Chain Letter (34 page)

“Where do they all go?” Alison asked.

“Usually they’re wives or husbands trying to get out of unhappy marriages.”

“That’s sad.”

Eric glanced at her and pointed to the computer. “You read as many unsolved murder
cases as I have, and you’ll see how sad the world can be.”

“Why do you do it?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why do you spend so much time focusing on the worst of humanity?”

The question caught him by surprise. It was as if he had never thought about it before.
“I like the challenge of solving a difficult puzzle,” he said finally.

“Then you don’t do it to help people?”

“Of course I do,” he said quickly. “I like people.” He added shyly, “I like you, Alison.”

She smiled and patted him on the back. “I like you, too, Eric. Now, get to work. The
hourglass is running low.”

The time has come for your punishment. Listen closely, the hourglass runs low.

A line from Neil’s original chain letter. There was something about the cabin where
she had met the strange guy that reminded her of Neil. But for the life of her she
couldn’t remember what it was.

Eric asked the computer to sort through the missing-persons files. It took longer
than Alison expected. Eric explained that the files were not all in one place; he
had to call up each batch individually. She brought him fresh coffee, which he said
he appreciated greatly. He was an interesting guy. As he worked he told her the plot
line of every Agatha Christie novel. There were a lot of them.

At close to eleven o’clock Eric finally had a list of six people who met the man’s
description. They were both relieved the list was short. The previous July must have
been a slow month for runaways.

“Now what do we do with this list?” Alison asked.

“We can do a couple of things,” Eric said. “We can look up the guys online and try
to contact their families. We may even connect with some of the guys. The ones who
went home. It would be helpful to eliminate a few of them. There’s another program
we can use. It takes a name and searches through all the specified editions of the
L.A. Times
for a mention of the
name. But it’s a slow program. It could take all night to do all six of these people
for the whole month of July.”

“It’s almost eleven,” she said. “Do you want to call people now? You might wake them
up.”

“You’re the one who’s talking about hourglasses.” Eric said.

In fifteen minutes he had pulled up a list of numbers for four out of the six people.
He called them. The first person hung up on him before he could get out two words.
The second one—a woman—began to cry at the mention of the man on the list. Apparently
he had been her husband and had vanished on a hunting trip, only to be found dead
a month later outside the cave of a bear. The third one—another woman—laughed when
she heard her guy’s name. He had left her for another woman, she said, and she was
happy to be rid of him. The fourth number rang and rang without a response.

“We still have the two people we couldn’t get numbers for,” Eric said. He read them
out loud off their list—“James Whiting and Frank Smith. Christ, we would get a Smith.
The program will be stopping constantly.”

“Let’s put James Whiting’s name in first,” Alison suggested.

“Good idea. I hope somebody wrote an article on him when he disappeared.”

The program had not been running long—less than an hour—when it flagged that it had
found James Whiting in the
July 16 edition of the
Times.
The paper was not on the screen. The checking process was done internally. Eric had
to call up the appropriate page. Alison was practically on top of him, she was so
anxious.

Then she almost fainted to the floor.

There was a small article on James Whiting with a picture of him. Alison remembered
his handsome profile from when he lay flat on his back in the desert. It was ironic—in
the photograph he had on his tan sport coat, the jacket they had buried him in. All
that the picture was missing was the trail of blood at the corner of his mouth. She
pointed at the screen with a shaking finger.

“That’s him,” she gasped. “That’s the man.”

“Are you sure?”

Alison swallowed. “I’m sure.”

They read the article together.

LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MISSING

Thirty-three-year-old James Whiting, a local record store owner and resident of Santa
Monica for the last fifteen years, has been missing from his home for over a week.
His wife, Carol Whiting, has no explanation for his disappearance. The Whitings have
two children, ages six and three. James Whiting’s store, the Sound of Soul, is located
on Westwood Boulevard and has been a local
favorite for ten years. So far the police have no clues to his whereabouts. If anyone
has any information regarding his disappearance, please contact the LAPD.

Alison had to sit down. “He was married,” she whispered. “He had two children. And
we killed him and never told anybody.”

“You don’t know that you killed him,” Eric said quickly. “I told you there’s an excellent
chance he was murdered and then dumped in the desert.”

Alison shook her head. Her eyes burned. “But we buried him and never told anybody.
We could have told the police. Then his wife would have known what happened to him.”
She began to weep. “She probably sat home night after night wondering where her husband
was. We could have at least let her know he wasn’t coming home.”

“You made a mistake,” Eric said. “You were scared. It’s done. The best thing you can
do for his family right now is try to find out why he was in the middle of the desert
in the middle of the night. And whether he was dead or alive when he got there.” He
handed her a tissue. “We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

Alison wiped at her face. “What are we going to do now?”

“Go home and go to bed. James and Carol Whiting are not listed. We’ll go to his record
store in the morning. I know the place—it’s still in business. We’ll find his wife
and talk to her. Don’t worry—you won’t have to say what happened in the
desert. You can make up another story.”

“But the article said she had no idea why her husband had disappeared,” Alison said.

“These articles never say anything. She’ll have things to tell us, you can be sure
of that. If we can get them out of her.” Eric turned back to the computer screen.
He called up the missing-person file on James Whiting again. He put a hand to his
chin and frowned.

“What is it?” she asked.

“What was the date of that concert?” he asked.

“It was the end of July,” Alison said. “I could check if you need the exact date.”

“I might need it. But note the date of this article. It’s the middle of July. James
was gone from home about two weeks before you supposedly hit him. Yet you said the
blood coming out of his mouth was wet. Therefore he just died then, the night of the
concert.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Very. I wonder what James was doing during that missing two weeks—who he was with.”
Eric pointed at the screen. “This is the most hopeless-looking missing-person file
I’ve ever seen. It has the barest of facts on James. It almost looks as if parts of
it have been erased.”

“Who would do that?”

Eric turned off the screen. “Maybe the person who killed him.”

“But he wouldn’t have had access to these records. Right?”

Eric appeared uneasy. “He shouldn’t have. But whoever’s behind these letters seems
to be able to get ahold of whatever he wants.
Whoever
he wants.”

· · ·

Earlier Alison had driven Eric to his car, so they both had their cars with them.
But Eric followed Alison back to her house. She protested that it was way out in the
valley, but he insisted. When she parked in her driveway, he got out of his car to
walk her to the front door. She had called her parents from the police station and
told them she was at Brenda’s house. They were worried about her, how she was handling
the death of Fran. But they still wanted her to go to NYU. They thought the change
of scenery would be good for her. She hadn’t thought about school for a second since
Fran had died.

Eric eyed the dark house. “Are you sure your parents are home?”

“I’d know if they went out of town.” She touched his arm. “Really, Eric, I’ll be all
right. Nothing happens to you until your name comes up on the list. Oh, that’s something
I forgot to tell you. My name is the only one that isn’t on the Caretaker’s list.”

Eric was startled. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I just forgot. Why? I’m sure the new Caretaker knows who I am.”

“I’m sure he does. He knows everything else.” Eric considered. “This worries me.”

She laughed. “I would think it would reassure you. It’s no fun being on one of these
lists, I can tell you.”

He forced a smile. “I understand. I have your number. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“All right.” She started for her front door, then paused. Eric continued to stand
in her driveway, thinking. She was happy to have his mind on this problem. He was
more resourceful than anybody she knew. A wave of tenderness for him flowed through
her. She turned and reached out to give him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You
have sweet dreams,” she said.

Her gesture surprised him. He smiled again, but this time with pleasure. “How come
it’s always the prettiest girls who get in the worst trouble?” he asked.

“I think it’s because of the guys they hang out with.” She messed up his hair and
walked away. “Good night, Eric. Call me early.”

“Good night, Ali.”

S
itting in his car down the street from Alison’s house, Tony and Sasha watched Alison
hug and kiss the handsome young stranger. And Tony felt a part of him die inside.
But this part, as it died, didn’t cease to hurt. It just rotted, and in the few seconds
that Alison hugged the other guy the filth of it spread through his whole body until
he could hardly breathe. Sasha sat silently beside him in the dark. If she knew he
was in agony, she gave no sign of it. Tony had to close his eyes. His grief lay on
top of him like a boulder, and his anger rocked his soul to its very foundation. That
cheating bitch! How long had this been going on? Probably from the time he had first
said hello to her. He opened his eyes and watched as the guy walked back to his car.
He wondered if the guy had given his girl a feel while his eyes had been shut.

My girl. She’s everybody’s girl. Whoever wants her can have her.

The guy drove away without noticing them. Tony made a mental note of the guy’s car—a
red Honda Civic. He had a sinking feeling he’d see that car again. He reached for
the key in his ignition.

“I should take you home,” he muttered.

Sasha stopped him. “I didn’t know we’d see this.”

“But you wanted to come here.” The streetlight beside them was burned out. He stared
at her in the dark. They hadn’t sat there long before Alison returned with her date.
“Why?”

Her green eyes were on him. “Sometimes a girl gets a feeling about someone just by
hearing about her. I had a feeling about Alison.”

“What do you feel about her now?”

“That she’s a whore.”

Tony nodded and started the car. “My sentiment exactly.”

The drive back to Sasha’s apartment seemed to take an eternity. Had Tony been alone,
he might have driven off the road, or into the oncoming traffic. Yeah, better to go
out in a ball of fire and take a few others with him. Then, at least, he’d get himself
on the front page of the paper. His devastation felt complete. He didn’t want to live.
He didn’t want to breathe.

But he did want to get back at Alison.

Sasha invited him up to her apartment. He begged off, pleading exhaustion, but she
insisted. Soon he was sitting on her couch, drinking coffee beside her. He took it
scalding black,
like her, and felt it burn as it went down. He sat staring at the carpet on her floor.
It was gray—the color of his universe. He could think of absolutely nothing to say.
Sasha reached over and rubbed his shoulder.

“I think it’s time for that massage I promised you,” she said.

“It’s too late. Another time.”

Her fingers worked into his muscles for a moment, then she stood. “You need it now.
I’ll get my table. I’ll set it up out here.”

He let her do what she wanted. She had a mind of her own, that was for sure. That
goddamn Alison—all this time she’d been pretending to love him, when really he was
just another body to jump on. She had made him feel like a piece of meat. She had
probably screwed a dozen different guys since they’d started going out. It made him
want to vomit to think about it.

Sasha came back with her massage table and began to unfold the legs. “I bought this
table especially to work on people,” she said. “It cost me four hundred dollars. But
it was worth it. You can fall asleep on it if you want, it’s so comfortable. Why don’t
you take off your clothes?”

He looked up. “What?”

“Take off your clothes. I can’t give you a massage with them on. I use oil.”

He glanced at his watch. It was two-thirty in the morning. “Do I have to take them
all off?”

She was enjoying herself. “If you want me to do all of you. Don’t be shy. I’ll get
you a towel to cover yourself.”

She left the room and returned with a towel, and then went into the bathroom. He decided
if he was going to undress, now was the time. He took off everything except his underwear.
Then he lay facedown on the table and covered his lower body with the towel, his bare
feet sticking out the bottom. The apartment was warm, and he was as comfortable as
a man with a broken heart and a slut for a girlfriend could be. He glanced up as Sasha
returned to the living room wearing a white nightgown and no shoes or socks. She carried
an unlabeled bottle of lavender-colored oil in her right hand.