The woman in the third drawer was in her late twenties. She had once been beautiful.
“Rochelle Drake,” Percy Osterman said. “Nolan’s last customer for the day.”
“Rochelle Drake?” Max said. He came closer, peered into the drawer. “Don’t I know that name?”
“Recognize her?” Sheriff Osterman asked.
Max shook his head. “No. But... Mary? Does that name mean anything to you?”
“No,” she said. “When you foresaw these killings, you said you thought you knew one of the victims.”
“I was wrong,” she said. “These people are strangers.”
“That’s odd,” Max said. “I’d swear... well, I don’t know what I’d swear... except this one’s name... Rochelle Drake... it’s familiar.”
Mary was not paying much attention to him, for she perceived a familiar electricity in the air, a stirring of psychic forces. The Drake woman was going to provide what the other bodies should have offered but didn’t. Mary opened her mind to the psychic emanations, made herself as receptive as she could, and put her hand on the dead woman’s forehead.
Wicka-wicka-wicka!
Wings.
Startled, Mary pulled her hand away from the corpse as if she had been bitten.
She felt wings, leathery wings, shuddering like the membranes of drums.
This isn’t possible, she thought frantically. The wings have something to do with Berton Mitchell. Not with this dead woman. Not with the man who killed her. The wings have to do with the past, not the present. Berton Mitchell couldn’t be involved in this. He hung himself in a jail cell nearly twenty-four years ago.
But now she could smell the wings as well as feel them, smell the wings and the creatures behind them—a dank, musty, musky odor that nauseated her.
What if the man who murdered Rochelle Drake and the others was not possessed by the spirit of Richard Lingard? What if, instead, he was possessed by the soul of another psychopath, by the spirit of Berton Mitchell? Wasn’t it conceivable that Lingard himself had been possessed by Berton Mitchell? And when Barnes shot Lingard, perhaps Mitchell’s spirit moved on to another host. Perhaps she had unknowingly crossed the path of an old nemesis. Perhaps she would spend the remainder of her life in pursuit of Berton Mitchell. Perhaps she would be compelled to follow him from one host to another until he finally found the opportunity to kill her.
No. That was madness. She was thinking like a lunatic.
Max asked, “Is something wrong?”
Wings brushed her face, her neck, shoulders and breasts and belly, fluttered against her ankles and up her calves and then against her inner thighs.
She was determined not to succumb to fear. But she was also half convinced that if she didn’t stop thinking about the wings, they would carry her off into everlasting darkness. A ridiculous notion. Nevertheless, she turned away from the morgue drawer.
“Are you receiving something?” Max asked.
“Not now,” she lied.
“But you were?”
“For an instant.”
“What did you see?” he asked.
“Nothing important. Just meaningless movement.”
“Can you pick it up again?” Max asked.
“No.”
She mustn’t pursue it. If she did, she would see what lay behind those wings. She must never see what lay behind those wings.
Osterman closed the drawer.
Mary sighed with relief.
Sheriff Osterman went with them to the far corner of the municipal parking lot, where they’d left their car.
The December sky was like the morgue—shades of gray. The fast-moving clouds were reflected in the polished hood of the Mercedes.
Shivering, Mary put her hands in her coat pockets and hunched her shoulders against the wind.
“Heard good things about you,” Osterman told Mary in his peculiarly economical way of speaking. “Often thought about working with you.
Pleased when you called this morning. Hoped you’d come up with a lead.”
“I hoped so, too,” she said.
“Foresaw these murders, did you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Those nurses in Anaheim, too?”
“That’s right.”
“Same killer, you think?”
“Yes,” she said.
Osterman nodded. “We think so, too. Have some evidence of it.”
“What sort of evidence?” Max asked.
“When he killed the nurses,” Osterman said, each word sharp and quick, “he busted up some stuff. Religious things. Two crucifixes. Statuette of the Virgin Mary. Even strangled one girl with a rosary. Found something similar in this beauty shop case.”
“What?” Mary asked.
“Pretty ugly bit of business. Maybe you don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m used to hearing and seeing ugly things,” she said.
He regarded her for a moment, amber eyes hooded. “Guess that’s true.” He leaned against the Mercedes. “This woman in the beauty shop. Rochelle Drake. She wore a necklace. A gold cross. He raped her, killed her. Tore the cross off her neck. Pushed it up ... inside of her.”
Mary felt ill. She hugged herself.
“Then he’s a psychopath with some sort of religious hangup,” Max said.
“Appears so,” Osterman said. He looked at Mary and asked, “So where do you go from here?”
“Down to the shore,” she said.
“King’s Point,” Max said.
“Why there?”
She hesitated, glanced at Max. “That’s where the next murders will take place.”
Osterman did not seem surprised. “Had another vision, did you?”
“Early this morning,” she said.
“When will it happen?”
“Tomorrow night,” she said.
“Christmas Eve?”
“Yes.”
“Where in King’s Point?”
“On the harbor,” she said.
“Pretty good-sized harbor.”
“It’ll be near the shops and restaurants.”
“How many will he kill?” Osterman asked.
“I’m not sure.”
She was so cold, colder than could be accounted for by the California winter day and the wind, cold in the pit of her stomach, cold in her heart. She was wearing a stylish but thinly lined calfskin coat from North Beach Leather. She wished she’d chosen her heaviest fur.
“Maybe I’ll be able to stop him before he kills anyone else,” she said.
“You feel a responsibility to stop him?” Osterman asked.
“I won’t have peace of mind until I do.”
“Wouldn’t want this talent you’ve got.”
“I never asked for it,” she said.
A truck rumbled by in the street. Osterman waited for the noise to die down.
“King’s Point used to be in my jurisdiction,” he said. “Two years ago they voted in their own police force. Now I can’t poke my nose in unless they ask. Or unless a case that starts in the county ends up on their doorstep.”
“I wish I could be working with you,” Mary said.
“You’ll be working with a jackass,” Osterman said.
“Excuse me?”
“Chief of police at King’s Point. Name’s Patmore. John Patmore. A jackass. He gives you trouble, tell him to call me. He kind of respects me, but he’s still a jackass.”
“We’ll use your name if we have to,” Mary said. “But we aren’t entirely without influence down there. We know the owner of the King’s Point Press.”
Osterman smiled. “Lou Pasternak?”
“You know him?”
“Damned good newspaperman.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Quite a character, too.”
“A little bit of one,” she agreed.
The sheriff offered his hand to Mary, then to Max. “Hope you two do my job for me this time.”
“Thanks for your help,” Max sa
id.
“Don’t hesitate to ask for more if you need it. It’s been my pleasure.”
As Mary got into the Mercedes, a gust of wind sang in the power lines overhead.
They reached King’s Point at two-thirty in the afternoon. Their first glimpse of it, as they topped a rise in the road, was from high above the harbor.
The sky was low. Thick gray clouds scudded inland. A mile offshore the ocean was shrouded in mist; and closer to the beach formidable waves churned beneath half a dozen scuba-suited sur fers, fell frothily onto the sand, and exploded into spray against the stone breakwaters on both sides of the harbor entrance.
The town was on the Pacific Coast Highway, a few miles south of Laguna Beach, in a perpetually smogless pocket of sunshine and money. The sun was in hiding today, but the money was everywhere evident. Houses on the verdant hillsides were priced from $75,000 to $500,000, nearly all of them with well manicured decorative gardens and ocean views. Waterfront homes with docks were not as expensive as those in Newport Beach, but real estate brokers had no time for would-be customers who flinched at a base price of a quarter million dollars. In the flat land between harbor and hills the houses were cheaper—there were some apartment buildings, too—but even they were expensive by most standards.
The travel guides said that King’s Point was “charming” and “quaint” and “picturesque,” and for once they were telling the truth. The lawns were lush and green; the many small parks were filled with palms of all varieties, oleander, jade plants, magnolia trees, schefflera, dracaena, olive trees, and seasonal flowers. The houses were well cared for, freshly painted every year or two as protection against the corrosive sea air. Businessmen were required to forgo the most offensive neon signs, and were forbidden by law to paint their stores in anything but soft natural tones.
The residents of King’s Point appeared to think that with the proper local ordinances they could keep out everything that made the rest of the world a less desirable place to live. And they did keep out much that was tasteless, cheap, and gaudy.
But they can’t keep out everything they don’t want, Mary thought. A killer has come in from outside. He’s walking among them now. They can’t use local ordinances to keep out death.
From spring through early autumn the population of King’s Point was sixty percent higher than in the winter. During these vacation months the motels were booked weeks in advance, the restaurants raised their prices except for locals who were recognized, the shops hired extra help, and the white beaches were crowded. Now, two days before Christmas, the town was quiet. When Max turned off the main highway onto a city street, they encountered very little traffic.
King’s Point Police Headquarters was a single-story brick building of absolutely no architectural period, style, charm, integrity, or responsibility. It looked like an oversized, flat-roofed storage shed with windows. Even three blocks from the harbor, in the flats below the hills, in a limbo between the highest-value real estate parcels—wa—terfront and view—it was no credit to its neighborhood.
Inside, the public reception room was depressingly institutional: brown tile floor, muddy green walls, washed-out green ceiling, strictly utilitarian furniture. Tax money had purchased three desks, six-drawer filing cabinets, IBM typewriters, a copier, a small refrigerator, a United States flag, a glass-fronted case full of riot guns and pistols, a dispatcher’s corner with radio—and a civilian secretary (Mrs. Vidette Yancy, according to the name plate on her desk) who was in her fifties, a woman with tightly curled white hair, pale skin, bright red lipstick, and an enormous bosom.
“I’d like to see Chief Patmore,” Mary said.
Mrs. Yancy took a minute to correct a word she had just typed. “Him?” she said at last. “He’s out.”
“When will he be back?”
“The chief? Tomorrow morning.”
“Could you give us his home address?” Max asked, leaning against the formica counter that separated the foyer from the work area.
“His home address?” Mrs. Yancy said. “Surely. I can give you that. But he isn’t at home.”
“Where is he?” Mary asked impatiently.
“Where is he? Why, he’s up in Santa Barbara. He won’t be back until ten tomorrow morning.”
Mary turned to Max. “Maybe we should talk to a deputy.”
“Deputy?” Mrs. Yancy said. “There are five officers under the chief. Of course, only two of them are on duty right now.”
“If this guy’s like we’ve heard,” Max said, “it won’t do any good to talk to subordinates. He’ll expect to be dealt with directly.”
“Time’s running out,” Mary said.
“Don’t we have until seven o’clock tomorrow evening?” Max asked.
“If my vision’s accurate, we do.”
“Then if we see Patmore early tomorrow, that’ll be soon enough.”
“The officers on duty are out on patrol right now,” Mrs. Yancy said. “Did you want to report a crime?”
“Not exactly,” Mary said.
“Not exactly? Well, I have the forms right here, you know.” She opened a desk drawer, began to rummage through it. “I can take down the information and have an officer get back to you.”
“Never mind,” Max said. “We’ll be in tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
At the bay end of the harbor, valuable shoreline was occupied by commercial enterprises—yacht clubs, yacht sales offices, dry docks, restaurants, and shops. Each of these businesses was as clean and attractive and well maintained as the many expensive homes that lined both sides of the harbor channel.
The Laughing Dolphin was a restaurant and cocktail lounge that fronted on the harbor. On the second level a narrow open-air deck was suspended over the water. In good weather patrons could get pleasantly drunk while the sun warmed their faces. This afternoon the deck was deserted. Max and Mary had it to themselves.
Holding a mug of coffee laced with brandy, Mary leaned against the wooden railing.
If you stepped out of the brisk sea breezes, the day was only chilly; but the wind from the ocean was downright cold. It nipped at her face and brought a healthy color to her cheeks.
When she looked up and to her right, she could see the Spanish Court, the hotel where she and Max had reserved a room. It stood on the north hill, high above the harbor. It was majestic, all white plaster and natural woods and red tile.
Closer to hand, eight dinghies were sailing in formation, snaking back and forth across the smooth slate-colored water. Against a backdrop of sixty-, eighty-, and hundred-foot sailing ships and motor yachts, the small vessels were lovely and amusing. Even today, without the sun upon them, their sails were dazzlingly white. Their graceful progress was a definition of serenity.
“Study the boats, the houses, the entire harbor,” Max said. “Maybe something you see will trigger the vision.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “It was knocked out of my mind forever when I woke up and found I was being shot at.”
“You’ve got to try.”
“Do I?”
“Isn’t that why you wanted to come?”
“If I don’t go after this killer,” she said, “he’ll eventually come after me.”
The wind gusted suddenly, flapped Mary’s leather coat against her legs, rattled the large plate-glass windows of the cocktail lounge behind them.
She sipped her coffee. Tentacles of steam writhed across her face and dissolved in the wintry air.
Max said, “Maybe it’ll help if you tell me again how it’s going to happen.” When she didn’t answer, he coaxed her. “Tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Not too far from where we’re standing right now.”
“Within a couple of blocks,” she said.
“You said he’ll come with a butcher knife.”
“Lingard’s knife.”
“Some knife, anyway.”
“Lingard’s,” she insisted.
“You said he’ll stab two people.”
“Yes, two.
”
“Kill them?”
“Maybe one of them.”
“But not the other.”
“At least one will live. Maybe both.”
“Who are these people he’ll stab?”
“I don’t know their names,” she said.
“What do they look like?”
“I couldn’t see their faces.”
“Young women, like in Anaheim?”
“I really don’t know.”
“What about the high-powered rifle?”
“I saw it in the vision.”
“He’s got a butcher knife and a gun?”
“After he’s stabbed those two people,” she said, “he’ll take the rifle up into a tower. He intends to shoot everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“A lot of people, as many as he can.”
At the far end of the harbor, a dozen sea gulls kited in from the ocean, riding very high on the wind, white feathers silhouetted dramatically against the stormy sky.
“How many will he kill?” Max asked.
“The vision ended before I could see.”
“Which tower will he use?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look around,” Max said. “Look at each one of them. Try to sense which it will be.”
To her right, three hundred yards farther around the bend of the harbor’s bay end and five hundred yards from the Laughing Dolphin, the Roman Catholic Church of the Holy Trinity lay one block from the waterfront. She had been inside it once. It was a brooding Gothic structure, an impressive fortress of weathered granite and darkly beautiful stained glass windows. The hundred-foot bell tower, which had a low-walled open deck directly beneath its peaked roof, was the highest point within two blocks of the harbor.
The sound of sea gulls distracted her for a moment. Above the formation of sailboats that were playing follow the leader, still soaring inland, the gulls began to squeal with excitement. Their sharp voices were like fingernails scraped across a blackboard.
She tried not to hear the birds, concentrated on Trinity. She received nothing. No images. No psychic vibrations. Not the vaguest premonition that the killer would strike out at King’s Point from Trinity’s bell tower.