I is for Innocent

20

On the way back to Colgate, I stopped at a gas station and filled my tank. This crosstown driving was the equivalent of a round-trip to Idaho and I was beginning to regret the fact that I wasn't charging Lonnie for the mileage. It was just after 6:00 and traffic was heavy, most of it inbound, heading in the opposite direction. Clouds lay across the mountains like a layer of bunting. I headed for Voigt Motors, trying to calculate the odds of Kenneth Voigt telling me the truth. Whatever his relationship with Curtis, it was time for some straight talk. If I couldn't get it out of Kenneth, I was going to track Curtis down and have a chat with him. I parked in the little strip lot in front of Voigt Motors, tucking my VW between a vintage Jaguar and a brand-new Porsche. I went in through the front door, ignoring the saleswoman who stepped forward to greet me. I went up the wide stairs to the loggia of offices that rimmed the second floor-Credit, Accounting. Apparently the salespeople were required to be on the floor until closing time at 8:00. Those working the business end were a little luckier, already in the process of going home for the day. Kenneth's office door carried his name in two-inch brass letters. His secretary was a woman in her early fifties who'd gone on being a bleached blonde way beyond the legal age for it. Time had marked the space between her eyes with a goalpost of worry. She was tidying her desk, putting files away, making sure the pens and pencils were placed neatly in a ceramic mug.

I said, "Hi. Is Mr. Voigt here? I'd like to talk to him."

"You didn't pass him on the stairs as you came up? He left two minutes ago, but he may have gone down the back way. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I don't think so. Can you tell me where he parks? Maybe I can catch him before he takes off."

Her expression had changed and she regarded me with caution. "What is this regarding?"

I didn't bother to reply.

I ducked out of the office and continued along the upper level, peering briefly into every room I passed, including the men's room. A startled-looking fellow in a business suit was just shaking himself off. God, that would be convenient. If there were any justice in the world, women would have the little hang-down things and men would get stuck with putting the paper down on the seats. I said, "Ooops. Wrong room," and shut the door again. I found the back stairs through a door marked "Fire Exit." I took the stairs two at a time going down, but when I reached the parking lot, there was no sign of Ken and there were no cars pulling out of the exit.

I went back to my VW and headed out of the lot, turning left onto Faith in the direction of upper State. Curtis McIntyre's motel was only a mile away. This section of town was devoted to fast-food restaurants, car washes, discount appliance stores, and assorted small retail establishments, with an occasional office building sandwiched into the mix. Once I was past the Cutter Road Mall, the northbound freeway entrance appeared on the right. State Street angled left, running parallel to the highway for another mile or two.

The Thrifty Motel was located near the junction of State Street and the two-lane highway that cut north toward the mountains. I hung a left into the gravel entrance to the motel parking lot. I pulled into the unoccupied slot in front of Curtis's room. The lights in most rooms along the L were blazing, the air richly perfumed with the scent of frying meats, a heady blend of bacon, hamburger, pork chops, and sausage. Television news shows and booming country music competed for airspace. Curtis's windows were dark and there was no response to my knock. I tried the room next door. The guy who answered must have been in his forties, with bright blue eyes, a bowl-shaped haircut, and a beard like a tangle of hair pulled out of a brush.

"I'm looking for the guy next door. Have you seen him?"

"Curtis went out."

"Do you have any idea where?"

The guy shook his head. "Not my day to keep track of him."

I took out a business card and a pen. I scribbled a note asking Curtis to call me as soon as possible. "Could you give him this?"

The guy said, "I will if I see him." He shut the door again.

I took out another card and jotted down a duplicate message, which I slid in behind the metal 9 tacked to his door. The neon motel sign blinked on as I crossed the parking lot to the manager's office. Thrifty Motel was spelled out in sputtering green, the sound of flies buzzing against a window screen. The glass-paneled office door was open and a NO VACANCY sign, red letters on a white ground, had been propped against one of the jalousie windowpanes.

The registration counter was bare, the small area behind it unoccupied. A door in the rear was standing ajar and there were lights on in the apartment usually reserved for the manager on the premises. He was apparently watching the rerun of a sitcom, laugh track pummeling the air with recurrent surges of mirth. Every third laugh was a big one and it wasn't difficult to visualize the sound engineer sitting at the board pushing levers up and back, up and back, way up and back.

A small sign on the counter said "H. Stringfellow, mgr. Ring bell for service" with an old-fashioned punch bell. I dinged, which got a big laugh from the unseen audience. Mr. Stringfellow shuffled through the door, closing it behind him. He had snow-white hair and a gaunt cleanshaven face, his complexion very pink, his chin jutting forward as if he'd had it surgically augmented. He wore baggy brown pants and a drab brown polyester shirt with a thin yellow tie. "Full up," he said. "Try the place down the street."

"I'm not looking for a room. I'm looking for Curtis McIntyre. You have any idea what time he'll be back?"

"Nope. Some fellow came and picked him up. At least, I think it was a man. Car pulled in out there and off he went."

"You didn't see the driver?"

"Nope. Didn't see the car either. I was working in the back and I heard a honk. Few minutes later, I saw Curtis passing by the window. I just happened to glance out the door or I wouldn't have seen that. Pretty soon a door slammed and then the car pulled away."

"What time was this?"

"Just a little while ago. Maybe five, ten minutes."

"Do his calls come through the switchboard?"

"Isn't any switchboard. He's got a telephone in his room. That way his phone bill's his own business and I don't have to fool with it. I don't pretend I'm dealing with a classy type of tenant. Dirtbags, most of 'em, but it's nothing to me. Long as they pay the rent in advance as agreed."

"Is he pretty good about that?"

"He's better than most. You his parole officer?"

"Just a friend," I said. "If you see him, could you ask him to give me a call?" I took out another business card and circled my number.

I unlocked the car door, just about to let myself in, when my bad angel piped up, giving me a little nudge. Right there in front of me was Curtis McIntyre's door. The lock looked respectable, but the window right next to it was open. The gap was only three inches, but the wooden frame on the window screen was warped along the bottom and actually bulged out just about far enough for me to tuck my tiny fingers in. Pop the screen out and all I'd have to do is push the sash up, reach around on the inside, and turn the thumb-lock. There was no one in the parking lot and the noise from all the television sets would cover any sound. I'd been a model citizen all week and where had it gotten me? The case was never going to get as far as court anyway, so what difference would it make if I broke the law? Breaking and entering isn't that big a deal. I wasn't going to steal anything. I was just going to have a teeny, tiny, little peek. This is the kind of reasoning my bad angel gets into. Trashy thinking, but it's just so persuasive. I was ashamed of myself, but before I could even reconsider I was easing the screen out, slipping the naughty old digits through the opening. Next thing I knew I was in his room. I turned the light on. I just had to hope Curtis wouldn't walk in. I wasn't sure he'd care if I tossed his place. I was more worried that if he caught me there, he'd think I was hustling him.

His mother would have been embarrassed to see his personal habits. 'Pick up your clothes' was not in his vocabulary. The room wasn't very big to begin with, maybe twelve feet by twelve, with a galley-size kitchen-combination refrigerator, sink, and hot plate, all filthy. The bed was unmade, no big surprise there. A small black-and-white TV sat on one of the bed tables, pulled away from the wall for better viewing in bed. Cords trailed across the floor, fairly begging to be tripped over. The bathroom was small, draped with damp towels that smelled of mildew. He seemed to favor the kind of soap with pubic hairs embedded in it.

Actually, I didn't care how he kept his place. It was the rickety wooden desk that interested me. I began to search. Curtis didn't believe in banks. He kept his cash loose in the top drawer, quite a lot of it. He probably figured that roving bands of big-time thieves weren't going to target room 9 of the Thrifty. A few bills were tossed in helter-skelter with the cash: gas, telephone, Sears, where he'd charged some clothes. Under the windowed envelopes was a heavyweight self-sealing envelope meant for mailing checks. The address was handwritten, with no return address visible in the upper left-hand corner. I flipped it over. The personalized name and address of the sender had been printed on the back flap: Mr. and Mrs. Peter Weidmann. Well, that was interesting. I tilted the shade on the little table lamp, holding the envelope so close to the bulb I nearly scorched the paper. The envelope was lined with obnoxious stars, obscuring the field so I couldn't see the contents. Happily the heat from the bulb seemed to soften the gum seal, and by picking patiently at the flap I managed to peel it open.

Inside was a check for four hundred dollars, made out to Curtis and signed by Yolanda Weidmann. There was no explanation on the check in the space marked "Memo" and no personal note tucked into the envelope. How did she know Curtis and why was she paying him? How many more people was the guy collecting from? Between Kenneth and Yolanda, he was raking in five hundred dollars a month. Add a few more contributors and it was better than a paying job. I slid the check back and resealed the envelope. The rest of the desk drawers contained nothing of interest. I did another quick visual survey and then flipped the light out. I peered around the edge of the curtain. The parking lot was deserted. I turned the thumb-lock and eased out, pulling the door shut behind me.

I bypassed the freeway and took surface roads back into Horton Ravine. Lower Road was dark, the few streetlamps too widely spaced to offer adequate illumination. The lights that had been turned on at the Weidmanns' house were the sort you offer up to burglars in hopes they'll go elsewhere. The porch light was on and there was no car in the drive. I left my engine idling while I rang the bell. Once I was convinced there was no one home, I backed down the driveway and parked around the corner on Esmeralda. The Horton Ravine Patrol would swing by at intervals, but I thought I'd escape notice temporarily. I opened the glove compartment and took out the big flashlight. To the best of my recollection, the Weidmanns didn't have electronic fences or a big slobbering Doberman. I grabbed my jacket from a jumble in the backseat. I shrugged myself into it and zipped it up the front. Time to go walking in the woods on a little toadstool hunt.

I approached the house on foot, my flashlight raking back and forth across the path in front of me. The porch light contributed a soft wash of yellow that blended with the shadows at the edge of the yard. I moved around the side of the house to the patio in the rear, where two harsh spotlights made the property inhospitable to prowlers. I crossed the concrete slab and went down four shallow steps to the formal garden. The cushion on Peter's chaise had been folded in half, possibly to spare it further weathering. Over the years, the sun had bleached the canvas to a tired and cracking gray. I could see that snails were currently using the surface as a playground.

The grass had been cut. I could see parallel paths through the back lawn, swaths overlapping where the mower had doubled back. Where I'd seen toadstools, there was nothing. I crossed the yard, trying to remember the placement of the fairy rings. Some toadstools had grown singly and some in clumps. Now everything had been obliterated by the passing mower blades. I hunkered, touching minced vegetable matter, whitish against the dark grass. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement… a shadow passing through the light. Yolanda was home, tramping through the wet grass to the place where I was crouched. She was wearing another two-piece velour running suit, this one magenta. Her walking shoes seemed to flash with short strips of reflecting tape, the pristine leather uppers sprinkled with clippings from the mown grass.

"What are you doing out here?" Her voice was low, and in the half light her face was gray with fatigue. Her platinum-blond hair was as stiff as a wig.

"I was looking for the toadstools that were here the first time I came."

"The gardener came yesterday. I had him mow all of this."

"What'd he do with the clippings?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Morley Shine was murdered."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Her tone was perfunctory.

"Really?" I said. "You didn't seem to like him much."

"I didn't like him at all. He smelled like someone who drank and smoked, which I don't approve of. You still haven't explained what you're doing on my property."

"Have you ever heard of Amanita phalloides?"

"A type of toadstool, I presume."

"A poisonous mushroom of the type that killed Morley."

"The gardener puts the clippings in a big heap over there. When the pile gets big enough, he loads up his truck and takes it all to the dump. If you like, you can have the crime lab come haul it away for analysis."

"Morley was a good investigator."

"I'm sure he was. What's that got to do with it?"

"I suspect he was murdered because he knew the truth."

"About Isabelle's murder?"

"Among other things. You want to tell me why you sent a four-hundred-dollar check to Curtis McIntyre?"

That seemed to stump her. "Who told you that?"

"I saw the check."

She was silent for a full thirty seconds, a very long time in ordinary conversation. Reluctantly she said, "He's my grandson. Not that it's any of your business."

"Curtis?" I said with such incredulity that she seemed to take offense.

"You don't need to say it like that. I know the boy's faults perhaps better than you."

"I'm sorry, but I never in this world would have linked you with him," I said.

"Our only daughter died when he was ten. We promised her we'd raise him as well as we could. Curtis's father was unbearably common, I'm afraid. A criminal and a misfit. He disappeared when Curt was eight and we haven't heard a word from him since. When it comes to nature versus nurture, it's plain that nature prevails. Or perhaps we failed in some vital way…" Her voice trailed off. "Is that how he got involved in all this?"

"This what?"

"He was set to testify in the civil suit against David Barney. Did you talk to him about the murder?"

She rubbed her forehead. "I suppose."

"Do you remember if he was staying with you at the time?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Do you happen to know where he is at the moment?"

"I haven't any idea."

"Somebody picked him up at his motel a little while ago." She continued to stare at me. "Please. Just tell me what you want and then leave me alone."

"Where's Peter? Is he here?"

"He was admitted to the hospital late this afternoon. He's had another heart attack. He's in the cardiac care unit. If it's not too much to ask, I'd like to go in now. I came home for a bite of supper. I have some phone calls to make and then I have to go back to the hospital. They're not sure he's going to make it this time."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I had no idea."

"It doesn't matter now. Nothing really matters much."

I watched with uneasiness as she tramped back across the grass, her wet shoes leaving partial prints on the concrete. She looked shrunken and old. I suspected she was a woman who would follow her mate into death within months. She unlocked the back door and let herself in. The kitchen light went on. As soon as she was out of sight, I began to cross the grass, my flashlight picking up occasional fragments of white. I hunkered, brushing aside a clump of grass clippings. Under it was a scant portion of mower-chopped toadstool-less than a tablespoon from the look of it. The chances of its being A. phalloides seemed remote, but in the interest of thoroughness I took a folded tissue from my jacket pocket and carefully wrapped the specimen.

I went back to my car, feeling somewhat unsettled. I was reasonably sure I understood now how Curtis had gotten involved in the case. Maybe he'd heard the jail talk among informants and had approached Kenneth Voigt after the acquittal came down. Or maybe Ken had heard from the Weidmanns that Curtis had been jailed with David Barney. He might well have approached Curtis with the suggestion about his trumped-up testimony. I wasn't sure Curtis was smart enough to generate the scheme himself.

I sat in my car on the darkened side road. I rolled the window down so I could listen to the crickets. The feel of damp air against my face was refreshing. The vegetation along the berm smelled quite peppery where I'd trampled it. I worked for the Y as a camp counselor (briefly) the summer before my sophomore year in high school. I must have been fifteen, full of hope, not yet into flunking, rebelling, and smoking dope. We'd gone on an 'overnight,' the whole batch of us from day camp, me with the nine-year-old girls in my charge. We did pretty well until we settled down for the night. Then it turned out the tree under which we'd arranged our sleeping bags was a vast leafy nest full of daddy longlegs spiders that commenced dropping down on us from above. Plop, plop. Plop, plop. You've never heard such shrieks. I scared the little girls half to death I'm sure…

I glanced at my rearview mirror. Behind me, a car turned the corner, slowing as it reached me. The logo on the vehicle was the Horton Ravine Patrol. There were two men in the front seat, the one in the passenger seat directing a spotlight in my face. "You having a problem?"

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm just on my way." I turned the key and put the car in gear, easing forward on the shoulder until I could pull onto the pavement in front of them. I drove sedately out of Horton Ravine, the guys in the patrol car following conspicuously. I got back on the freeway, more from desperation than from any concrete plan. What was I supposed to do? Most of the leads I'd pursued had suddenly petered out, and until I talked to Curtis I couldn't be sure what was going on. I'd left word for him to call. My only choice seemed to be to head for home, where at least he could reach me if he got one of my messages.

It was 8:15 by the time I reached my place. I locked the door behind me and turned the downstairs lights on. I transferred the tissue-wrapped toadstool to a Baggie, pausing to search through a kitchen drawer until I found a marker pen. I labeled the Baggie with a crudely drawn skull and crossbones and tucked it in my refrigerator. I peeled my jacket off and perched on a stool. I studied the bulletin board with its road map of multicolored index cards.

It was aggravating to think there might be something right in front of me. If Morley had spotted something, it had probably cost him his life. What was it? I ran my gaze up one column of information and down the next, watching the sequence of events unfold. I got up and walked around the room, came back, and peered. I went over to the sofa bed and lay down on my back, staring at the ceiling. Thinking is hard work, which is why you don't see a lot of people doing it. I got up restlessly and returned to the counter, leaning on my elbows while I scanned the board.

"Come on, Morley, help me out here," I murmured.

Oh.

Well, there was a bit of a discrepancy that I hadn't paid much attention to. According to Regina Turner at the Gypsy Motel, Noah McKell was struck and killed at 1:11 a.m. But Tippy hadn't reached the intersection at San Vicente and 101 until approximately 1:40, a thirty-minute difference. Why had it had taken her so long to get there? It was probably only four or five miles from the Gypsy to the off-ramp. Had she stopped for a cup of coffee? Filled her tank with gas? She'd just killed a man, and according to David she was still visibly upset. It was difficult to picture what she'd done with that half hour. Maybe she'd spent the time driving aimlessly around. I couldn't think why it would matter, but the question seemed easy to clarify.

I reached for the phone and punched in the Parsons number, staring at the bulletin board while it continued to ring. Eight, nine. Oh, yeah. Friday night. I'd forgotten about Rhe's opening at the Axminster Gallery. I hauled out the telephone book and looked up the number for the gallery. This time somebody picked up on the second ring, but there was such a din in the background I could hardly hear. I pressed a hand to my free ear, focusing on the sounds from the gallery. I asked for Tippy and then had to make the same request only doubling the volume and pitch of my voice. The fellow on the other end said he'd go and get her. I sat and listened to people laughing, glasses clinking. Sounded like they were having a lot more fun than I was…

"Hello?"

"Hello, Tippy? This is Kinsey. Listen, I know this is a bad time to try to talk to you, but I was just thinking about what happened the night your aunt was killed. Can I ask you a couple questions?"

"Right now?"

"If you don't mind. I'm just curious about what happened between the time of the accident and the time you saw David Barney."

There was silence. "I don't know. I mean, I went up to my aunt's, but that's it."

"You went to Isabelle's house?"

"Yeah. I was like really upset and I couldn't think what else to do. I was going to tell her what happened and ask her for help. If she told me to go back, I would have done it, I swear."

"Could you speak up, please? What time was this?"

"Right after the accident. I knew I hit the guy so I just took off and headed right up to her place."

"Was she there?"

"I guess so. The lights were on…"

"The porch light was on?"

"Sure. I knocked and knocked but she never came down."

"Was the eyepiece in the door?"

"I didn't really look at that. After I knocked, I walked around the outside, but the place was all locked up. So I just got in my truck and headed home from there."

"You went home on the freeway."

"Sure, I got on at Little Pony Road."

"And got off at San Vicente."

"Well, yeah," she said. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Nothing really. It narrows the time of death, but I can't see that it makes any difference. Anyway, I appreciate your help. If you think of anything else, would you give me a call?"

"Sure. Is that all you want?"

"For now," I said. "Did you talk to the cops?"

"No, but I talked to this lawyer and she's going in with me first thing tomorrow morning."

"Good. You'll have to let me know what happens. How's the opening?"

"Really neat," she said. "Everybody loves it. They're like freaking out. Mom's sold six pieces."

"That's wonderful. Good for her. I hope she sells tons."

"I gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow."

I said good-bye to an empty line.

The phone rang again before I could remove my hand. I snatched up the receiver, thinking maybe Tippy had remembered something. "Hello?"

There was an odd breathy silence, very brief, and then I heard a man's voice. "Hey, Kinsey?" Then the breathiness again.

"Yes." I found myself squinting at the sound. I pressed my fingers to my ear again, listening to the quiet as I'd listened to the party noises at Rhe's opening. The guy was crying. He wasn't sobbing. It was the kind of crying you do when you want to conceal the fact. The air was bypassing his vocal cords. "Kinsey?"

"Curtis?"

"Uh-hunh. Yeah."

"What's wrong? Is somebody there with you?"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"Curtis, what's the matter? Is someone there with you?"

"That's right. Listen, why I called? I was wondering if you could meet me so we could talk about something."

"Who is it? Are you okay?"

"Can you meet me? I have some information."

"What's going on? Can you tell me who's with you?"

"Meet me at the bird refuge and I'll explain."

"When?"

"As soon as possible, okay?"

I had to make a quick decision. I couldn't keep him on the line much longer. Anybody monitoring the call would get cranky. "Okay. It might take me a while. I'm already in bed so I'll have to get dressed. I'll see you down there as soon as I can make it, but it might be twenty minutes."

The line went dead.

It wasn't nine o'clock yet, but there wasn't much traffic around the bird refuge at night. The preserve encompasses a freshwater lagoon on a little-used access road between the freeway and the beach. The twenty-car parking lot is usually used by tourists looking for a "photo opportunity." There was a tavern across the street, but the property was currently without a tenant. I wasn't going to go down there alone and unarmed. I picked up the phone again and called the police station, asking for Sergeant Cordero.

"I'm sorry, but she won't be in until seven a.m."

"Can you tell me who's working Homicide?"

"Is this an emergency?"

"Not yet," I said tartly.

"You can talk to the watch commander."

"Just skip it. Never mind. I can try someone else." I depressed the button and tucked the telephone in against my shoulder while I checked my personal address book. The "someone else" I called was Sergeant Jonah Robb, an STPD cop who worked the missing persons detail. He and I had had a sporadic relationship that fluctuated according to the whims of his wife. Theirs was a marriage of high drama and long duration, the two having met at age thirteen in the seventh grade. Personally, I didn't think they'd progressed much. At intervals, Camilla would leave him-usually without notice or explanation-taking their two daughters and any money they had in their joint bank account. Jonah always vowed each time was the last. It was during one of these periods of domestic upheaval that I entered, stage left. I was the understudy, a role I discovered I didn't like very much. I'd finally severed the connection. I hadn't spoken to Jonah now for nearly a year, but he was still someone I felt I could call in a pinch.

A woman answered the telephone in a bedroom tone of voice, Camilla perhaps, or her latest replacement. I asked for Jonah and I could hear the receiver being passed from hand to hand. His "Hello" was groggy. God, these people went to bed earlier than I did. I identified myself and that seemed to wake him up some.

"What's happening?" he said.

"I hate to bother you, babe, but a jailbird named Curtis McIntyre just phoned and asked me to meet him at the bird refuge as soon as I can get there. My guess is the guy had a gun to his head. I need backup."

"Who's with him? Do you know?"

"I don't have an answer to that yet and it's too complicated to go into on the phone."

"You got a gun?"

"It's in my office at Lonnie Kingman's. I'm just on my way over there to pick it up. Take me fifteen minutes max and then I'll head down to the beach. Can you help?"

"Yeah, I can probably do that."

"I wouldn't ask, but I don't have anyone else."

"I understand," he said. "I'll see you there in fifteen minutes. I'll drive past and then double back on foot. There's plenty of cover."

"That's what concerns me," I said. "Don't trip over the bad guys."

"Don't worry. I can smell them puppy dogs. See you down there."

"Thanks," I said and hung up.

I grabbed my shoulder bag and my jacket with the car keys in the pocket, congratulating myself that I'd had the presence of mind to get the VW gassed up. It would take all the time I'd allotted to get from my apartment to the office and back down to the bird refuge. Whomever Curtis had with him was going to be edgy about delays, suspicious if I didn't show up in the time I'd said I would. I drove faster than the law allows, but I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching for cunningly concealed black-and-whites. I hoped I wouldn't have trouble laying hands on the gun. I'd moved only five weeks ago, hauling my hastily packed cardboard boxes from California Fidelity to Lonnie Kingman's office. I hadn't actually seen the gun since I bought it in May. I'd resented the necessity for the purchase in the first place, but I'd heard that my name was at the top of somebody's hit list. A private eye named Robert Dietz had stepped into the picture when I realized I needed help. Once I accepted the fact that my life was truly endangered, I gave up any passing interest in being politically correct. It was Dietz who'd insisted that I replace my.32-caliber Davis with the H amp;K. The damn gun had cost me an arm and a leg. Come to think of it, I wasn't all that sure where the Davis was either.

When I got to the office, I left my car out on the street with my shoulder bag tucked down against the driver's seat out of sight. There was little or no traffic and all the nearby office buildings were locked down for the night. I moved through the darkened arch along the driveway that led back to the little twelve-car parking lot. I didn't see Lonnie's Mercedes, but there was a section of pavement washed with the light from his offices above. Well, great. He was back. I couldn't stop and explain what was going on, but it probably wouldn't be hard to talk him into going with me. Despite his professional demeanor, Lonnie's a brawler at heart. He'd love the idea of sneaking through the bushes in the dark.

I used my keychain flashlight against the pitch-black stairwell. When I reached the third-floor corridor, I could see where Lonnie'd turned the lights on in the reception area. I bypassed the front entrance and used the unmarked door that opened closer to my office. I glanced to my right toward Lonnie's office, located one door down from mine.

"Hey, Lonnie? Don't disappear on me. I need some help. I'll be there in a second and tell you what's going on."

I didn't bother to wait for a reply. I opened my office door and flipped the light switch. My office space had once functioned as the employees' lounge/kitchen, with my current closet serving as a pantry of sorts. There were five cartons still stacked against the back wall, clearly stuff I hadn't needed in the new place so far. I couldn't even remember what was in those boxes. I've heard the theory that if you still haven't unpacked a carton two years after a move, you simply call the Salvation Army and have the damn thing hauled away. I'd cleverly marked each box "Office Stuff." I pulled one out and ripped off the wide brown sealing tape. I peeled the flaps back. This box contained all my income tax files. I tried the next box and hit pay dirt. Oh, yea. The Heckler amp; Koch was sitting right on top, still in the box, the Winchester Silvertips in two boxes just under it.

I sat down on the floor and took the gun out. I grabbed a box of ammo and opened it, pulling out the little white Styrofoam base. I began to push cartridges into the magazine. Once we'd arrived at the gun shop, Dietz and I had had yet another fractious argument about which model I should buy: the P7, which held nine rounds, or the P9S, which held ten. Guess which one cost more? I was in a bitchy mood anyway, feeling stubborn and uncooperative. The P7 was already priced at more than eleven hundred bucks. I'd also griped about the P9S, which I felt was too much gun for me. What I meant, of course, was expensive, which Dietz guessed right away.

I'd said, "Goddamn it. I get to win sometimes."

"You win more often than you should," he'd said. I wished now he'd won a lot more arguments, especially the one about my going off to Germany with him…

The lights in my office went out abruptly and I was left in the pitch-black dark. I had no exterior windows so I couldn't see a thing. Had Lonnie left without saying a word? Maybe he hadn't heard me come in, I thought. I slid the magazine into the gun and slapped it home with my palm. Navigating in the dark is like escaping from a burning building – you stay low. I tucked the gun in my waistband and crawled to the doorway with no dignity whatsoever. It beat bumping into the furniture, but it wasn't going to look good if the lights popped back on. My office door was standing open and I peered out into the hallway. All the lights in the office were out. What the hell had he done, stuck a fork in the outlet? The whole place had been plunged into blackness. I said, "Lonnie?"

Silence. How could he have disappeared so fast?

I could have sworn I heard a faint sound from the vicinity of Lonnie's office. I didn't think I was alone. I listened. The office was so quiet the silence seemed dense, thick with subsounds. Even in the dark, I found myself closing my eyes, hoping somehow to hear better with my visual sense shut down. I sat back on my haunches, crouched in my doorway across from the point where Ida Ruth and a secretary named Jill had their desks.

Who was in the office with me? And where? Having called out twice now in clear bell-like tones, we all knew where I was. I eased back down on all fours and started belly-crawling the ten feet across the corridor toward the space between the two secretaries' desks.

Somebody fired at me. The report was so loud I levitated like a cat, in one of those miraculous moves where all four limbs seem to leave the ground at once. Adrenaline blew through me in a sudden spurt. I wasn't aware that I had shrieked until the sound was out. My heart banged in my throat and my hands tingled from the rush. I must have leaped the distance because I found myself exactly where I wanted to be, in a crouch, my right shoulder resting against Ida Ruth's desk drawers. I put a hand across my mouth to still my breathing. I listened. The shooter seemed to be firing from the vantage point of Lonnie's office, effectively cutting me off from the reception area, where the front entrance was located. The obvious maneuver here was to back my way down the wide corridor, which was now to my left. The unmarked door, leading to the main hall, was about fifteen feet away. Once there, I could crouch beside it, try the knob to make sure the door was still open, count to three, and then VOOM… go right through. Good plan. Okay. All I had to do was get there. The problem was that I was afraid to risk the distance without cover of some kind. Where was Ida Ruth's rolling chair? That might do…

I put a tentative hand out, groping my way along the floor in search of the chair. I found myself touching a face. I jerked my hand back, emitting a sound at the back of my throat as I sucked in my breath. Someone was lying on the floor next to me. I half expected a hand to shoot out and grab me, but there was no move in my direction. I reached out again and made contact. Flesh. Slack mouth. I felt the features. Smooth skin, strong chin. Male. The guy was too thin to be Lonnie and I didn't believe it was John Ives or the other attorney, Martin Cheltenham. It almost had to be Curtis, but what the hell was he doing here? He was still warm, but his cheek was sticky with blood. I put my hand on his throat. No pulse. I placed a hand on his chest, which was dead still. His shirt was wet in front. He must have made the call from the office. He was probably shot shortly afterward in preparation for my arrival. Somebody knew me better than I thought… well enough to know where I kept my gun, at any rate… well enough to know I'd never show up at a meeting without coming down here first.

I felt behind me in the dark again, encountering one of the sturdy casters on Ida Ruth's rolling chair. I blinked in the dark as another possibility occurred to me. If I could find an open phone line, I could dial 911 and let it ring through to the dispatcher. Even if I never said a word, the address would come up on the police station computer and they'd send someone to investigate. I hoped.

I came up on my knees, peering over the top of the nearest desk. Now that my eyes were adjusting, I could distinguish greater and lesser degrees of dark: the charcoal upright of a doorway, the block form of a file cabinet. I moved my hand across the surface of the desk with incredible care, not wanting to bump into anything or knock anything over. I found the telephone. I lifted the entire instrument. I cleared the edge of the desk and lowered it to the floor. I angled the receiver upward slightly, slipping an index finger onto the cutoff button. I put the receiver against my ear and let the button come up. Nothing. No dial tone. No light coming on.

I peered up over the desk again and scanned the dark. There was no movement, no shadowy silhouette framed in Lonnie's doorway.

I eased the gun from my waistband. I'd never fired the H amp;K in a tight spot. I'd gone up to the range a few times with Dietz before he left. He'd put me through numerous firing drills until I refused to take any more orders from him. Usually I'm pretty good about keeping in practice, but not lately. It was the first time I'd tuned in to the fact I was depressed about his leaving. Shit, Kinsey, get a clue. The gun was reassuring. At least I wouldn't be totally at the mercy of my assailant. I squeezed the cocking lever on the grip.

I could hear breathing now, but it might have been mine.

I wished I hadn't left the relative safety of my office. My phone had a separate line and it might still be functioning. If I could cross the hall and get back to my office, I could at least lock the door and shove the desk up against it. All I'd have to do then was hold out until morning. Surely the cleaning crew would be in. I might be rescued sooner if anybody figured it out. I thought about Jonah. He'd be waiting at the bird refuge, wondering what had happened. What would he do when I didn't show up? Probably assume he got the location wrong. To my mind, the term bird refuge didn't contain any ambiguity. There was only one parking area. I had told him I was coming here first to pick up my gun, but he'd sounded half asleep. Who knew what he'd remember or if it would ever dawn on him to check it out.

I pulled Ida Ruth's chair closer and crouched behind it, keeping it between me and my assailant as I crept toward the unmarked door. Another shot was fired. The bullet tore through the upholstery with such force that the plastic chair back banged me right in the face. It was all I could do to keep from screaming as the blood gushed from my nose. I scooted backward, pulling the chair along in front of me as I scrambled toward the door. I eased a hand up along the doorframe until I touched the knob. Locked. Another shot was fired. A splinter of wood sailed past my face. I dove toward the wall, using the baseboard like a lane marker as I swam my way along the floor, praying the carpet would part for me and let me sink beneath the pile. The next shot ripped along my right hip as if someone were trying to strike a giant match. I jumped again, making a short exclamation of pain and astonishment. The stinging sensation told me I'd been hit. I fired back.

I rolled toward the far side of the corridor. The only protection I had at this point was the dark. If my eyes were adjusting, then so were my assailant's. I fired at Lonnie's doorway again. I heard a bark of surprise. I fired again, crawling backward down the hallway toward the kitchen in haste. My right buttock was on fire, sparks shooting down my right leg and up into my right side. I wasn't even crawling as efficiently as a six-month-old baby. I hugged the wall, feeling tears well, not from sorrow, but from pain.

I don't presume to understand how the human brain works. I do know that the left brain is verbal, linear, and analytical, solving life's little problems by virtue of sound reasoning. The right brain on the other hand tends to be intuitive, imaginative, whimsical, and spontaneous, coming up with the inexplicable Ah-ha! answer to some question you may have asked yourself three days before. There's no accounting for this. As I huddled in the blackness, gun in hand, with my lips pressed together to keep from shrieking like a girl, I knew with perfect certainty who was shooting at me. And to tell you the truth, it really pissed me off. When the next shot was fired, I flattened myself, braced the gun in both hands, and fired back. Maybe it was time to declare myself. "Hey, David?"

Silence.

"I know it's you," I said.

He laughed. "I was wondering if you'd figure it out."

"It took me a while, but I got it," I said. It was weird talking to him in the dark like this. I could barely visualize his face and that bothered me.

"How'd you guess?"

"I realized there was a gap between the time Tippy hit the pedestrian and the time she bumped into you."

"So?"

"So I called her and asked where she was for that thirty minutes. Turns out she went up to Isabelle's."

There was a silence.

I went on, "You must have just killed Isabelle when you saw Tippy coming up the drive. While she was knocking at the door, you hopped in the truck bed. She drove you away from the house when she left. All you had to do then was wait till she slowed down. Out you hop on the driver's side, giving the truck a thump with your fist as you jump. Tippy turns left and you're sprawled on the pavement in plain view of the work crew across the street."

"Yeah, with Mr. Average Citizen ready to testify in my behalf," he chimed in at last.

"What about Morley? Why'd you have to kill him?"

"Are you kidding? That old buzzard was really breathing down my neck. When I talked to him on Wednesday, he'd just about made the leap. I knew if I didn't take him down quick, I'd be in the soup. Raiding his files was a snap after that. He's kind of a slob when it came down to his paperwork."

"Where'd you get the death caps?"

"The Weidmanns' backyard. That's what inspired the notion in the first place. I went over there one night and plucked up a dozen and then paid my cook a little extra to make the pastry. She didn't know Amanita from her ass. She's lucky she didn't taste for seasonings as she went along."

"I gotta hand it to you. You are one clever chap," I said, thinking hard. Behind me, the corridor made a left-hand turn into a cul-de-sac with the copy room on one side and the new kitchenette on the other. If I rounded the corner, I'd be out of the line of fire, but I'd have a couple of problems I wasn't sure I could solve. One, I'd no longer have a straight line of fire myself. And two, I'd be trapped. On the other hand, I was trapped where I was. The kitchen had a small window. With luck, if I got there, I could bust out the glass and holler real loud for help. Like maybe nobody'd heard the gunfight at the O.K. Corral in here. If I could persuade him to keep talking, he might not hear me shift locations. "I'm surprised you didn't slip up somewhere along the line," I said. As long as I was stuck, I might as well fish for information.

Reluctantly, he said, "I did slip once."

"Really? When was that?"

"I got drunk one night with Curtis and flapped my big mouth. I still can't believe I did that. The minute it was out I knew I'd have to get rid of him one day."

"God," I said. "You mean to tell me he was telling the truth for once?"

Barney laughed in the dark. "Oh, sure. He figured it was worth some money to someone so he went straight to Ken Voigt and tattled. Sure enough, Voigt started paying Curtis to ensure his testimony. Fool."

I closed my eyes. Voigt was a fool. So eager to win he'd risked his own credibility. "What about me? Is there some scheme in the works or you just doing this for yucks?"

"Actually, I'd like to run you out of ammunition so I can finish you off. I killed Curtis with an H amp;K, like the one you've got. I'm going to shoot you with the thirty-eight I used on Isabelle and put that gun in his hand. That way, it'll look like he killed her-"

"And I killed him," I said, completing the sentence. "You ever hear about ballistics? They're going to know the gun wasn't mine."

"I'll be gone by then."

"Smart."

"Very smart," he said, "which is more than you can say of most people. Human beings are like ants. So busy, so involved in their little world. Watch an anthill sometime. Such activity. You can tell everything looks so important from the ant's point of view. But it's not. In reality, it doesn't amount to anything. Haven't you ever stepped on an ant? Rubbed one out with your thumb? You don't suffer any great pangs of conscience. You think, There. I gotcha. Same thing here."

"Jesus. This is really profound. I'm taking notes over here."

That made him mad and he fired twice, slugs plowing into the carpet to my right. I matched him shot for shot just for the hell of it.

"You're so innocent," he said. "You think you're such a cynic, but you were easy to fool-"

"Let's not jump to conclusions," I said. I thought I saw his head appear in Lonnie's doorway. I fired two more times.

He disappeared. "You missed."

"Sorry to hear that." I slipped out the magazine and counted cartridges by feel. All that nice ammo in the other room.

"You have a problem over there?"

"I broke a fingernail."

He was silent for a moment. "Be careful with your ammo. You only have one shot left."

"Bullshit. I have two."

He laughed in the dark. "Oh, right. Uh-hunh."

I was quiet and then I said, "What makes you so sure?"

"I can count."

I put my head down briefly, gathering my strength. Time to move along, I thought. I slipped my left shoe off and placed it on the floor in front of me. I slipped my right shoe off, my eyes crossing at the heat in my right hip. I could feel a numbness spreading and I couldn't quite compute how pain and nothing could share the same nerve path. "That was only seven," I said.

"It was eight."

"I have a ten-shot," I said piously. I began to ease back toward the point at which the corridor made a left.

"A ten-shot. What crap. You're such a liar," he said.

"Oh, really? What kind of gun do you have?"

"A Walther. An eight-shot. I have two shots left."

"No, you don't. You have one. I can count, too, bird-breath." I was moving by degrees, nearing the corner, feeling backward with my foot. David Barney didn't seem to notice the change in my location.

"You can't fool me. I did my homework on you."

"Like what?" I said. I reached the corner and angled myself around until only the upper portion of my body was in the corridor. David Barney was now about twenty-five feet away. I was resting on my right side, my blue jeans wet with blood. I looked down at myself. My hip had started to glow. I lifted myself on one elbow. I'd put my weight on my keychain, activating the little plastic flashlight that was shaped like a flattened oval and turned on when you pinched it. I eased the keys out of my jeans pocket and took the flash off the key ring. I pushed the keys to one side, uneasy about their jangling.

"Like this business about your lying. You take a lot of pride in the fact."

"Who'd you hear that from?"

"I get around. It's amazing how much information you can pick up in jail."

"I bet you tell a lot of lies yourself," I said. "You probably have a nine-shot."

He actually sounded flattered. "You never know," he said.

"What made you so sure I'd come down here tonight?" I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees.

"You didn't figure that out? You told Curtis you kept your gun here. That's why I set up the meeting at the bird refuge. I knew you'd never go down there without your gun."

Let's get this over with, I thought. I came up to a half crouch, like a runner at a starting post, painfully aware of the throbbing in my butt.

Behind me, I heard him say, "You still there?"

I didn't answer.

"Where'd you go?"

I limped in my sock feet as quickly as I could toward the kitchen door. The room glowed a faint gray from the outside light. I realized at a glance there was no place to hide. I veered out of the room and across the hall. I tiptoed to the far corner and I crouched down beside the Xerox machine with my back to the wall. Bending my right leg hurt so bad I had to grit my teeth. I made it to a sitting position, my gun in my right hand, the little flash in my left. My hands felt greasy with sweat and my fingers were cold.

"Kinsey?" From the hallway. Any minute he'd figure out I was gone and come barreling after me.

I was squeezed in beside the Xerox machine with my knees drawn up. I was hoping to keep the target area as small as possible, though crammed in a corner was probably not such a hot idea. Guy fires one bullet, he hits everything you got.

"Hey!" he said. "I'm talking to you." I could tell from his voice he was still down around Lonnie's office. The man was annoyed.

I tried to still my breathing.

He fired.

Even down the hall and around the corner, I jumped. That was eight. If the man had an eight-shot, I was doing okay. A nine-shot, I was screwed. Once he figured out where I was, I was fair game. It was really too late to go anywhere else. I was feeling clammy, that cold, sick sensation that overwhelms you when you're about to pass out. I wiped my cheek against my shirtsleeve. Fear had settled over me like an icy vapor, rippling against my spine.

The notion of dying is, at the same time, trivial and terrifying, absurd and full of anguish. Ego clings to life. Self lets it go, willing to free-fall, willing to soar. If I regretted anything, it was simply not knowing how all the stories would turn out. Would William and Rosie fall in love sure enough? Would Henry reach the age of ninety? With all the blood oozing out, would Lonnie ever get his carpet clean?

So many things I hadn't done. So many things I wouldn't get to do now. Dumb to die like this, but then again, why not?

I took two deep breaths, trying to keep my head clear.

In the hallway, quite close, I heard David Barney's voice. "Kinsey?" He was checking the kitchen as I had, realizing there was no place of concealment. He'd probably scouted the place while he was waiting for me to show up. He had to know the copy room was the only place left. I could hear his shallow breathing.

"Hello. You in there? Now we can have a little liar's contest. Do I have one bullet or no bullets?"

I said nothing.

"And what about the lady? She claims she has two left. Does she lie or tell the truth?"

My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't steady the gun. I pointed in the general direction of the door and fired.

His "Oh" was full of pain. He made a humming sound that told me I had hit him and he was hurting. Well, good. It made two of us. He shuffled into the room. "That makes nine," he said. His voice turned grim and silly and theatrical. He was clowning. "Are you prepared to die?"

"I wouldn't say prepared exactly, but I wouldn't be surprised." I held the small flashlight in my left hand and pinched the center. It gave off a scant tablespoon of light, but it was enough to see him with. "How about you?" I said. "Surprised?" I fired at him point-blank and then studied the effect.

This was instructional. In the movies, you shoot someone and they're either blown back a foot or they keep coming at you, up from the bathtub, up from the floor, sometimes so full of bullet holes their shirts form red polka dots. The truth is, you hit someone and it hurts like hell. I could testify to that. David Barney had to sit down with his back to the wall and think about life. A wet red stain was forming on his left side, fairly ruining his shirt and causing his expression to shift from smug superiority to consternation.

I studied him for a moment and then said, "I told you I had a ten-shot."

He didn't seem interested in that. I pulled myself into a standing position, leaving a sticky handprint on the Xerox machine. I crossed the room to the wall he was propped against. I leaned down and took his gun, which he offered up without resistance. I checked the magazine. There was one bullet left. His eyes had gone empty and his fingers opened slowly as he released his own life. Something like a moth fluttered off into the dark. I limped into the hall, raking my little flashlight across the wall until I found the fire alarm box. I busted the glass door and pulled the lever.