Imola (20 page)

Bransome thumbed through Pfeffer’s personnel file, but he didn’t read a word. If Agnes-Lilin was smart, she’d simply disappear. The only hope of catching her was if Lilin would take charge and continue the killing. He slammed the file shut. How horrible was that? He kicked an empty wastebasket across the room. To hope for more homicides.

Pfeffer jumped and dodged the can before it crashed into the far wall. His eyes were wide, like he was face-to-face with a demon.

“You’re on traffic for now.” Bransome said. “Go see motor pool for a car. It’s out back.”

Pfeffer took a step, then stopped. His voice was timid. “I thought I was transferred here to help with the Agnes Hahn case.”

Bransome stared. “Do you believe in human spontaneous combustion?”

“Huh?”

Bransome took a step closer. “Did I just give you an assignment?”

Pfeffer retreated a step. “Yes.”

“And you’re still standing here because …”

Pfeffer inched farther backward. “I was sent here to help with the Hahn case. I’ve been familiarizing myself with the file.”

“Have you? How many people has Agnes Hahn murdered?”

Pfeffer looked at the floor. “I’m not sure of the exact count. At least five. I think.”

“You think?”

“Detective Bransome, I excelled in the crime scene investigation part of my training. I bring fresh eyes to the investigation.”

Bransome took a quick breath. “Who is the lead investigator on the Agnes Hahn case?”

“You are.”

“And who is the lead detective in the Mendocino Police Department?”

“You.”

“And who makes the assignments for the Mendocino Police Department?”

“You?”

“So who’s going to get his ass out to motor pool, check out a vehicle, and get to work on traffic detail before his superior puts him to work cleaning out the latrines in the holding cells with a toothbrush?”

Pfeffer pivoted and stomped down the hall.

Bransome paced the room. He spoke to the walls. “She’s already killing again. Maybe I can put Pfeffer undercover. His pecker seems to be expendable.”

The GTO checked out of San Francisco via the Golden Gate Bridge and followed Highway 101 for a short distance beyond Sausalito to the Muir Beach exit. After a twisting drive, Lilin turned the car onto Highway 1, the famous and scenic Shoreline Highway, and growled past Stinson Beach.

The car was perfect. It was pure, raw power. The one thing she craved. If only she’d had some of that power when she’d been a little girl.

Lilin leaned over and opened the glove box. A manila envelope nearly fell out. She grabbed it and laid it on the seat next to her. The fool at the car lot kept all of his inventory records in hard copy. Not a single computer in the place. Everything of importance was in this one folder. Records of purchases were mixed with records of sales. And all license paperwork was in there, too. She’d burn it when she had a chance. It’d be difficult to trace the GTO, difficult for the authorities to know if a car was missing from the lot. She’d already switched the license plate with one from a mid-70s Pontiac Bonneville she’d found parked near the panhandle of Golden Gate Park.

She leaned forward from the seat back. A smirk dimpled her cheeks.

You there? Or are you still in a glow over your first big O?

You didn’t have to kill him
.

I did it for you.

You did it for you
.

But admit it. You felt it right with me. Didn’t you?

You had an orgasm. With a dead man’s penis
.

Is there a better kind? Of orgasm and of man? Lilin leaned back and chuckled. Come on. You know it was the most intense experience you’ve ever had.

You had it
.

Okay. I’ll play your game. But you’re no longer pure and chaste. You’ve had a taste, and a taste leads to a meal, and then to a banquet. I’ll go out on a limb here—with a wager. I bet you’ll never have a sexual experience that intense as long as you’re around.

She chuckled again.

But you better hurry if you want to take the bet.

This time, Lilin belly laughed.

No comment, huh? Just as well. I’m getting tired of showing you the ropes. I’m getting tired of you. From now on, everything is for me.

Near Woodville and the Point Reyes National Seashore, the GTO cut off Highway 1, and after a short jog, picked up Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. The southern reaches of Tomales Bay came into view. The car hugged the road along the western bank of the bay.

Lilin perked up when she passed the mileage sign: Inverness, 5 miles. Her arousal was a mixture of excitement and anger, like most things in her existence. Inverness was the site of her greatest triumph, the ultimate payback for her father. But it carried the memories of her worst experiences as well. She turned from the main road.

And it all happened right there. The cabin—former residence of Mr. Edward Hahn, father of twins Agnes and Lilin—was vacant. Two remnants of yellow police tape flapped from the porch posts like streamers. After a brief glance, she kept her gaze straight ahead. She didn’t want to look at it any more. She wished it would be demolished, or burn to the ground. Her eyebrows rose. Fire could be arranged.

Almost a mile past the cabin, she slowed down and turned left on an unmarked road that was nearly overgrownby car-high scrubs. They scratched at the car as if they were trying to get to her. As if they didn’t want her to get through. As if they knew what she had done. She pushed the accelerator, and the tires kicked up gravel and tree litter. The branch arms shook angry fists in her wake.

Bushes pulled at the doors of the car for what seemed like an eternity but abruptly thinned to a small open space. The road bent to the right, then in a left-hand arc that circled tall shrubs fronting a dense screen of trees. Behind the trees, a military green trailer came into view. It was a single wide, with an add-on extension that jutted out of its middle as if it were pregnant.

It had taken her a while to discover the place. To find out that Eddie Hahn owned this whole plot of land, from the cabin to this trailer, and that he had purchased the trailer years earlier at a military surplus sale. He must have known that someone would come after him someday.

This was where he’d hidden when the murders started. His abandoned cabin out on the road was the perfect misdirection. Who knew that his disappearance involved a short move to the far end of his property, where he was sequestered in a well-hidden government-issue trailer? That he was so close all along?

But she had found him, surprised him in his sleep, and brought him back to the cabin for her ultimate revenge. And now, as a final piece of irony, she could use his hidey-hole for the first stage of her own disappearance. If anyone suspected she’d come to these parts, they’d check the cabin and close the report. Quite a gift from father to daughter. From such a hateful relationship.

The trailer door was unlocked, just as she’d left it on that night. She’d only been in the trailer that one time: on that final night. When she’d pulled the pathetic old man from his bed and literally dragged him down to the cabin. Back then, the trailer had electricity and water. Now it was dark and cold. But it was only a base of operation. A place to hunker down. To catch her breath. She had business in Santa Rosa. Just a few days and everything would be tied into a tidy bundle and sealed forever. Then she could leave the Bay Area, maybe leave California. She had a new name. New documents. She could move on. Start over. Whatever that meant.

The pregnant room was the living room, and it had a thick but worn carpet. She went into the back, to the bedroom, and pulled two blankets from the bed. On the carpet, the blankets would keep her warm. There was no way she could get in his bed. It was still early in the afternoon, and she’d be gone later in the night—when the cold would have a fanged bite.

She curled up on the rug and drifted off.

Agnes threw off the covers and crawled over to thetwo bags that were dropped just inside the trailer door. She thrust her hand into the first, then the second. Near the bottom, she found the pen, but she couldn’t find the writing tablet or the envelopes. Did Lilin find them? She pushed her hand around in the bag and found a dollar bill-sized receipt. She didn’t care about the printed side.

She scribbled a quick note on the back of the receipt and folded it in half. Gripping the paper, she opened the door and stepped out into the warm afternoon sunshine.

There was a store a few miles back on the main road, and the physical activity in the fresh air would do her good. She could get an envelope and a stamp there. She could get writing paper, too, but she was in a hurry. She could just slip the receipt in the envelope, folded to show the writing, and drop it in the mailbox. The GTO would get her there faster, but she didn’t want to alert Lilin, and she didn’t want to have anything to do with that car.

She wound along the side road, but the bushes didn’t bother her. They didn’t grab at her as they had Lilin. Maybe they could tell the difference.

At the paved road, Agnes picked up her pace. The roads were clear in Inverness, but when it got dark, it was pure black. On this side of Tomales Bay, lights of civilization were few and far between, and the trees and shrubs shielded the moonlight as if it were toxic.

The cabin came into view, and Agnes noticed a sluggishness in her legs. Her muscles felt tight, as if she werecarrying a heavy load. Memories flooded her consciousness. Lilin. Her Father. The Bad Room.

Her left calf went into a painful spasm, and she had to stop to stretch it. In her peripheral vision, she noticed the yellow tape streamers on the cabin porch. They curled at their tips, like fingers motioning to her, inviting her into the cabin for a visit.

She didn’t remember much from the cabin that night. It was Lilin who had killed their father. But she’d seen the photos after her arrest. Now she didn’t want to walk past the place. A feeling of panic boiled from her stomach and pinched her throat, constricting her breathing. In her mind, the door was opening. The door to Lilin.

She turned around and speed-walked back up the road. Despite the increase in activity, her breathing eased and her muscles loosened.

Then another wave of panic tightened her stomach. The note. How could she get it to Jason? She folded it into a tiny square and pushed it into the small change pocket of the Levi’s she wore. Something would come to her. She’d find a way. She looked down at the jeans and cringed. They were all Lilin.

Agnes hated Levi’s, particularly when they were this tight. But she didn’t have a choice. Not anymore. Now she’d have to look for another opportunity. In the skintight Levi’s. But her chances were dwindling. Lilin had said it. She had business in Santa Rosa. Agnes couldthink of only one thing that could be.

She turned up the bush-lined road and headed back to the trailer. She had to find a way to get word to Jason. There was time to think about it, but she’d have to be ready in an instant. Her opportunities were fading. Lilin was getting stronger. She patted the change pocket.

Be ready.

“Jason. Please. Be careful.”

Lilin stirred at the first shiver of evening and bolted upright on the floor. She strained to see out the front room windows. The last light stained the western horizon a deep royal blue, but it blended to black within the height of a tree in the foreground. How long had she been asleep? It was midafternoon when she settled on the floor, but she didn’t feel the relief of those hours. Something told her it was a restless time. But it wasn’t worth worrying about that now. It was time to get moving.

The GTO was a willing partner, firing to a growl on the first turn of the ignition. It lurched on the road, eager to run the gauntlet of bushes and settle into a throaty purr on the paved roads. If the used car merchant really had turned back the odometer, the car must have been pampered, because the engine was as smooth as abroken-in youngster. There was no slip in the automatic transmission.

Lilin wanted to travel in silence, to savor the expectation of the upcoming adventure. She liked to let the anticipation and tension build slowly. Only at the end would it get intense. Her anger was channeled into sexual energy, so any slowly building event, sexual or not, could trigger a sensual explosion if the intensity of the anger ramped at the end. She had her father to thank for that.