"And I realized, Russ, that when there's nothing left to fill the cup, just throw away the goddamned cup. I'm free, and I'm going to stay this way."
Free because he'd gotten to Amber? "What is it you want from me, Martin?"
Marty smiled, a vile, bitter thing. "If Amber winds up like Alice, I'll make sure my best dick gets a copy of this video. I might be free of her now, but I don't want you to bash her skull. I'd rather have her alive than have her money-I don't need it. If I hear any noises from you about Marty Parish and Amber Mae Wilson, I'll deliver the video. I'll have a copy of it and an explanation in a safe-deposit box, with instructions to my lawyer what to do if I come to any sudden, uh… reversal. If you bother me in any way, Monroe, if I even dream that you're brushing up against me in a way I don't like, I'll deliver the video. You exist to write articles that reflect well upon Dan and me. You do not exist in any other capacity. Fart in the same room with me, Monroe, and I'll deliver the tape. I own you. And I own your daughter, too. And remember, if I do hand it over, nobody on earth is going to believe one word you say about me being in Amber's house or me and some silent deputy forcing you to perform a low-budget funeral. And it's not just because you had a corpse in your freezer."
"Why else?"
Marty stepped forward and drove a finger into my chest. "Because, you, Monroe, are one crazy, desperate bastard. It's written all over your face. And I got it on tape."
I thought for a moment, but Parish's insane logic seemed, in terms of practical application, not very insane at all. He might suffer, but he could make it work. He had the department behind him, a good reputation. Any dick could establish my motive and opportunity in about one day-to the tune of half a million dollars, an embittered heart, a vengeful, neglected daughter. Parish had my blood and hair mixed into the earth of Alice's grave. He had Keyes as an alibi, and the exact date and time of "my crime" indelibly tracked by the camcorder clock. Yes, Martin had built a good case.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"I don't know. She dumped the box and her story on me then drove off."
"And didn't tell you where?"
"Sounds like her, doesn't it, Marty?"
"Sorta does."
"Well, there you have it," I said.
"Have this, Monroe."
His fist caught me low-just above the groin. All I could do was turn with it, trying not to take it full. But my reflexes were slow and I got most of it, and the next thing I knew I had landing on my side and rolled partway under my car. I stared up at the rusting muffler.
"That was for the other night at the beach," said Martin
When I lifted my head to look, I could see two sets legs climbing up my driveway toward the Sheriff's Department car.
I rolled onto my side and brought my knees to my stomach because that was what the pain told me to do. I looked my right-rear shock. I closed my eyes. I lay there for a long while because things were coming clear to me. Oh, the clarity that can come with pain. One: Marty had killed Alice that night because he believed she was Amber. He had disposed of the club. Two: He'd mocked up the scene to look like the Midnight Eye, a serial killer that only Winters, Parish, Schultz, and possibly Chet Singer even knew was on the loose. Three: He'd change his mind when he saw the opportunity to silence me-I, who had blundered into his plot-with Alice's body, which until tonight-I guessed-had occupied a similar space in Marty's own freezer. Four: He had done the cleanup. Five: He now had back in his possession any self-incriminating evidence he might have left at Amber's and any planted evidence he had wished to add. Six: I now had a body buried not far from my house that I could-for all practical purposes-do little to explain.
I crawled out from under the car and went inside to the phone. My father answered on the fourth ring. He was okay. Amber was okay-though I made him get up and check her room.
"Are you okay?" he asked when he got back on.
"I'm in smithereens, Dad."
"I can be there in half an hour."
"No. There's nothing you can do."
"Izzy?"
"Worse. She was talking like a child yesterday. It… hurt me to see that."
All of my fear for Isabella came rushing in then, and all of the grisly horror that Marty Parish had visited upon my life. I felt the same frantic, gut-wrenching terror I'd felt once at the age of ten, hopelessly lost on a camping trip with my mother and father. But this fear was stronger by far. I wanted nothing more than to cry. But I would not, though not for the reasons given by pop psychologists who bemoan the male indoctrination that tears are for girls. No. I would not cry because I was truly afraid that it would take something out of me-some fury, some emotion-that I was going to need in the coming days. I was hoarding anything that could be used as a weapon.
"I think the knife is a bad idea," said my father.
"I know it's a bad idea. But nothing else is working."
A long silence followed. "I had a visit from your mother tonight. She still senses distress. You know, she had some wise words for me. She's fine. If you were real quiet for a while, she'd come to you, too."
"Ah hell, Dad, I know you miss her, but make some sense for a change."
Another silence ensued, during which I regretted my words, before he spoke again. "Don't let the storm take you with it, son. Somehow, you've got to get your head above it. I know I sound like a lunatic or some New Age fop, but when she comes, well, I just feel her."
"How is Amber?"
"Cooperative. Even gracious. She spends most of her time alone in the guest room-some of it on the phone. She scared."
"It's important you be with her."
"The Remington is handy, but to tell you truth, I'd like a little better idea what I'm facing."
"One Sheriff's captain with a mean streak, and possibly a buddy or two of his."
"I'm plainly outgunned."
"Stay inside. If they come to you, it's your advantage. Don't be afraid to call the cops. I mean the local cops, not the Sheriff's Department. The one thing this guy doesn't want is scene."
"We don't have any local cops. We're county out here.
"Shit, that's right." I felt my guts bunching up for another spasm of pain.
"Give me his name, son. It's the least you can do."
"Martin Parish."
"Marty?"
"That's right. He's lost it. He's in line for money if Amber dies, but I'm not even sure it's the money he's after. All I a tell for sure is, he's in a rage."
"He killed her sister, thinking it was her?"
"That's correct."
"Have you talked to Winters?"
"I don't have any proof. Yet."
"Oh boy."
My father was quiet for a long moment. "I like having her around."
"The second something seems wrong, call me."
"I love you, son. Pray to your mother. She'll be there for you."
I hung up. Guns and ghosts, I thought-two verities for my aging father.
I lay down on the sofa in my den and stared out for a while at the shifting fog. Sundry horrors passed through my mind, most of all, perhaps, the icy touch of Alice's body against my own. But even that feeling was soon surpassed by the image of the Midnight Eye staring out the window of his stolen Ford Taurus, the mute superiority in his face, the heft and power of his arm and hand. My body began to shake. Each recent blow from Martin established its own specific ache. I heard that howling up in the canyon, the one that Isabella had named the Man of the Dark. Isabella! How distant were her arms, her voice, the comforting proximity of her beating heart. Oh woman, do not leave me. I wept. I got up and closed all the windows and doors, setting the dead bolt twice to make sure it was right. I left on all the lights. I made sure my. 357 was loaded and ready and set it under the pillow that for five years had been graced by nothing less beautiful than my wife's dreaming head.