‘‘I don’t know, but Louis can usually find people. He’s got all the phone directories and he can get into utility records. The utilities have just about everybody . . .’’
‘‘Except maybe some students and illegals.’’ They came to the end of the driveway. ‘‘So why don’t we go catch Clark, while Louis looks for the kid.’’
She nodded, reluctantly. It only made sense. ‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘Where’s the car?’’
Harper pointed the key down the street and pushed a button, and the car flashed its parking lights at them. ‘‘What’s his name?’’ Harper asked, as they walked toward it. ‘‘The kid?’’
Anna shrugged: ‘‘I don’t remember. The names never stick for more than a day or two.’’
‘‘Strange business, Batory.’’
‘‘Strange times, Harper.’’
twenty-five
The two-faced man was dressed in a light Lycra full-length windsurfer’s suit, pitch-black from the neckline to the black Nike gym shoes. With a nylon stocking over his head, he was a shadow.
He moved slowly, carefully, letting his body feel the way through the dark. He had a fanny pack wrapped around his ribs, a rope wrapped around his waist, and the pistol under his arm.
Moving like a snake, sliding the last few inches toward the unsuspecting mouse . . .
Anna’s house showed a light in a side window, but it was the kind of too-dim light that people left when they were gone—a light in a hallway, somewhere. Not a reading light or a TV light or a work light; a waiting light.
He closed on the back porch. He’d been there before, but this time, she wasn’t home. There was no one inside to hear him . . . unless the cops had set something up. Unlikely, but possible, and the possibility added to the intensity of the approach.
He sat in the shadow of the porch for five minutes, listening. And he heard voices, coming down from above, with a little music that he couldn’t place. Old music, the kind you hear late at night when you’re driving out in the desert.
People on a porch, he thought, in the next house. He measured the unexcited voices, then slowly, carefully unhooked the fanny pack, unzipped it, took out the screwdriver and the roll of duct tape.
He knew from the last time where the lock was. He planned to break out the glass again, but more carefully. He’d hold the pieces in place with the tape, rather than letting them fall inside.
But when he got to his knees on the porch, he found a piece of plywood covering the window. He tested it with the screwdriver. The plywood moved. Huh. More pressure—and when he pried hard enough, he could feel the wood give.
He dropped the duct tape and worked the screwdriver around the perimeter of the plywood plug. After a minute, the top and left edge were free. He worked on the bottom edge, then pushed his hand through the slot and it opened like a little door.
He stopped to listen again, then reached inside. He had to stretch, to go in all the way to his shoulder, but the deadbolt was there and he flipped the handle; the door opened easily.
Inside, he listened again, then pressed the plywood window plug roughly into place. He used the penlight to navigate across the kitchen, followed the light down the hall, around the little office, then up the stairs to the bedroom.
The bedroom smelled of her: her perfume, or just her body.
He listened, then probed the bedroom. Went through the chest of drawers, through the closets, looked at photographs in a grass basket, dug through a trunk, through a jewelry box; smelled her perfume, dabbed some of it on his throat.
Stretched out on her bed; turned his face into her pillow.
Hated her; but still loved her, too, he thought.
He was still there, on the bed, when she got back.
Felt a finger of panic: then remembered the closet.
Crept into it, made himself small, in the back, with the shoes, behind the hanging lengths of the hippie dresses.
Took the gun out, placed the long, cool length of it against his face.
Heard voices: she was with a man. The bodyguard.
He’d wait until he was gone, and take her.
End her.
And if the bodyguard stayed?
He worked it out: Take the bodyguard first. No warning, just step up and do it.
Then her.
He tried to control his breathing, but found it difficult.
Hate/sex/death/darkness. The odor of Chanel. The silken feel of her dresses on his face . . .
He waited.
twenty-six
Louis found the kid’s name—Charles McKinley. An address was listed in the university directory, but when Louis called it, the phone had been disconnected.
‘‘Student,’’ Louis said to Anna.
‘‘We need an address,’’ Anna said. When she got off the phone, she said to Harper, ‘‘We’ve got to go after this kid. This little stunt he pulled . . . there’s something in here. A couple of different personalities, or something.’’
‘‘It won’t hurt to take a look at Clark while we’re waiting,’’ Harper said. ‘‘If Louis says the kid’s not in the directory, then it’ll take a while to find him.’’
Anna shook her head, but said, ‘‘I guess.’’ Harper made sense, but the gloom was on her. She dreaded the idea of spying on Clark.
Harper pulled away from the curb and headed down the hill, into the campus, silent, knowing that she was working through it. She stared out the window at the passing landscape
and wondered why the idea of surveillance worried her so much.
She turned the question in her mind until she arrived at the nexus: If we get back together, I’ll have to tell him. And if I tell him, I’ll be admitting that I thought he might be this killer. But only if we get back together, and we won’t. But if we do . . .
The thoughts tumbled over each other, always running into the paradox: we won’t, but if we do . . .
A barefoot man in a ragged winter coat, the kind people wore in Minnesota, stood on the corner by the Shell station and held up a cardboard sign hand-lettered with Magic Marker: will work for drugs . He laughed crazily, drunkenly— or maybe somebody had dropped some acid on him—at the passing cars. Harper guided the BMW past him, wordlessly, glancing at Anna from time to time.
‘‘That’s where the trouble started,’’ Anna said, looking at the gas station as they went by.
‘‘What?’’ ‘‘That’s where we picked up the woman who took us into the animal rights thing . . . we were right down there at the medical center.’’
‘‘Maybe the kid’s up there, McKinley,’’ Harper suggested. ‘‘You want to run in? We’ve still got a little time.’’
She thought about it for a second. Anything seemed preferable to looking for Clark: ‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘I’ll wait—take the gun,’’ Harper said.
Anna ran up to the front of the building while Harper idled at the curb: The building was locked, but she could see a security guard inside. She banged on the door, and the guard got up, reluctantly, and walked toward her, cracked the door.
‘‘Can I help you?’’
‘‘I’m trying to find Charles McKinley. He works up in the animal labs.’’
‘‘He’s not here tonight,’’ the guard said, talking through the crack. ‘‘He’s been off since last week.’’
‘‘ ’Cause of the animal rights thing?’’
‘‘Yup. He’s been all over the TV. He was on the ‘Today’ show, even.’’
‘‘Great,’’ Anna nodded. ‘‘Does anybody know where he lives?’’
‘‘I couldn’t tell you if I did know,’’ the guard said. ‘‘But I don’t, anyway.’’
‘‘Got a phone number?’’
‘‘I don’t think so . . . I could look, I guess.’’
‘‘Thanks, I’d appreciate it.’’
The guard pulled the door closed and went back to his desk, rummaged around for a while, and came back, shaking his head. ‘‘Nothing the
re. Best thing to do is call tomorrow morning. Somebody might know. But—he’s a student.’’
‘‘Nothing?’’ Harper asked.
‘‘He’s not there.’’
They drove the next two blocks in silence, dumped the car in a parking garage and walked toward the music building.
‘‘I hate this,’’ Anna said. She felt like she was plodding through paste.
‘‘Where’s he most likely to come out?’’
She thought about it, and again got caught in the memories: playing with Clark, exploring the building, playing every instrument they could find. They spent several nights in the place, even made love on a library table, when neither one of them would back off the dare.
‘‘Right out the front,’’ she said, reluctantly. ‘‘He used to always try to park in the Number Two parking structure, it’s just down the block.’’
‘‘So let’s find a place to sit,’’ Harper said. He was being stubborn about it. He could have offered to break it off, to concentrate on the kid. He could have accepted Anna’s argument that she knew Clark well enough to vouch for him. But instead, Harper moved her along, pulling her into it.
Schoenberg Hall was a low white building on the south side of a grassy sunken square called Dickson Plaza. Anna found a spot on the steps on the north side of the plaza, where they could see the main entrance to the building. She said, ‘‘I wish I had that joint.’’
‘‘That’d keep you sharp,’’ Harper said, dropping down beside her.
‘‘I don’t need sharp.’’ She looked at her watch. ‘‘Should be ending.’’
Ten minutes went by. Then the door opened, and a woman walked out. A minute later, a couple. Another minute, and a stream of people pushed out of the building, chatting and laughing as they headed down the walk.
‘‘Lot of people. Must’ve been pretty good,’’ Anna said.
‘‘No Clark?’’
‘‘If it’s really his student, they’re probably hanging around until everyone leaves, talking about it.’’
‘‘Is that fun? A good time?’’
She let the question hang for a second, then said, ‘‘Mostly. It can be pretty terrible. But even when it’s terrible, it’s kind of fun. You know, people mess up. If they’re your friends, you pretend it was nothing. If they’re your enemies, you tell everybody that you feel sorry for them, and you still think it’s possible that they can recover. Stab them in the back.’’
‘‘Did you ever mess up?’’
‘‘Sure. Everyone does. But if you do it with confidence, keep on counting, you can get away with it. You can get away with a lot, when you’re playing alone or with a good group. That’s part of the fun, too. A secret that nobody knows except the players.’’
‘‘Never played music,’’ Harper said. ‘‘Can’t even whistle.’’
‘‘Everybody can whistle,’’ Anna said. She whistled the first few notes of ‘‘Yankee Doodle.’’
‘‘Nope. Can’t do that. I can make a noise, but . . .’’
She touched his sleeve: ‘‘There he is. That’s Clark.’’
Clark was walking with a woman who was carrying a cello case, and Anna said, half-joking, but her voice fierce, ‘‘Oh, Christ, a cello.’’
‘‘What?’’ Harper asked. He was whispering, though Clark and the woman were seventy-five yards away.
‘‘Cello players are supposed to be, you know, sexy. All those hours with a big vibrating instrument between their knees.’’
‘‘Hmm.’’
‘‘Yeah, it’s gotta be bullshit.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
The other couple walked past, still seventy-five or eighty yards away, and Harper said, ‘‘Walk behind me—he’ll recognize your walk if he sees you.’’ Anna looked after Clark, and realized that she would recognize him from the back, anywhere, just by the walk. How had Harper known that?
‘‘Okay.’’
They followed Clark and the woman around the end of the building, and Anna said, ‘‘They’re headed for Structure Two.’’
‘‘You sure?’’
‘‘There’s nothing else over there, unless they’re walking somewhere. I can’t see them walking far with that cello.’’
‘‘Run and get the car,’’ Harper said, tossing her the keys. ‘‘I’ll meet you outside the structure. And run—and keep the goddamn gun handy.’’
Anna grabbed the keys and turned and ran before he finished the sentence. The parking structure they’d used was four hundred yards away, and took her a couple of minutes to reach, but since it was further from the music building, she didn’t have to contend with other people getting out of the recital.
She ran up the stairs to the second level, where they’d parked. Stopped and listened. Heard a car somewhere in the structure. She ran toward the car, popping the car door with the automatic key.
As she came up to the car door, she was seized with the fantasy that somebody was looming behind her: she saw nothing at all, but she climbed frantically into the car and hit the electric lock button. The locks snapped down, and she twisted, looking out the windows . . . nothing. Nobody. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she could hear it, but a minute later, she paid the parking fee and was on her way, no other cars in sight.
Harper was waiting at the other structure. He flagged her down, and she stopped and crawled into the passenger seat as he got in on the driver’s side.
‘‘What?’’ she asked.
‘‘Woman’s got a Dodge van. They talked for a couple of more minutes, then he headed up to the next floor. The van just got out a minute ago.’’
She didn’t want to ask, but did anyway: ‘‘Did he kiss her goodnight?’’
‘‘No.’’ Harper didn’t smile at the question, just shook his head. ‘‘Christ, you’re hung up on this guy. And I shoulda said yes.’’
‘‘I don’t know what I am; I think I might be goofy,’’ Anna said. Then: ‘‘When I saw him the first time, at the gas station, he had a Volvo station wagon.’’
‘‘You remember?’’
‘‘Yeah, because . . . it’s about what I’d have expected.’’
As she said it, a dark blue Volvo wagon nosed out of the structure, then turned left and drove past them.
‘‘Here we go . . .’’
Clark led them down to Wilshire, and then to Santa Monica, right on Santa Monica toward the Pacific. ‘‘He lives the other way,’’ Harper said.
‘‘Mmm.’’
Clark was in a hurry, slicing in and out of traffic. Harper let him get several cars ahead.
‘‘If he sees us running like he is, he’ll watch us,’’ Harper said. ‘‘I hope he doesn’t just bust a light, or we’ll be stuck.’’
They stayed with him all the way into Santa Monica, into another parking structure. Harper got in line behind him for a parking ticket, as Anna slumped in the passenger seat, then followed him up the structure, continuing on when Clark found a space.
Harper took two more turns, then pulled in.
‘‘Stay behind me again, until we know where he is,’’ Harper said.
‘‘How far are we?’’
‘‘Other side of the structure, half a floor lower,’’ Harper said. ‘‘He may already be going down the stairs.’’
They ran to the stairs, and Harper eased the door open. They heard a door bang, and Harper said, ‘‘Shit, we’ll have to take a chance. Come on.’’
‘‘No. I’ll wait here—you call me.’’
Harper nodded and ran down the stairs, opened the door, then called up, ‘‘He’s out here, hurry . . .’’
Anna ran down to him, and followed through the door, and suddenly found themselves in Santa Monica Place, a three-story shopping center, in a crowd of people.
‘‘He’s a hundred feet up there,’’ Harper said. Anna stepped half out from behind him, saw Clark’s head and shoulders. His hair was thinning, she thought. But he moved wel
l, like he’d been taking care of himself. He was wearing a tan linen jacket and jeans.
Harper said, ‘‘Come on. We’ve got to stay close or we’ll lose him.’’
‘‘Oh, Jesus, Jake . . .’’ She clutched at his arm. ‘‘God, he can’t see me.’’
‘‘If he does, you’re with me, on a date,’’ Harper said. ‘‘One of those things.’’
‘‘Aw . . .’’
But she went down past the rows of shops to an escalator, and watched as Clark headed down.
‘‘Go slow,’’ Anna said. They waited until Clark was off at the bottom.
‘‘Stand behind me,’’ Harper said. ‘‘He’s headed for the food court . . .’’
Anna, peeking out from behind Harper’s shoulders, saw Clark disappear around a corner, into the food court. ‘‘Let’s go,’’ Harper said, and he started walking down the escalator, hopped off at the bottom, and hurried to the last spot they’d seen Clark; Anna dodged along behind, trying to stay in his shadow. When they turned the corner, Clark was gone.
‘‘Where’d he go?’’ Jake asked quietly.
Anna scanned the crowd: ‘‘I don’t know.’’
Harper led her to one side: ‘‘He was right here . . . look for the jacket.’’
No jacket.
‘‘Christ . . .’’ Harper turned around. ‘‘Where in the hell did he go?’’
They couldn’t find him. He had absolutely vanished.
Finally, Anna said, ‘‘Let’s get out of here. I don’t want him popping up in my face. That’d screw us.’’
Harper nodded: ‘‘All right.’’ And, ‘‘Do you think he spotted us?’’
‘‘I don’t think so. He seemed to be in a big hurry.’’
‘‘So where the hell did he go? Into one of the concession stands?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I just hope he wasn’t watching us—I hope he didn’t see us. I knew we shouldn’t have done this.’’
Harper stopped her: ‘‘Anna, we should do everything . Every tiny possibility. We oughta give Clark’s name to the cops, and let them check him out.’’