“Police think he lives somewhere along the coast?”
“Maybe. Might be a second-homer.”
“My money’s on a Mexican,” Walter said, “one of them illegals we got roaming around here. I never did trust those people. They get drunk or hopped up, I wouldn’t put anything past ’em.”
Earl glanced sideways at Macklin. “Ferguson’s got another idea: somebody that comes and stays a few days in one place or another, then goes back home until the next time.”
“I’ve never been here before.” The words sounded defensive even to Macklin. “Well, ten years ago, on a driving trip my wife and I took.”
“Wasn’t accusing you of anything, mister.”
“I know you weren’t. I was just …” He shook his head and said, “I hope they catch him before he kills somebody else.”
“Damn well better.”
Macklin went back to finish with his fill-up. Well, now he knew the reason behind all the thinly veiled suspicion, the meaning of the cryptic exchange between the Deckers last night and Paula Decker’s comment this morning. A wacko on the loose along the north coast, shooting people at random without apparent motive—no wonder the residents here were on edge. The Coastline Killer. More and more of that kind of lunacy these days, in rural as well as urban and suburban surroundings. Serial killers, crazies shooting up high schools and college campuses with automatic weapons, husbands snapping and taking out their families and anyone else who got in the way. Global lunacy, too: 9/11, suicide bombers, the ever-present threat of other vicious acts of terrorism. Lord, what a world this had become.
Was there any danger to Shelby and him? Potentially, yes, but so minimal as to be almost nonexistent. The latest shooting was just two days ago, and it had been several weeks between that one and each of the others. Brian Lomax might be worried enough to meet strangers who came knocking with a gun in his hand, but none of the killings had involved home invasion: you were bound to be safe locked inside a private cottage. There was a lot of Sonoma County and Mendocino County coast, too, some of it more isolated than this section. Whoever the Coastline Killer was, he could be anywhere along that two-county stretch—as far as fifty, sixty miles from here. Or somewhere else entirely by now.
If he told Shelby about the shootings, it might put an unnecessary strain on the rest of their stay. Or, worse, she might use it as an excuse to pressure him into cutting the time short, going on home. He couldn’t let that happen.
All right, so he’d keep the news to himself. If the future played out as badly as he feared, what the hell else did he have to look forward to except these next few days?
E I G H T
CLAIRE MADE NO EFFORT to hide the injuries to her face. One corner of her mouth twitched—a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Pretty sight, aren’t I,” she said.
“I’ve seen worse,” Shelby said.
“I’ll bet you have.”
“What happened?”
“I could tell you I fell, but you probably wouldn’t believe me.”
“Did you fall?”
The faint nonsmile again. Claire shifted her gaze back to the sea, but Shelby had the impression she wasn’t really seeing the rumpled gray water. Different woman than the one who’d welcomed Jay and her last night. The anxious, overfriendly hostess was gone; this Claire Lomax was subdued, hurting, and more than a little scared. When she lifted one hand to finger her torn lip, it trembled noticeably.
“I like it out here,” she said. “Even in weather like this. There’s something … I don’t know, soothing about the ocean.”
Shelby said, “Look, it’s none of my business. I’ll just leave you alone—”
“No, don’t.” The blonde head swung back her way, a silent plea in the pearl-gray eyes. “I need somebody to talk to. Another woman who’ll understand.”
“What about your sister-in-law?”
“Gone. Packed up and left about an hour ago. I couldn’t talk to her anyway. Not Paula.” Claire sucked in her breath, blew it out as if it were smoke burning her lungs. “I didn’t fall and I didn’t walk into a door. You’re a paramedic … you know what you’re seeing.”
All too well. She’d borne witness to the aftermath of domestic violence too many times. Seen the smashed and bloodied faces, the broken bones and torn flesh; heard the screams and the angry accusations and tearful lies and fumbling, stupid excuses. Some people, most but not all of them men, reverted to animals when they were drunk or stoned or just plain out of control.
“When did it happen?”
“Last night, not long after you and your husband left.”
“What was the cause?”
“Brian thinks I’ve been having an affair.”
Shelby resisted asking the obvious question. Instead she said, “Were you alone with him when he accused you?”
“No. Gene and Paula were there.”
“Did Gene try to stop him?”
“Gene?” Claire laughed, but it hurt her mouth and she winced and cut it off. “He’s a lover, not a fighter. Besides, he’s got his own marital problems. You heard the way he and Paula were going at each other last night.”
“Yes.”
“Paula’s not going to put up with it anymore. That’s why she left this morning. Their marriage is over.”
And you wish yours was, too, Shelby thought.
She asked, “Is Gene still here?”
“For now he is. If he decides to leave …”
“You’ll be alone with your husband.”
“For the next three days, because he’s determined to stay through New Year’s.”
“And you’re afraid he’ll come at you again.”
A gull wheeling overhead let out a sudden screeching cry, as if it were mimicking a shriek of pain; the sound caused Claire to jump, raise one hand as if to ward off a blow. “God,” she said, “my nerves are shot.”
“Has he done this before, beat you up?”
“Three or four times the last year or so. He wasn’t like that the first few years we were married. He never touched me except when we made love. Then he … changed. Turned moody, distant. Angry all the time. He’s always been jealous, but now …” She shook her head, winced, and touched her lip again.
“What changed him?”
“I don’t know exactly. Job pressures, I suppose. The economy. He owes the bank a lot of money … he may lose his company. He couldn’t stand that.”
“That’s no excuse for taking it out on you.”
“I’ve told him that, more times than I can count. He doesn’t listen to me, he doesn’t seem to care what I think or feel anymore. All he cares about is his work, the environment, spending time in that house he built up on the bluff. He comes up here alone, sometimes for days on end. At least I think this is where he goes—he won’t tell me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was the one having an affair.”
“But you’re sure he isn’t.”
“Pretty sure.” The gull shrieked again; this time Claire didn’t seem to notice. “I used to love my life,” she said. “You know, married to a wealthy man, expensive clothes, jewelry, a nice car, trips to Mexico and Hawaii. Now … sometimes now I fucking hate it.”
Same here, Shelby thought. Sometimes.
She said, “You don’t have to stay with him.”
“I know. But if I leave …”
“You think he’ll come after you?”
“He might. He doesn’t like to lose what belongs to him.”
“A woman doesn’t belong to anybody but herself.”
“Tell Brian that. He’ll laugh in your face like he laughed in mine when I told him pretty much the same thing.”
“Stay, and he’ll keep on taking out his frustrations on you,” Shelby said. She couldn’t quite keep the anger she felt from threading her words. “Someday he’s liable to hurt you a lot worse than he did last night.”