“Black jade. From Burma. He said it had magical powers.”
“She never mentioned that.”
“She didn’t believe it. Neither do I.”
“But he did?”
“He claimed he did. I’m not so sure he believed in any of that occult crap he wrote about.”
Telling statement. Ivan Wade had started out as a pulp writer himself, concocting grim and gruesome stories for Weird Tales and other fantasy/horror magazines, and then had gravitated to radio scripting, slick magazine fiction, some TV work, and finally novels and nonfiction books on occult and magic themes. Kerry adored Cybil’s work, but hadn’t much cared for any of her father’s-an accurate reflection of her feelings toward her parents as individuals. Cybil had been warm and nurturing, Ivan cold and distant. I’d met him at the same pulp convention in San Francisco where I’d first met Kerry and Cybil, and disliked him intensely; he’d been nasty as hell to me, tried to keep Kerry and me apart on the claim that I was too old for her and in too dangerous a profession. Kerry had loved him, but she hadn’t mourned his death several years ago half as much as she was mourning Cybil’s.
When she was finally done with the sorting, she carefully restored every photograph and scrap of paper to the trunk and then asked me to move it into her office. She’d have liked the bookcase and rocking chair in there, too, but there wasn’t enough room for both; as it was I had to shift some of the existing furniture around to make the bookcase fit. She settled for putting the rocker in a corner of the living room.
From memory she filled the bookcase with Cybil’s published works in the exact order they’d been in her mother’s apartment, and had me take the remaining books down to our basement storage unit. Then she placed the typewriter, some of the saved gewgaws, and most of the framed photographs on top. The rest of the curios and framed photos, including a prominent one of Cybil in her midthirties at her typewriter, ended up on Kerry’s already cluttered desk.
A shrine. That was the overall effect, and her intention whether a conscious one or not.
Neither Emily nor I said anything about it. What can you say to a grieving and emotionally fragile woman in circumstances like these? Nothing meaningful or worthwhile. If Kerry needed a shrine to help her cope, then that was fine with us. I’d have turned the whole flat into one if that was what it took to help her get through this new crisis.
What worried me was that her control was mostly surface; that once the necessities had been dealt with and the shrine was in place she would begin to withdraw again into that dark corner of herself where she’d huddled for the weeks after the Green Valley ordeal. Recurring nightmares, not wanting to be touched, weight loss, refusal to leave the flat alone and then only with me for visits to her doctor or with Cybil. I was afraid for her, and afraid that neither Emily nor I was equipped to handle it if it happened again. The stress and emotional drain of those weeks had taken their toll on us as well as on Kerry.
I had a private talk with Emily on the subject-she’s far more mature than her fourteen years-and she agreed that we would have to once again adopt the same careful mode as before. Be there for Kerry when she needed us, but put no pressure on her of any kind. Maintain as much of a normal home environment as we could at all times.
But it seemed that our fears were groundless. For the time being, at least.
On the morning of the third day after Cybil’s death, Kerry went back to her office at Bates and Carpenter. There was a lot of work piled up on her desk, she said, and a client conference that she felt obligated to attend. A healthy decision, as far as I was concerned; I’d thought she might opt for holing up in her condo office and working from home by telephone and computer, as she had during her long recuperation. She was still a little distant with Emily and me, unwilling to share more than little pieces of her grief. Throwing herself into her work might be just what was needed to reestablish her equilibrium and the equanimity of our home life.
With Emily back in school, I did not have much reason to hang around the flat, either. The wound Margaret Vorhees had inflicted on my forehead was not severe enough to require stitches. I didn’t think so, anyway, after I’d removed the bandage the Latina maid had put on and in the bathroom mirror inspected the gash and a purplish bruise that haloed it. Nor did Emily, who insisted on an inspection of her own and then applied more antiseptic and a fresh bandage. Not Kerry, though. She didn’t ask me what had happened until the morning after Cybil’s death; the bandage and bruise may not have even registered until then. I made light of both the incident and the wound and she took me at my word, let the subject drop without question.
I’d worried a little about the possibility of a concussion because my headache had lingered overnight and bothered me while Kerry and I were loading and unloading Cybil’s possessions, but it was gone by that evening; and I hadn’t had any other symptoms. The gouge was deep enough to leave a very small scar, maybe, without a doctor’s attention and a couple of stitches, but that prospect bothered me not at all. What was one more scar among the many?
So I went back to work myself, at least for that day. Routine desk work, same as before. I’d been in touch with Tamara, of course, and Jake Runyon had called to offer his condolences. They had filled me in on Jake’s face-to-face with Frank Chaleen. Nothing had happened since. The waiting game was still in effect.
But something was going to happen sooner or later. Probably sooner, since Kenneth Beckett’s trial was rapidly approaching. We all pretty much agreed on that. This was one of those powderkeg cases, with all the principals and their interactions so unstable that an explosion of some kind seemed inevitable. What worried me was that when it came, one or more of us would suffer collateral damage a lot worse than a cut on the forehead.
15
JAKE RUNYON
Seven-fifteen p.m., the following Wednesday.
Runyon had just come out of a Chinese restaurant on Taraval, a few blocks from his apartment. Chinese food had been Colleen’s favorite; they’d eaten one kind or another two or three times a week during their twenty years together. After she was gone he’d kept up the ritual as a way to hold onto the memory of the good times they’d shared. But during his period with Bryn, he ate Chinese less often and only on nights when he was alone. Now he was back to it regularly again, but not in a compulsive way. Because as much as he cared for any food, he liked Hunan and Szechuan. And because every time he ordered a plate of moo shu pork or sesame chicken, he visualized Colleen’s smile and felt her there close to him once again.
He was keying open the door to his Ford when his cell vibrated. The caller window told him who it was.
Kenneth Beckett. Finally.
He slid in behind the wheel before he opened the line. “Yes, Ken?”
“Oh man I’m glad you picked up, I can’t talk very long.” Fast, breathless, the kid’s voice pitched low; Runyon had to strain a little to hear him. “Cory’s in the shower and Mr. Vorhees will be here any minute. It’s tonight, Mr. Runyon, he’s going to do it tonight.”
“Who is? Do what?”
“Chaleen. Kill Mrs. Vorhees.”
“How do you know that?”
“The way Cory’s been acting, all excited, going out to meet that bastard… I know it’s tonight. I’d’ve called sooner but this is the first chance I’ve had. You’ve got to stop him.”
“Where? How?”
“I don’t know.”
“What makes you so sure it’s Chaleen and not both of them?”
“Cory never does anything herself, she always makes other people do what she wants. She-”
Audible in the background was a sudden chiming noise. Doorbell.
“Oh God, Mr. Vorhees is here,” Beckett whispered. Panicky now. “Don’t let Chaleen do it, Mr. Runyon, don’t let her be killed!”