Monster

Chapter 21

Twenty miles North of L.A., everything empties.

I'd stopped at home long enough to pick up and scan the articles I'd photocopied at the library, gulp down some coffee, and get back on the freeway. The 405 took me to the 101 and finally Interstate 5, this time headed north. The last fast-food signs had been five miles back and I shared the freeway with flatbeds hauling hay, long-distance movers, the odd car, a few Winnebagos lumbering in the slow lane.

I had a heavy foot, speeding past brown, rumpled-blanket mountains, groves of scrub oak and pine and California pepper trees, the occasional grazing horse. The heat hadn't let up, but the sky was awash with pretty clouds-lavender-gray swirls, satin-shiny, as if an old wedding dress had been draped over the world.

The clippings had given me three possible contacts: Teo-doro Alarcon, the ranch superintendent who'd found the bodies; Sheriff Jacob Haas; and the only other person to comment on Ardis Peake's strange behavior without protection of anonymity, a kid named Derrick Crimmins. No listings on Alarcon or Crimmins, but a Jacob B. Haas had an address at Fairway Ranch. I called his number and a hearty male voice on a machine told me Jake and Marvelle were unavailable, but feel free to leave a message. I said I'd be in town on LAPD business and would appreciate it if Sheriff Haas could spare me some time.

The highway forked, the truck route sprouting to the right and draining the traffic from three lanes. Radar surveillance warnings were all around, but the eternity of open road before me was too seductive and I kept the Seville at 85, zipping past Saugus and Castaic, the western ridge of Angeles Crest National Forest, the Tejon Pass, then the Kern County border.

Shortly after eleven, I exited at Grapevine and bought some gas. My freeway map showed me how to get to Fairway Ranch, but I confirmed directions with the sleepy-looking attendant.

"That's for old people," he said. He was around nineteen, crew-cut, tan, and pimpled, with four earrings in his left lobe.

"Visiting Grandma," I said.

He looked up and down the Seville. "It's pretty nice there. Rich people, mostly. They play a lot of golf." The minitruck with the huge wheels and the Radiohead bumper sticker parked near the garbage cans was probably his. Freshly waxed. His eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at the Seville. I try to keep the car in good shape, but it's a '79 and there are limits.

"Used to be another town around here," I said.

His stare was dull.

"Treadway," I said. "Farms, ranches, peaches, and walnut groves."

"Oh, yeah?" Profound indifference. "Cool car."

I thanked him and left, taking a narrow northeastern road toward the Tehachapi Mountains. The range was gorgeous- high and sharp, peaks of varying height laid against one another masterfully, more perfectly arranged than any artist's composition could ever be. The lower hills were dun, the upper ridges the precise ash-gray of the Beatty brothers' dead faces. Some of the more distant crests had faded to a misty purple. Wintry colors even at this time of year, but the heat was more intense than in L.A., burning through the clouds as if they were tissue paper.

The road rose sharply. This was subalpine terrain. I couldn't imagine it as farmland. Then ten miles in, a sign reading FAIRWAY RANCH: A PLANNED COMMUNITY directed me down a left-hand pass that cut sharply through walls of granite. Another sign-STEEP GRADE: REDUCE SPEED-came too late; I was already hurtling down a roller-coaster chute.

A good two miles of chute. At the bottom was flat green patchwork centered by a diamond-bright aquamarine lake. The lake was amorphous-too perfectly shapeless, it shouted man-made. Two golf courses hugged the water, one on each side, fringed by lime-colored trees with feathery tops- California peppers. Red-topped houses were grouped in premeditated plots. Spanish tile on cream stucco, interspersed with trapezoids of green. The entire layout-maybe five miles wide-was outlined in white, as if drawn by a child too fearful to go outside the lines.

As I got closer I saw that the white was waist-high beam-and-post fencing. An exact duplicate of the "planned community" sign appeared a hundred yards later, over a smaller plaque that said Bunker Protection patrolled the premises.

No gates, just a flat, clean road into the development. Fifteen MPH speed limit and warnings to watch for slow-moving golf carts. I obliged and crawled past stretches of perfect rye grass. Lots more pepper trees, shaggy and undulating, sub-planted with beds of multicolored impatiens.

A thousand feet in, another dozen signs on a stout, dark tree trunk that might have been walnut offered a crash course in the layout of Fairway Ranch.

Balmoral Golf Course to the north, White Oak to the south, Reflection Lake straight ahead. The Pinnacle Recreation Center and Spa to the north, Walnut Grove Fitness Center to the south. In the center, Piccadilly Arcade.

Other arrows pointed to what I assumed were six different housing subdivisions: Chatham, Cotswold, Sussex, Essex, Yorkshire, Jersey.

The mountains were two or three miles away but seemed to be closer. Sparkling color and knife-edge detail said the air was pure.

Beyond the tree post was a small single cube of a building. The rounded edges and blatant texture of pseudo-adobe. More Spanish tile.

Letting the Seville idle, I looked around. Acres of grass and scores more California peppers, a few clumps of peach trees with curling leaves. A handful of larger trunks with bark that matched the color and texture of the signpost and had to be walnuts. No fruit or blossoms. Dead branches and truncated tops.

Imagining the stink of fertilizer, the grind of machinery, pickers moving through sun-dappled rows, I thought of Henry Ardullo's resolve never to sell out.

In the distance I could see assortments of houses-sugar cubes with red tile roofs. Not a hint of half-timber, brick, slate, or wood shingle.

Sussex, Essex… English monikers, Southwest architecture. In California, escape from logic was sometimes construed as freedom.

I heard an engine start. A pale blue Ford sedan with black-wall tires was parked next to the cube. Now it drove forward very slowly and stopped right next to me. Understated shield logo on the driver's door. Crossed rifles above "BP, Inc. A Security Corporation." No cherry on top, no conspicuous display of firearms.

At the wheel was a mustachioed young man wearing a pale blue uniform and mirrored shades.

"Morning, sir." Tight smile.

"Morning, Officer. I'm here to visit Jacob Haas on Charing Cross Road."

"Charing Cross," he said, stretching it out so he could appraise me. "That's all the way over in Jersey."

I resisted the temptation to say, "Atlantic City or Newark?"

"Thanks."

He cleared his throat. "New around here?"

"First time," I said.

"Relative of Mr. Haas?"

"Acquaintance. He used to be the sheriff. Back when it was Treadway."

He hesitated a moment before saying, "Sure." The same dullness I'd seen on the gas jockey's face. Treadway meant nothing to him, either. He knew nothing of the area's history. How many people did? I looked past him at the peach and walnut trees, now just woody memorials. Nothing else from the ranching days remained. Certainly not a hint of the blood-bath at the Ardullo ranch. If Jacob Haas wasn't in, or if he refused to see me, I'd wasted my time. Even if he talked, what could I hope to learn?

The security guard's car phone buzzed and he picked up, nodded, told me, "Jersey's way at the end-go straight through to the lake, turn right. You'll see a sign pointing to the White Oak golf course. Just keep on and it'll be there."

I drove away, watched him through my rearview mirror as he performed a three-point turn and headed toward Balmoral.

Piccadilly Arcade was a small shopping center due east of the security office. Grocery with a post office and ATM, dry cleaner, two clothing shops leaning toward golf togs and velour jogging suits. A sign outside the second said the movie tonight was Top Gun.

My drive to Jersey took me past perfectly appointed public buildings-the clubhouse, the spa-tennis courts, swimming pools. The houses looked better from a distance.

They varied in size by development. Essex was the high-rent district-detached split-levels and two-story hacienditas on postage-stamp lots, some landscaping, lots of Cadillacs and Lincolns, a few satellite dishes. Clear views of the lake. Fit-looking white-haired people in activewear. Further inland, Yorkshire was mock-adobe town houses clumped in fours and fives. A little skimpier in the flower-and-shrub department, but still immaculate.

The lake was obscured, now, by peppers. The trees were hardy, drought resistant, clean. They'd been brought into the San Fernando Valley years ago by the truckload, taking over the chaparral and contributing to the death of the native oaks. A quarter-mile of shaded road before Jersey appeared.

Mobile homes in an open lot. The units were uniformly white and spotless, with plenty of greenery camouflage at the base, but clearly prefab. Just a few trees on the periphery and no direct access to the lake, but majestic views of the mountains.

The few people I saw also looked in good shape, perhaps a bit more countrified. Parked in front of the mobiles were Chevys, Fords, Japanese compacts, the occasional RV The road that split the subdivision was freshly asphalted. No-frills, but the overall feel was still cleanliness, good maintenance, seniors settled in contentment.

I parked in one of the ten public spaces at the end and found Charing Cross Road easily enough-first street to the right.

Jacob and Marvelle Haas announced ownership of their Happy Traveler with a wood-burned sign over the front door. Two vehicles-a Buick Skylark and a Datsun pickup-so maybe someone was home. Some improvements had been added to the unit: green canvas window awnings, an oak door that looked hand-carved, a cement porch stacked up to the entrance. Potted geranium and cactus at the top, along with an empty fishbowl still housing a carbon filter. The door knocker was a brass cocker spaniel. Around its neck hung a garland of tiny cowries.

I lifted the dog and let it concuss against the door.

A voice called out, "One minute."

The man who opened was younger than I'd expected- younger than any of the residents I'd seen, so far. Sixty, if that, with iron-gray hair brushed straight back, and very acute eyes the same color. He wore a short-sleeved white knit shirt, blue jeans, black loafers. His shoulders were broad, but so were his hips. A lip of fat curled over his belt buckle. His arms were long, hairless, thin except at the wrists, where they picked up some heft. His face was narrow, sun-spotted in places, cinched around the eyes, and sagging around the bone lines, but his skin had a sheen, as if someone had buffed him lovingly.

"Dr. Delaware," he said in that same hearty voice. But his expression didn't match-cautious, tentative. "Got your message. Jacob Haas."

When we shook hands, his grip seemed reluctant-bare contact, then quick pressure around my fingers before he pulled away and stepped back inside.

"C'mon in."

I entered a narrow front room that opened to a kitchenette. A window air conditioner hummed. The interior wasn't cool, but the worst of the heat had been kept at bay. No knotty pine, no framed homilies, no trailer-park cliches. Deep gray berber carpeting floored the mobile. White cotton sofa and two matching easy chairs, glass-and-brass coffee table, blue-and-white Chinese garden bench serving as a perch for daffodils in a deep blue vase.

Picasso prints hung on panel walls painted pale salmon. Black lacquer bookshelves held paperbacks and magazines, a thirty-five-inch TV with VCR and stereo setup, and a skinny black vertical rack full of CD's. The Four Seasons, Duane Eddy, the Everly Brothers, Tom Jones, Ferula Clark.

Rock and roll was old enough to retire.

The room smelled of cinnamon buns. The woman on the sofa got up and said, "Marvelle Haas, so pleased to meet you." She wore a navy polo shirt, white slacks, white sandals, looked to be her husband's age. More wrinkled than he, but a trim figure. Short, wavy hair dyed mahogany.

Her grip was strong. "Have a nice drive up from L.A.?"

"Very nice. Beautiful scenery."

"It's even more beautiful when you live here. Something to drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Well, then, I'll be shoving off." She kissed her husband's cheek and put her arm around his shoulder-protectively, I thought. "You boys be good, now."

"Now, that's no fun," Haas said. "Drive carefully, hon."

She hurried to the door. Her hips rotated. Years ago, she'd been beautiful. She still was.

When the door closed after her, Haas seemed to get smaller. He motioned toward the chairs. We both sat.

"She decided to visit her sister in Bakersfield," he said, "because she didn't want to be here when you were."

"Sorry-"

"No, not your fault. She doesn't like unpleasantness." Crossing his legs, he plowed his hair with one hand and studied me. "I'm not sure I want to be doing this, myself, but I guess I feel obligated to help the police."

"I appreciate that, Sheriff. Hopefully it won't be unpleasant."

Haas smiled. "Haven't been 'Sheriff' for a while. Quit right after the Ardullos, started selling insurance for my father-in-law. Two years later, there was no need for a sheriff- no more town."

"Who closed it down?"

"Group called BCA Leisure bought all the land. One of those multinational deals-Japanese, Indonesian, British. The American partners are a development group out in Denver. Back then they were buying up land right and left."

"Was there any resistance from the residents?"

"Not a peep," he said. "Farming's always been a tough life, and inTreadway only two families made a serious living from it, the Ardullos and the Crimrninses. Between them, they owned ninety percent of the land. The rest of us were just here to keep their businesses going-like sharecroppers. So once they sold out, it wasn't much of a brainer. The sheriff job was only part-time, anyway. I was already living up in Bakersfield, near my in-laws. Doing bookkeeping for my father-in-law."

"When did you move back here?"

"Five years ago." He smiled again. "Like I said, it was near my in-laws. Seriously, I decided to pack it in when I figured I had enough policies tucked away to be comfortable. And Bakersfield was starting to look like L.A. We were thinking out of state, maybe Nevada, then this unit came up-a lucky deal, because Fairway units don't stay vacant very long. We said, why not. The air's great, terrific fishing, they show movies, you can do all your shopping right here. We travel half the year, a small place is perfect. We don't go mobiling, this thing's as rooted as any regular house. We fly. Vegas, when there's a show we want to see. Alaska, Canada. This year, we did a big one. London, England. Saw the Chel-sea Flower Show because Marvelle likes flowers. Beautiful country. When they say green, they mean it."

His tone had relaxed. I hated what I had to do, decided to approach the task indirectly. "The Ardullos and the Crimminses. A boy named Derrick Crimmins was quoted in an article I read about the crime."

"Carson Crimmins's son. The younger one-he had two boys, Derrick and Carson Junior, Cliff. Yeah, I remember both of them hanging around the crime scene, along with a bunch of other kids. I don't remember Derrick talking to the press, but sure, I can see him shooting off his mouth, he always had a mouth on him. -So, tell me, why do the police send a psychologist to talk about the Monster? Don't tell me it's some kind of evaluation, they're thinking of letting him out."

"No," I said. "He's locked up tight, no release in sight. I just saw him. He's pretty deteriorated."

"Deteriorated," he said. "Like what, a vegetable?"

"Close to."

"Well that's good. He shouldn't be alive… Deteriorated- the village idiot, that's how everyone saw him. Myself included. He was treated with kindness, pity, it's a big-city lie that small-town people are prejudiced and intolerant, like those morons you see on Jerry Springer. The Monster received more kindness in Treadway than he ever would've in L.A. Him and his mother. A couple of drifters, not a penny in their pockets, they just showed up one day and got taken in."

Haas stopped, waited for comment. I just nodded.

He said, "She was no charm-school gal, Noreen. And he was certainly no prize. But no one let 'em starve."

"Was she a difficult person?"

"Not difficult, but not exactly pleasant, either. She was sloppy-looking, kind of puffy in the face, like she cried all night. You'd try talking to her and she'd hang her head and mutter. Not as crazy as Ardis, but if you ask me they were both retarded. Him more than her, but she was no genius. It was nothing but kindness on the Ardullos' part, taking her and Ardis in. She could cook, but Terri Ardullo was a fine cook herself. It was charity, pure and simple. Done it in a way to give them some dignity."

"Scott and Terri were charitable people."

"Salt of the earth. Scott was a nice fellow, but it was Terri had the ideals. Religious, involved in all the church activities. The church was on land donated by Butch Ardullo-Scott's dad. Presbyterian. Butch was born a Catholic, but Kathy- his wife-was Presbyterian, so Butch converted and built the church for her. That was a sad thing. Demolishing that church. Butch and his crew built it themselves-beautiful little white-board thing with carved moldings and a steeple they had made by some Danish fellow over in Solvang. Butch's house was something, too. Three stories, also white board, with a big stone porch, land stretching out in all directions. They grew walnuts and peaches commercially but kept a small citrus grove out in back. You could smell the blossoms all the way out to the main road. They gave most of the oranges and lemons away. The Crimmins place was almost as big, but not as tasteful. Two mansions, opposite sides of the valley."

His eyes clouded. "I remember Scott when he was a kid. Running around the groves, always cheerful. The house was happy. They were rich folks, but down-to-earth."

He got up, filled a glass with bottled water from the fridge. "Sure you don't want a drink?"

"Thanks, I will."

He brought both tumblers to the coffee table. Two gulps and his was empty.

"Refill time," he said. "Don't want to parch up like a raisin. Need more BTUs on the A.C."

Another trip to the kitchenette. He drained the glass, ran his finger around the rim, set off a high-pitched note. "You still haven't told me why you're here."

I began with Claire's murder. Her name drew no look of recognition. When I recounted Peake's babbling, he said, "I can't believe you came all the way up here because of that."

"Right now, there's very little else to go on, Mr. Haas."

"You just said he's deteriorated, so who cares what he says? Now, what is it exactly you think I can help you with?"

"Anything you can tell me about Peake. That night."

His hands flew together and laced. Fingertips reddened as they pressed into knuckles. Nails blanched the color of clotted cream.

"I've spent a long time trying to forget that night, and it doesn't sound like you've got any good reason to make me go through it again."

"I'm sorry," I said. "If it's too difficult-"

"Damn thirst," he said, springing up. "Must be going diabetic or something."