"Hey, wait a minute, Raymond. I think you've got something there."
He put his rod down and went to the boy. He flipped the reel's bail over and the line caught. Almost immediately the pole was pulled down and almost out of the boy's hands. McCaleb grabbed it and held it up.
"You got one!"
"Hey! I got one! I got one!"
"Remember what I told you, Raymond. Pull back, reel down. Pull back, reel down. I'll help you with the pole until we tire that boy out. It feels like a big one. You okay?"
"Yeah!"
With McCaleb doing most of the pulling up on the pole, they began to fight the fish. Meantime, McCaleb directed Graciela to reel in the other lines to avoid a tangle with the live line. McCaleb and the boy fought the fish for about ten minutes. All the while McCaleb could feel through the pole the fight slipping out of it as it tired. Finally, he was able to turn the pole over to Raymond so he could finish the job himself.
McCaleb slipped on a pair of gloves from the tackle box and climbed down the rocks to the water's edge. Just a few inches below the surface he saw the silvery fish weakly struggling against the line. McCaleb kneeled on the rock, getting his shoes and pants wet, and leaned out until he could grab hold of Raymond's line. He tugged the fish forward and brought its mouth up, reached into the water and locked a gloved hand around the tail, just forward of the back fins. He then yanked the fish out of the water and climbed back up the rocks to Raymond.
The fish was shining in the sun like polished metal.
"Barracuda, Raymond," he said, holding it up. "Look at those teeth."
22
THE DAY HAD GONE WELL. Raymond caught two barracudas and a white bass. The first fish had been the biggest and most exciting, though the second was hooked while they were eating lunch and almost pulled the unattended pole into the water. After they got back in the late afternoon Graciela insisted that Raymond rest before dinner and took him down to the forward stateroom. McCaleb used the time to spray off the fishing equipment with the stern hose. When Graciela came back up and they were alone, sitting on chairs on the deck, he felt a physical craving for a cold beer that he could just sit back and enjoy.
"That was wonderful," Graciela said of the outing to the jetty.
"I'm glad. Think you're going to stay for dinner?"
"Of course. He wants to stay over, too. He loves boats. And I think he wants to fish again tomorrow. You've created a monster."
McCaleb nodded, thinking about the night ahead. A few minutes of easy silence went by while they watched the other activities in the marina. Saturdays were always busy days. McCaleb kept his eyes moving. Having guests made him more alert for the Russian, even though he'd decided the chances of Bolotov showing up were slim. He'd had the upper hand in Toliver's office. If he had wanted to harm McCaleb, he could have done it then. But thoughts of Bolotov brought the case intruding. He remembered a question he'd thought of for Graciela.
"Let me ask you something," he said. "You first came to me last Saturday. But the story about me ran a week before that. Why did you wait a week?"
"I didn't really. I didn't see the article. A friend of Glory's from the paper called up and said he saw it and wondered if, you know, you could've been the one who got her heart. Then I went to the library and read the story. I came here the next day."
He nodded. She decided it was her turn to ask a question.
"Those boxes down there."
"What boxes?"
"Stacked under the desk. Are they your cases?"
"They're old files."
"I recognize some of the names written on them. The article mentioned some of them. Luther Hatch, I remember him. And the Code Killer. Why did they call him that?"
"Because he-if it was a he-left messages for us or sent messages to us that always had the same number at the bottom."
"What did it mean?"
"We never found out. The best people at the bureau and even the encryption people at the National Security Agency couldn't crack it. Personally, I didn't think it meant anything at all. It wasn't a code. It was just another way for the UnSub to tweak us, keep us chasing our tails . . . nine-oh-three, four-seven-two, five-six-eight."
"That's the code?"
"That's the number. Like I said, I don't think there was any code."
"Is that what they decided in Washington, too?"
"No. They never gave up on it. They were sure it meant something. They thought it might be the guy's Social Security number. You know, scrambled around. With their computer they printed out every combination and then got all the names from Social Security. Hundreds of thousands. They ran them all through the computers."
"Looking for what?"
"Criminal records, profile matches . . . it was one big wild-goose chase. The UnSub wasn't on the list."
"What is UnSub?"
"Unknown subject. That's what we called each one until we caught him. We never caught the Code Killer."
McCaleb heard the faint sound of a harmonica and looked over at the Double-Down. Lockridge was down below practicing Spoonful.
"Was he the only one of your cases where that happened?"
"You mean where the guy was never caught? No. Unfortunately, a lot of them get away. But the Code case was personal, I guess. He sent letters to me. He resented me for some reason."
"What did he do to the people he . . ."
"The Code Killer was unusual. He killed in many different ways and with no discernible pattern. Men, women, even one small child. He shot, he stabbed, he strangled. There was no handle."
"Then how did you know it was him each time?"
"He told us. The letters, the code left at the crime scenes. You see, the victims and who they were didn't matter. They were only objects by which he could exercise power and stick it in the face of authority. He was an authority-complex killer. There was another killer, the Poet. He was a traveler, was active across the country a few years ago,"
"I remember. He got away here in L.A., right?"
"Right. He was an authority killer, too. See, you strip away their fantasies and their methods and a lot of these people are very much alike. The Poet got off on watching us flailing around. The Code Killer was the same way. He liked to tweak the cops every chance he got."
"Then he just stopped?"
"He either died or went to jail for something else. Or he moved somewhere else and started a new routine. But it's not something these guys can just turn off."
"And what did you do in the Luther Hatch case?"
"Just my job. Look, we should talk about something else, don't you think?"
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I just . . . I don't know, I don't like all of those old stories."
He had wanted to talk to her about her sister and the latest developments but now it didn't seem like the right time. He let the opportunity pass.
For dinner McCaleb grilled hamburgers and barracuda steaks. Raymond seemed enthusiastic about eating the fish he had caught but then didn't like the strong taste of the barracuda. Neither did Graciela, though McCaleb didn't think it was bad.
The meal was followed with another walk to the ice-cream store and then a walk along the shops on Cabrillo Way
. It was dark by the time they got back to the boat. The marina was quiet again. Raymond got the bad news from Graciela.
"Raymond, it's been a long day and I want you to go to sleep," she said gently. "If you're good, you can fish some more tomorrow before we leave."
The boy looked at McCaleb, seeking either confirmation or an appeal.
"She's right, Raymond," he said. "In the morning I'll take you back out there. We'll catch some more fish. Okay?"
In a cranky tone the boy agreed and Graciela took him down to his room. His parting request was that he be allowed to take his fishing pole to his room with him. There was no objection to that. McCaleb had secured the hook on one of the pole's eyelets.
McCaleb had two space heaters on the boat and he set them u
p in each of their rooms. He knew that at night it could get cold on the boat, no matter how many blankets you had on.
"What are you going to use?" Graciela asked him.
"I'll be fine. I'm going to use my sleeping bag. I'll probably be warmer than both of you."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He left them down there and went topside to wait for Graciela. He poured the last of the Sanford pinot noir he had opened on her first visit into her glass.
He took that and a can of Coke out to the stern. She joined him after ten minutes.
"It gets cold out here," she said.
"Yeah. Do you think he'll be all right with that heater?"
"Yes, he's fine. He fell asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow."
He handed her the glass of wine and she tapped it against his Coke.
"Thank you," she said. "He had a wonderful time today."
"I'm glad."
He tapped his Coke against her glass. He knew that at some point he needed to finally talk about the investigation with her but he didn't want to spoil the moment. Once again he put it off.
"Who is that girl in the picture down on your desk?"
"What girl?"
"It looks like a photo from a yearbook or something. It's taped to the wall over the desk in Raymond's room."
"Oh . . . it's just . . . it's just somebody I always want to remember. Somebody who died."
"You mean like a case or someone you knew?"
"A case."
"The Code Killer?"
"No, long before that."
"What was her name?"
"Aubrey-Lynn."
"What happened?"
"Something that shouldn't happen to anybody. Let's not talk about it right now."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. I should have taken that thing down before Raymond came anyway."
McCaleb didn't get into the sleeping bag. He just draped it over his body and lay on his back with his hands laced behind his head. He knew he should be tired but he wasn't. Many thoughts raced through his mind, from the mundane to the gut-wrenching. He was thinking about the heater in the boy's berth. He knew it was safe but he worried about it anyway. The talk earlier in the day also resurfaced in a strand of thoughts about his father in the hospital bed. Once more he wished he had brought the old man home to die. He remembered taking the boat out after the ceremony at Descanso Beach and circling Catalina, parceling out the ashes a little at a time so that they lasted until he had come all the way around the island.
But those memories and concerns were only distractions from his thoughts of Graciela. The evening had ended on a wrong note after she had brought up Aubrey-Lynn Showitz. The memory had knocked McCaleb off stride and he stopped talking. He was infatuated with Graciela. He wanted her and had hoped the evening would end with them together. But he had let the grim memories intrude and it spoiled the moment.
He felt the boat gently rise and fall as the tide rolled in. He exhaled loudly, hoping to expel the demons. He readjusted himself on the thin cushion. There was a seam down the middle of the makeshift bed and he couldn't get comfortable. He thought about getting up for some orange juice, but worried that if he had a glass, there might not be enough left for Raymond and Graciela in the morning.
Finally, he decided to go down and check the vitals. The old standby for killing time. It would give him something to do, maybe make him tired and finally able to sleep.
He had plugged a night-light into the circuit over the sink in case Raymond had to get up and find the toilet. He decided not to turn on the overhead fixture and stood there in the dim light with the thermometer under his tongue. He looked at his shadowy reflection and saw that the circles beneath his eyes were becoming more pronounced.
He had to lean over the sink and hold the thermometer close to the night-light in order to read it. It looked like he had a slight fever. He took the clipboard off the hook and wrote the date and time and 99 instead of a slash. As he replaced the clipboard, he heard the door of the master stateroom open across the passageway.
He had never closed the door to the head. He looked across the dark hallway and saw Graciela's face peering around the edge of her door. The rest of her body she hid behind the door. They spoke in whispers.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. You?"
"I'm fine. What are you doing?"
"I couldn't sleep. I was just checking my temperature."
"Do you have a fever?"
"No . . . I'm fine."
He nodded as he said it. He became aware he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He folded his arms and raised one hand to rub his chin but he was really just trying to hide the ugly scar on his chest.
They looked at each other in silence for a moment. McCaleb realized he had been holding his hand to his chin too long. He dropped his arms to his sides and watched her as her eyes fell to his chest.
"Graciela . . ."
He didn't finish. She had slowly opened the door and he could see she wore a pink silk sleep shirt cut high on her hips. She was beautiful in it. For a moment they just stood there and looked at each other. Graciela still held the door, as if to steady herself against the boat's slight movements. After another moment she took a step into the hallway and he took a step to meet her. He reached forward and traced his hand gently up her side and then around to her back. With his other hand he caressed her throat and moved to the back of her neck. He pulled her into him.
"Can you do this?" she whispered, her face pressed into his neck.
"Nothing's going to stop me," he whispered back.
They moved into the stateroom and shut the door. He left his shorts on the floor and crawled onto the bed with her as she unbuttoned the nightshirt. The sheets and blanket already had her smell, the vanilla he had noticed once before. He moved on top of her and she pulled him down into a long kiss. He worked his face down to her chest and kissed her breasts. His nose found the spot just below her neck where she had touched the perfume to her skin. The deep musky vanilla filled him and he moved his lips back up to hers.
Graciela moved her hand in between their bodies and held her warm palm against his chest. He felt her body tense and he opened his eyes. In a whisper she said, "Wait. Terry, wait."
He froze and lifted himself up with one arm. "What is it?" he whispered.
"I don't think . . . It doesn't feel right to me. I'm sorry."
"What's not right?"
"I'm not sure."
She turned her body underneath him and he had no choice but to get off her.
"Graciela?"
"It's not you, Terry. It's me. I'm . . . I just don't want to rush. I want to think about things."
She was on her side, looking away from him.
"Is it because of your sister? Because I have her-"
"No, it's not that . . . Well, maybe a little. I just think we should think about it more."
She reached back and caressed his cheek.
"I'm sorry. I know it was wrong to invite you in and then do this."
"It's okay. I don't want you to do something you might be unhappy about later. I'll go back up."
He made a move to slide toward the foot of the bed but she grabbed his arm.
"No, don't leave. Not yet. Lie here with me. I don't want you to leave yet."
He moved back up the bed and put his head on the pillow next to hers. It was an odd feeling. Though obviously rejected, he felt no anxiety about it. He felt that the time would come for them and he could wait. McCaleb began wondering how long he could stay with her before having to return to his sleeping bag.
"Tell me about the girl," she said.
"What?" he replied, confused.
"The girl in the yearbook picture on your desk."
"It's not a nice story, Graciela. Why do you want to know that story?"
"Because I want to know you."
That was all she said. But McCaleb understood. He knew that if they were to bec
ome lovers, they had to share their secrets. It was part of the ritual. He remembered years before how on the night he first made love to the woman who would become his wife, she had told him that she had been sexually abused as a child. Her sharing of such a carefully held and guarded secret had touched him more deeply than the actual physical act of their making love. He always remembered that moment, cherished it, even after the marriage was over.