Liar (44 page)

There was silence, then Spanning scoffed, “You probably said it was your mother, because God knows she had him by the balls.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said, but I was wrong.”

“Then it must have been you.”

“No-you know that isn’t true.”

“Well, if he said it was me, he was right, but he sure as hell didn’t give a damn about me. He was too busy with you and your mother to bother with me.”

“But he didn’t see me for a dozen years,” Travis said. “If he loved me so much, he would have done for me what you did for him, right?”

Spanning didn’t answer.

“If you love someone, you take care of them and protect them, right?”

“Of course you do!”

“You didn’t run away from your responsibilities, did you?”

“Goddamned right, I didn’t.”

“You were more of a father to him than he was to me.”

“Some ways.”

“He could be selfish, couldn’t-he?”

“Could be?
I never met a more selfish man.”

“But even so, he loved you. We all knew that. He always talked about how much you had done for him. He knew. In his heart of hearts, he knew. He knew you’d do anything for him. He knew you even gave up the woman you loved for him. She could have had you, and everything would have been fine. But she wouldn’t take you, would she?”

There was a long silence. “You see?” Spanning said. “You see? You know, don’t you? I thought he might not have shown them to you. You were just a kid. But he came home that night and showed them to you, didn’t he? Now, where are they? I just want them back. Your mother wouldn’t give them to me, so I was going to get them myself.”

“But then those old biddies at the apartment building called the cops on Deeny, right?” Rachel said.

“Yeah. And then this cousin-one of the damned Kellys who turned their noses up at him! The whore’s family! A Kelly goes in there and takes everything out of the apartment. But then I see how it works. You planned this, Travis. You’re staying with your cousin. I know you know about them. I even tried to get old Ulkins to tell me. You saw what happened to him. Now tell me-where are they?”

“I wonder how pissed ol‘ Deeny is,” Rachel said, apparently knowing what the follow-up would be if she didn’t distract him from whatever “they” were. “Maybe she’s fetching the cops on you as we speak.”

He laughed. “She’s in this as deep as I am.”

But evidently it made him worry, because once again he went to the door. I opened my pocket knife to the sharpest blade. I heard him go out on the front porch again, and I came around the corner of the doorway. I tried to cut the ropes on Rachel’s wrists, but she whispered, “Give it to me and get out of here!” I placed it in her hand, blade side against the ropes. The screen door squeaked open and I pulled back.

“None of this whispering between yourselves!” Spanning shouted.

I heard him cross the floor, then a loud crash, and trying not to think about what was happening, hurried to the back door.

“I didn’t touch you! What’d you fall over for?” I heard him saying.

“I thought you were going to hit me.” Travis’s voice.

“Well, if you think I’m going to let loose of this gun to pull you up, you whispered for nothing, because you can stay down there for all I care!

After that, I was outside again.

I wouldn’t have gone, except that I had decided to light the fire. It was a moment’s work. One match and it was blazing. I threw the shotgun cartridges in and ran toward the front of the house. I wasn’t sure how long it was going to take the shells to explode, or if they would, or what would happen to them, but if those spray-paint canisters were going to do what I thought they would, I didn’t want to be looking into the fire when they blew.

I never found out if it was the stench of the burning latex, the smoke of the other substances, or the rather fantastic banging that the paint cans made in that bathtub, but Gerald Spanning ran out of his house, and I ran in.

Rachel was already up and cutting Travis’s bonds.

“That story you told him about the night Gwendolyn died-” she was saying.

“Total bullshit,” he said, and she laughed as we helped him to his feet.

Outside I could hear Gerald swearing at Deeny-whom he blamed for starting the fire-and turning the hose on.

“Get Travis out of here,” Rachel said to me. “Spanning will be back in here in no time.”

Travis, holding his ribs and leaning very heavily on me, said, “We aren’t leaving you.”

“Then stay the hell out of my way.”

She had no sooner said this than we heard Spanning come charging back in through the kitchen door.

She was ready for him. As he came running into the living room, she hit him with a kick in the face that dropped him in place. I don’t think he had a clear idea what had happened to him at that point, but she had disarmed him by the time he was slowly getting back up on his feet.

He shook his head to clear it.

“Nobody,” she said, “has called me a wop since third grade.”

He charged toward her. A mistake.

She took hold of his arm and with one smooth, beautiful twisting motion, threw him head over heels. He came down so hard and so fast, I’m surprised the floor withstood the blow. One of the chairs didn’t.

He stood up again, this time with fists raised, and took a few clumsy steps forward. He didn’t stand a chance.

Both of her feet and both of her fists connected with him about four times each-if I counted the sounds of the blows right-before he hit the floor again. This time he stayed down.

She hadn’t broken a sweat.

Travis said, “You’re a cruel woman, Rachel Giocopazzi.”

“Why?” she asked, already tying Spanning up. “Because I knocked this piece of shit on his ass?”

“No,” he said. “For trying to get us to leave without seeing you do it.”

Without Ezekiel Brennan’s help, I’m convinced we wouldn’t have been able to get home as early as we did, which was noon on Monday.

We didn’t call the police until Rachel had retrieved and hidden all of her illegal tools. Travis insisted on going with us to the garage to help, even after we warned him about the Camry. Deeny, it turned out, was awake, and not a little angry. When Travis saw the window, he said, “The hobo sign for ‘This is not a safe place.” You gave her fair warning, Irene.“

When Rachel opened the car door, Travis said to Deeny, “Your husband controlled my father the same way he controls you. If you want to talk to the lawyer who helped my father, maybe he’ll help you.” He paused, then added, “You’re going to need a good lawyer.”

We saw the wisdom of it ourselves, and called Brennan right after we called the police.

We didn’t tell the entire truth to the Los Alamitos Police, but we kept our stories straight. We had come to the house to look for the El Camino, a vehicle which might contain traces of the explosives used to destroy Travis’s camper. Rachel supplied Richmond’s photos of the El Camino taken on the day the bomb was put in place. When she mentioned that Harold Richmond was involved, there was a change of attitude-his infamy lived on in the department.

I told them that they might contact Detective McCain of the LAPD about Mr. Richmond’s whereabouts. This was a success, and reached while being interviewed in Detective McCain’s office, Richmond confirmed that he sometimes talked about his business to the cocktail waitress at the Wharf. No, he didn’t know what her last name was.

McCain was pleased to hear where he could find the Camry. We knew, from what we had shown them when they arrived on the scene, that the Camry would prevent Gerald from walking out of the station.

The police were still curious about our activities, especially given our attire. On that subject we said nothing. Mr. Brennan’s arrival resulted in Travis’s release; he was not being charged with any crime, and Mr. Brennan insisted that Travis receive immediate medical attention. Deeny, who was being released by the hospital into police custody as Travis walked in the Emergency Department doors, called out, “I want to talk to my lawyer!”

“I’ll be right with you,” Mr. Brennan replied.

Her cooperation led to first my release and then Rachel’s-and oddly, Deeny did not seem to recall much of anything that happened just before she was hit on the head, but specifically denied seeing any special burglary tools on Ms. Giocopazzi’s person, no matter what was claimed by Gerald. By then McCain and Detective Reed Collins from Las Piernas had made the trip to Los Alamitos, and Gerald was officially placed under arrest.

I called the paper and phoned in a story that made Morey decide I could be excused for another day or two while I healed a little. The acting news editor told me he was assigning a couple of other people to write follow-up stories from less personal angles. Fine with me.

Mr. Brennan drove Rachel over to the hospital, where she arrived not long before Travis was ready to go home with us.

“I want to grow up to be like my cousin,” he said to me, walking stiffly and trying to act as if the broken ribs, black eye, fat lip and lump on his forehead were nothing. He held up his cleanly swathed right hand. “And look, you don’t have to change the bandage for me today.”

“We have a specially air-conditioned Volvo to take you home in,” I said, and after we all thanked Mr. Brennan again, we were on our way, sans driver’s side window, but happy.

We arrived at my house to see two men getting out of a Yellow Cab. “Oh shit,” said Rachel. “Now we’ve had it.”

“Who is it?” Travis asked.

“Our husbands.”

But she was wrong if she thought they were angry. After several hours of trying to reach us at every possible number, they were so glad to see us, they didn’t even bitch about the cab fare from LAX.

I awakened at about seven in the evening, as the last of the early summer sunlight was fading. After a few moments of enjoying the sensation of being held possessively by my sleeping husband, I gently extricated myself from his grip. He rolled over but didn’t awaken, and soon was snoring again. I stood and listened to it for a while after getting dressed.

I checked on Travis, who was sleeping soundly, despite being propped up at the angle the broken ribs required. Uncomfortable, but better than getting pneumonia, the doctors said.

I fed the animals and started making dinner. I put a chicken in the oven and started straightening the living room. I came across the Virgin Mary night-light and smiled. It reminded me of one my mother had once had, too. I tried plugging it in, but it didn’t light up. I unplugged it, and unscrewed the base-no bulb.

I went into the kitchen, checked on the chicken and, after a brief search, found a spare night-light bulb. My husband came out of the bedroom, and I became distracted by some nuzzling until he said, “Uh-oh. What papist trappings are you decorating the house with now, Catholic girl?”

I laughed and told him that the night-light was apparently the one gift that had survived the years during which my aunt purged her home of every other reminder of Arthur, save Travis himself. He cocked his head to one side for a moment, but made no wisecracks, so I went back to replacing the bulb.

Travis came slowly down the hall and Frank, who had already taken a liking to him, offered to help him get settled in a chair.

“No thanks,” Travis said. “The thought of trying to get up again makes me want to stay on my feet.” He saw what I was working on and smiled a misshapen grin. “What are you doing to the Virgin Mary?”

“I was going to surprise you,” I said, trying to concentrate on what was becoming a frustrating effort to reattach the base to the statue. “You know-replace the bulb and set this in your room-have you wake up to a glowing religious night-light.”

Frank groaned.

“Hey, Mr. Episcopalian,” I said, handing the two parts to him. “Instead of making rude sound effects, why not see if you can get this back together?”

Frank took it from me as Travis said, “Well, you do almost have to grow up with it, Irene.”

“Tell that to her sister,” Frank said, peering up the hollow Virgin Mary’s plastic gown. “She keeps trying to talk me into converting.”

“Maybe I’ll put off meeting Barbara,” Travis said, and Frank laughed.

Frank started poking a finger into the statue. “Hold it,” I said. “There’s a limit-”

He looked back into the bottom of the statue, ignoring me. “Get me a pair of tweezers.” Tweezers!

“Please.”

Well, it was the magic word, after all.

With tweezers in hand, he began picking at something inside the statue.

“What is it?” Travis asked.

“The reason the bulb won’t fit. There’s something rolled up inside here.”

Travis looked over at me.

“Travis, you said this was the only thing among your mother’s possessions that your father had given to her…”

“And he gave it to her to protect her,” he said softly. “To protect her from Gerald?”

Frank soon began complaining that if we didn’t give him some elbow room, he wouldn’t be able to get the object-something made of metal wrapped in paper-out without tearing the paper.

But a few minutes later he succeeded, and handed a short flat key and what at first appeared to be a scroll of thick paper to Travis.

“Is that a safe-deposit box key?” I asked.

“Too short,” Frank said. “Maybe a cash box, something like that.”

Travis, who had taken a seat next to Frank on the couch, handed the scroll back to him. “Could you help me unroll it?”

Frank carefully unrolled the scroll, which turned out to be a small envelope. It was the size of the envelopes invitations and thank-you notes sometimes come in, about four-by-six inches, and it was addressed to Arthur Spanning at an address I didn’t recognize at first, but marked “Personal.”

The address was written in black ink in a rough hand. There was no return address, no stamps, no postmark, but at the top of the envelope, a different hand had penciled in the number twenty-five and circled it.