(1987) The Celestial Bed (36 page)

‘There’s not a thing to confess.’

Scrafield’s obstinacy annoyed Lewis further. ‘Scrafield, you’re a goddamn hypocrite, and you were caught with your pants down. I’m going to prove that in court.’

Once again, Scrafield took on his familiar persuasive tone. ‘Hoyt, I don’t want to go to court. Even if I win, it’ll destroy me for life.’

Lewis shook his head. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this to a man of the cloth. Scrafield, I don’t give a shit what you want.’

Scrafield’s persuasive tone did not change. ‘Hoyt, you’ve got to show some kindness,’ he said smoothly. ‘You confessed to a weakness. All right, I’m willing to confess to mine. Sometimes, like

all human beings, I suffer lust.’ He came forward in his chair. ‘Hoyt, don’t forget we were in this together. You owe me one.’

‘I don’t owe you a damn thing. But if you think I do - you name it.’

‘Just don’t force me to go to court,’ he persisted.

Lewis stared at him. ‘You want me to let a potential rapist run around loose in Hillsdale?’

‘You know I’m not a rapist. I had a fleeting aberration, but I’m not a rapist.’

‘I doubt if a jury would agree with you.’

‘Hoyt, I’ll do anything not to stand trial.’

Lewis studied Scrafield thoughtfully. ‘Anything?’

‘Yes, anything.’

‘Perhaps, then, there is an alternative, one I’m considering just to save the city an expensive trial and to prevent disillusionment to your flock.’ He was lost in thought once more. ‘I’m willing to drop the charge against you if you not only leave Hillsdale forever, but leave the state of California for good.’

‘Hoyt, that’s like telling me my alternative is the guillotine. My life is here! Everything I have is here!’

‘Suits me. You can put it in trust until you get out of jail.’

Scrafield gazed down at the carpet, silent. When he raised his head, he said flatly. ‘You’ll drop the rapist charge if I leave town?’

‘I’m advising you to skip town, forfeit your bail.’

‘You won’t try to have me brought back?’

‘Frankly, I don’t want to see you again, ever. You can reconstitute your life somewhere else, but not in my area of jurisdiction. I might say that this alternative was not volunteered by me. When I had my two witnesses as well as Dr Freeberg in to hear their stories, I asked each of them what they thought I should do with you. I was simply for tossing you in jail. Dr Freeberg went along. Gayle’s boyfriend, Brandon, thought you should be hung up by your balls. Gayle was more charitable. She suggested you be exiled. She felt it was punishment enough. She had some compassion. She said she knew men. Too many would be prepared to sell their souls, give up anything, to have sex with a woman they coveted. Understanding this, Gayle was ready to forgive and forget. She’s a true Christian. You’re a fraud. So I’m going along with her wish.’

Scrafield sighed. It sounded more like a croak. ‘Well, I suppose I have no choice but to comply.’

‘No, you have no choice. What you have is forty-eight hours to pack your belongings and get out of town.’

‘All right, Hoyt.’ Scrafield nodded. ‘I’ll do just that.’

It was no use.

He could only do what he was ordered to do - get out of Hoyt Lewis’s sight. But rising heavily, Scrafield knew that he was not through. He was not quite ready to leave town.

There was still one bit of unfinished business. A rage welled up inside him. Gayle Miller and Paul Brandon, they had done him in. Scrafield was not through with them. One of them had to pay for this.

One of them would.

That was all that obsessed him as he turned his back on the DA and left the room to obtain his vengeance.

Because it was a warm, sunny afternoon, and because the morning newspaper had carried an announcement of District Attorney Hoyt Lewis’s impending press conference that gave promise of scandal, a goodly crowd had gathered before the Hillsdale City Hall.

Six broad steps led down from the glass entrance doors of the City Hall to a wide concrete terrace embraced by two semicircles of green planters, one on either side. At the centre of the terrace stood a wooden lectern with a microphone attached to a public address system. Off to the left were four rows of folding chairs already filled with reporters, from the print media throughout California and various other states in the West. Behind them rose an outcropping of manned television cameras and radio representatives carrying their own microphones and portable recorders.

Stretching down from the terrace were twelve more wide steps that reached the sidewalk and street. A dense gathering of at least two hundred curious citizens filled a portion of the thoroughfare, all kept orderly by a half-dozen blue-uniformed policemen spread out at attention in front of them.

The press conference had been called for two o’clock.

At exactly one minute before two, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis emerged from a lobby door of the City Hall, holding two sheets of paper in his hand, and slowly descended to the terrace.

Squinting up from the street at the DA, Tony Zecca shifted restlessly from one foot to the other in the second line of spectators. This was the moment Zecca had looked forward to with grim satisfaction. Obviously, the press conference was being staged to allow the DA to announce that the slimy Dr Freeberg, already under arrest, was to go on trial for a felony charge. Soon Freeberg would be out of the way, and probably after his jail term would be forced to leave Hillsdale. And Zecca would have Nan Whitcomb to himself for his very own purposes. Zecca’s mind had quickly gone to their reunion and reconciliation. Zecca wondered if he should first punish Nan in some way, as a lesson to her before taking her back, or if he should be magnanimous and forgiving of her waywardness. For the time, he leaned toward the latter course. It meant better fucking the first night she was again in his bed.

Once more, Zecca focused his attention on the DA, who had arrived at the lectern and was adjusting the microphone to a comfortable height.

Before beginning his statement, Hoyt Lewis glanced about him, and seemed to acknowledge several persons whom he knew.

Briefly distracted, Zecca searched the crowd for a glimpse of Nan. As far as he could see, she was not present.

Hearing the tinny reverberations of the microphone on the terrace above, Zecca again gave the DA his full attention.

District Attorney Hoyt Lewis was speaking at last.

i had originally summoned you all here,’ said the District Attorney, ‘with a different intent in mind. Since that time, certain facts have come into my hands that now force me to alter the content of my announcement. I had considered cancelling this press conference altogether, but then decided to proceed with it to clarify a certain matter and not allow false rumours to run rife.

‘As many of you are aware, word was released through the media that my office had undertaken an investigation of a new medical establishment that recently opened in this city. This establishment was and is known as the Freeberg Clinic. The founder and head of the Freeberg Clinic is a licensed psychologist, specialising in sexual problems, named Dr Arnold Freeberg. He undertook the use of partner surrogates or sexual surrogates — mostly female surrogates - to give guidance and first hand instruction to his unhappy patients.

‘After a preliminary investigation of his activities, I came to the

conclusion that Dr Freeberg and his surrogates had committed a crime under the state’s law against pandering and prostitution.

‘As some of you know, the day before yesterday I placed both Dr Arnold Freeberg and one of his female sex surrogates under arrest.

‘However, since yesterday, other facts previously unknown to me have come to light. As a result, I have come to realise that the arrests were a huge mistake. My mistake. Perhaps I acted against the defendants too hastily, in my zeal to keep this city clean and orderly.

‘At any rate, I am now satisfied that both Dr Freeberg and his surrogate assistants are engaged in work valuable to our community. I therefore wish to tell you that neither the activities of Dr Freeberg nor those of his surrogates fall under the criminal provisions of our laws against pandering or prostitution and all charges against them have been dropped.

‘I cannot adjourn this press gathering without making a public apology to Dr Arnold Freeberg.’

With that, he turned around and raised a hand to beckon someone standing in the City Hall entrance above.

Dr Freeberg came forward briskly and joined Lewis at the lectern.

Smiling, Lewis shook hands with the therapist. ‘Dr Freeberg, I want to acknowledge publicly the disservice I have done you, and right here and now make an apology to you and your staff.’

Dr Freeberg smiled back. ‘I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your gracious effort to right a wrong. I appreciate it and I thank you.’

Waving to the crowd amid the spattering of a*pplause, Dr Freeberg started down the steps to join the spectators.

Having heard what he had heard, seen what he had seen, Tony Zecca froze and his features reddened in fury.

What was taking place before his eyes was the greatest crime he had ever witnessed.

Wildly, almost out of his mind with rage, Tony Zecca knew only one thing.

Justice … justice must be done.

Zecca’s right hand darted into his bulging jacket pocket.

Justice would be done.

It was Paul Brandon, in the front row of the crowd, who was the first to become conscious of some kind of altercation occurring almost immediately to his left.

Just as Dr Freeberg neared the bottom of the last flight of steps, Brandon saw a short, stocky, powerful man, a very “angry man, roughly elbow two spectators in the front row aside, burst out between them, and raise his right hand.

Gripped in his hand, Brandon was horrified to see, was a black revolver.

Apparently others saw what was happening, too, because there was a shout from people crowded nearby, and then a woman’s voice cried out shrilly from behind, ‘Nooo! No, don’t do it, Tony!’

The hand on the gun had taken aim, and a finger tugged at the trigger.

The gun exploded once, twice, three times.

The first shot hit Dr Freeberg. His hands clutched up at his chest, he swayed, his legs buckled, and gradually he collapsed to the edge of a concrete step, tried to rise, and then rolled down the remaining three steps to the sidewalk.

Before Brandon could join the others in reaching Dr Freeberg, a shocked young woman broke out of the crowd, spotted Brandon, and stumbled toward him, tearing at his arm.

‘Paul, stop him!’ she screamed. ‘It’s Tony! He did it!’ As Brandon turned, Nan cried out to him, ‘Be careful, be careful, he’s gone crazy!’

Brandon whirled away, ploughed through the shocked mass of spectators, pushing and shoving until he was in the open, and then he saw Zecca.

Zecca was in the open, too, twenty yards ahead, fleeing down the middle of the street.

‘There he is!’ shouted Brandon at the nearest policeman, pointing to the street.

But already, Brandon saw, two other policemen were on the run, racing after Zecca. ,

Glancing over his shoulder, Zecca saw that he was being pursued. Abruptly, he stopped, pivoted, held his gun high and fired at the policemen.

Zecca’s shots went wild.

The two policemen, crouching, fired back with more care and deadly accuracy. One, two, three, four shots targeted in on Zecca.

The impact of the bullets lifted him into the air, stumpy arms flailing, and then he came down like a limp rag doll and lay sprawled on the pavement.

By the time Brandon reached the body, both policemen were bent over Zecca, examining him and shaking their heads.

‘Did you get him?’ Brandon wanted to know.

‘Dead,’ said the first policeman to rise. ‘Stone cold dead. Some nut, eh?’

‘Some nut,’ Brandon agreed.

It was ten minutes before Brandon returned to the foot of the City Hall steps where the crowd had parted to let the ambulance through.

Paramedics had Dr Freeberg on a wheeled stretcher, very still on the stretcher, as they slid it into the ambulance.

Brandon realised that Gayle had found him, had her arms around him, and was weeping and sobbing.

Brandon held her, and tried to make out Freeberg’s condition.

‘How is he?’ Brandon asked. ‘Will he live?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gayle moaned. ‘He looks awful, just awful.’

Twelve

The third-floor physicians’ conference room of the Hillsdale Central Hospital had been turned over to the members of the press, who were standing by for the first report on Dr Arnold Freeberg’s condition since he had been rushed into surgery after the Zecca shooting.

Having circulated among his new colleagues briefly, Chet Hunter decided to leave the press watch and return to the visitors’ waiting room at the far end of the hall. He had been there earlier, and Suzy and Gayle had introduced him around. Now, feeling he had some business among Dr Freeberg’s closest associates, he was going back to the waiting room.

Approaching the surgery, with a sign reading NO ENTRY on the door, he saw that three persons were seated in folding chairs across the way. Two of them Hunter recognised as Dr Freeberg’s wife Miriam and son Jonny. The third, a well-attired middle-aged man, Hunter guessed to be Dr Freeberg’s onetime college roommate and present attorney, Roger Kile. Passing along, Hunter was tempted to interrupt them to learn if there was any news yet. Kile was speaking to Mrs Freeberg in an undertone, and from Mrs Freeberg’s intent and fretful expression, Hunter thought that this was no time to approach them. They would get the first news, and those in the waiting room would get it immediately afterwards.

Reaching the entrance to the spacious visitors’ waiting room, Hunter stood in the doorway briefly to survey it. Every cushioned wicker chair and the two sofas were occupied, and the television set in the corner was still. Unnoticed, Hunter took in the various occupants. Seated in chairs at one side of a sofa were a man and a woman he knew to be Adam Demski and Nan Whitcomb and they were deep in conversation. Right next to them on the sofa were