.
There had been no news about Freeboot, or any of the others-including Glenn.
The human remains found at the fire scene-the only ones-were, in fact, female. They belonged to Mandrake’s mother, aka Motherlode, whose real name was Alexandra Neville. All indications were that she was unconscious, perhaps already dead, when the fire got to her. Given her addiction, she might have passed out, or even overdosed, and been overlooked by the others until it was too late.
But the possibility of murder existed, and Monks couldn’t help suspecting that Freeboot had killed her because of his insane conviction that she was responsible for Mandrake’s illness.
If this were true, then killing Glenn to get revenge on Monks seemed an all too likely possibility. That fear ate at Monks like a sarcoma, keeping him awake for hours at a time in the middle of most nights. Rationally, he had over and over again justified leaving Glenn there. But when it came to something like this, rational thought didn’t cut it.
When Sara’s beat-up Toyota pickup truck pulled into the driveway, Monks got up to greet her. She leaned out the window and eyed the deck approvingly.
“Good boy,” she said. “You’re due for a reward.”
“I screwed up.” He pointed to one of the uneven joints.
“Oh. You should set the hangers low, then shim. There’s no ceiling underneath, so it doesn’t matter down there.”
“Now you tell me.”
“Hey, I can’t be giving away all my secrets too fast. You already know plenty of them.”
She got out of the truck, dressed in blue-collar drag-boots whitened with drywall dust, faded jeans stained with construction adhesive and caulk, and a torn sweatshirt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. It was a look that wouldn’t have worked for a lot of women, but on her it was sexy. The hard labor of her job kept her taut and lithe-she could touch her palms flat to the ground without bending her knees. In bed, she liked to clasp her ankles behind his neck.
He saw that she had groceries, and went to help carry them inside.
“Shrimp, scallops, and rock cod,” she said, handing him a plastic sack filled with cold paper-wrapped parcels. “We’re going to have seafood pasta. Frutti di mari. Okay?”
“Wonderful,” Monks said.
She frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he said, but then realized that his uneasiness must be showing. “Do I seem out of it?”
“Like you’re carrying a granite block on your back, baby. More and more.”
“Sorry. I’m fine. Really.”