Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (57 page)

I didn't want to attract attention to myself, so I huddled in the MG, waiting for the police to leave and figuring out how to proceed. I would have liked to have been able to confirm with Bob that I was putting the correct interpretation on what Gerry had told me, but in lieu of that, I'd just have to act on the assumption I was right. Besides, I didn't think there was any immediate danger to anyone involved in the case…

Or was there? I thought back to my conversations with Irene and Gerry, then further back to my talk with Lindy and Betsy. And I saw the imminent potential for violence.

The police had gone. Quickly I replaced the gun in my bag and turned the key in the ignition.

In the flatlands the fog had been stationary and heavy; on Ashbury Heights the wind gusted strongly and erratically, swirling the mist. My little car shuddered in the up- and downdrafts. When I put on the windshield wipers, they made a smear, and I had to slow until it cleared.

I turned into the Cushmans' cul-de-sac and parked near the corner. I'd approach The Castles on foot and, if everything seemed all right there, return to the car and keep watch. Possibly nothing would happen here tonight, but I needed to make sure. I felt a somewhat irrational culpability in Frank Wilkonson's death, and I wanted to see that no harm came to anyone else.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, the wind chilled me. Fog—more like tiny droplets of rain—clung to my face and eyelashes. I turned up the collar of my jacket and started down the cul-de-sac.

It was very dark there. Few lights showed in the houses on either side, and those that did were faint, obscured by the trees' swaying branches. Ahead I could see the turrets of The Castles, illuminated by pinkish security spots. The leaves of the row of poplars shivered and snapped like tiny flags; some flew loose, and one clung wetly to my sleeve. I caught the acidic smell of eucalyptus, heightened by the damp.

A few cars were parked on either side of the pavement: a sleek sports car, two sedans, and next to the wall of The Castles, a shabby Japanese-make station wagon. I started over to inspect it, paused when I heard a buzzing noise.

The noise stopped. I waited, listening. It came again: the entry signal on The Castles' front gate. I peered over there but couldn't make out who was being admitted. All I could see was the steeply canted slate roofs of the turrets, bathed in the pinkish glow. The automobile gate was closed.

I moved over by the ivy-shrouded wall, the heels of my boots sinking into the damp earth. The eucalyptus smell was strong now and vaguely unpleasant; all around me trees soughed and creaked. My hair trailed limp against my back; my hands were cold and clammy. I flexed my fingers as I walked toward the gate.

Halfway there I heard a banging sound. I tensed, then relaxed some when I realized it was only the gate, being thrown back on its hinges by the wind. I crept over to it and peered inside the compound.

The mist swirl was so thick that I could barely see the curve of the path. Dead leaves scudded along the ground. There was no one in sight.

I stepped inside the gate, my hand in my bag, closing around the butt of my gun. The slate path was slippery. I skidded on it, regained my balance, and stepped off onto the packed earth.

Visibility here in the compound was better than in the street, but the eddying of the fog played tricks on my eyes. For a moment I thought someone was standing on the path a few yards away from me; then I saw that the path curved the other way, and what I was looking at was a shrub. I mistook a wind-blown tangle of vegetation for a cat, thought I heard footsteps but couldn't identify their source. Then I got turned around and blundered into the eucalyptus grove, losing sight of the turrets. I stumbled over exposed roots, whacked my head on a low-hanging branch. Finally light appeared ahead of me.

It was the main castle—fully lit, but with the blinds pulled across the windows. All the other buildings were in darkness. A figure stood between me and the front door: tall and dressed in a loose-fitting jacket that billowed out in the wind.

Gerry had returned. He'd probably spent the evening wandering or drinking in a bar, then returned and found he'd forgotten his keys. Vicky had buzzed him in; she'd complained on the phone that she'd have to wait up for him.

But now that Gerry was home, he seemed to have doubts about staying. He stood only yards from his front door, facing the oddly proportioned building as if he were studying it.

Perhaps he was, I thought. Perhaps he was wondering why he'd come back here. Was wondering if returning to this place he'd planned to flee, to Vicky and her insurmountable problems, was really worth it.

I opened my mouth to call to him, but a sound came from the trees behind me. I looked back, saw a great curl of bark peel loose from a nearby eucalyptus and rattle to the ground. When I looked at Gerry again, he was walking slowly toward the castle door.

And then the shots came.

There were three, close together. Firecracker reports from a small-caliber handgun. From someplace between the main castle and the one that housed the bedroom.

Gerry crumpled to the ground.

Another shot.

I went to the ground, too.

I yanked the .38 from my bag and inched forward. There was a metallic taste in my mouth and my whole body tingled. My eyes probed the swirling mist for the sniper.

No one.

I came out of the trees, crawled toward the path, stones cutting into my knees. My fingers were icy, welded to the butt of the gun. Near the door at the end of the path, Gerry lay unmoving.

I kept crawling forward. Flattened as another figure came running from my left—a figure in white that emerged from the mist like a strange ectoplasmic being and went lightly, soundlessly, to where Gerry lay.

I jumped up, grasped the gun in both hands, and said, "Stop right there, Vicky!"

She froze, then whirled toward me. Something flew from her right hand and landed on the lawn with a faint thud. Her long loose nightgown shivered around her. White nightgown, except for the spatter of red stains that were probably from the wine she'd thrown at the fireplace Saturday night—stains that now looked like blood.

Behind her, Gerry hadn't moved.

"Sharon," she said, "I heard shots." Her eyes moved to the gun in my hands. "You were shooting—"

"No," I said. "No, Vicky,
you
were."

She spread her hands wide. The nightgown caught in a gust of wind and flared out, making her look like a demented angel. "How could I?" she said. "I don't have a gun."

But I'd seen her throw it away. I motioned at her. "Move over by the door."

She stayed where she was. I stepped closer. Now I could see her expression, the little furrow between her brows that made her look like she was trying ever so hard to understand.

Again I motioned with the gun. She looked at it for a moment, then shrugged and went over by the door. She had to walk around Gerry to get there, but she didn't so much as glance at him.

I went over and located the gun on the lawn where she'd thrown it. It was the .22 she'd mentioned she and Gerry kept in their bedroom. I picked it up by the tip of the barrel so I wouldn't destroy her fingerprints and placed it in the outer compartment of my bag. Then I went to Gerry and knelt, still training the .38 on Vicky.

At some time during that evening, I thought, he must have exchanged his fashionable sport coat for a heavy nylon jacket. The dark stain near one shoulder was spreading. I heard a low moan. Grabbed his other shoulder, moved him slightly to see if he could speak.

And realized with a start that I had been right after all.

Vicky moved then. I jerked the gun up, but she was merely reaching inside the door of the castle and flicking a switch. Light spilled down from a flood set high on the wall. It bathed the grass, the path—and the pain-contorted features of Jane Wilkonson.

Vicky tiptoed forward. Looked down. And started to scream.

"I thought it was Gerry," she kept saying. "I thought I was killing Gerry!"

In the confusion that followed I almost didn't find out all the things I needed to know.

After realizing she'd shot a total stranger instead of her husband, Vicky went inside the main castle and threw a fit of crippling hysterics. I checked to see how badly Jane Wilkonson had been hurt; the wound was high on her shoulder and she was in no immediate danger. I covered her with a couple of heavy coats I found in a closet off the entryway, then went inside looking for a phone.

Vicky huddled on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, knees drawn up against her breasts, arms clasping them, rocking back and forth and crying. I looked at her long enough to confirm my original impression that the stains on her gown were old wine, not blood. Then I bypassed the living room phone and went into the kitchen.

The room resembled a war zone, domestic variety: Dirty dishes were stacked everywhere, interspersed with empty wine bottles. A paper sack of garbage overflowed onto the floor; next to it another one had fallen over and broken, leaking damp coffee grounds. There was some sort of green substance that had run down into the sink; on the wall above it was a smear of similar-looking stuff. When I saw a colander with the remains of spinach clinging to it, it didn't take much imagination to figure out that its contents had been flung at the wall.

The phone was next to the bulletin board Gerry had mentioned earlier. As I called 911,I stared at the reminders of typical family life posted there. But they were not all commonplace or reassuring: Betsy had drawn Halloween pictures for Daddy, Mom, and Rina, signed with love; the one for Rina had been ripped in half, and part of it lay on the floor at my feet.

After I'd called 911, I also dialed Gallagher's extension at the Hall. He was there—and furious with me.

"Where the hell are you?" he demanded. "We picked up Choteau near the park about forty minutes ago, while I'm sitting here looking at some vague message from you about a confession in the Goldring murder. And the number you left doesn't answer."

"I'm sorry, Ben. But I've got even more for you now." I filled him in on what had happened in the last few hours. When I finished, he seemed somewhat mollified and said he'd see me in about fifteen minutes.

I went back outside to see how Jane was doing. She lay unconscious under the heavy coats, but her pulse was steady.

Gerry arrived at the same time as the police and the ambulance. He'd obviously spent the evening drinking and had forgotten all about leaving his girls in the care of total strangers. When he heard what had happened, he sobered up quickly and went to see if he could do anything for Vicky. I watched him walk toward the door, stooped and faltering as an old man, but before he went inside he pulled himself erect, squaring his slender shoulders. Gerry was a better man than I'd thought; the woman inside had planned to kill him in cold blood, but he would try to help her anyway.

Gallagher appeared while the paramedics were checking Jane over. She'd regained consciousness and recognized me.

As I hovered close by, she kept calling out for Miss Hernandez. It was a few minutes before I realized she meant me.

Ben took me aside. He looked bone-tired and most of his anger had evaporated. "She the one who killed Wilkonson?" he asked, motioning at Jane.

"Yes. His wife."

"She confessed?"

"No, but I think she will. It wasn't a cold-blooded thing."

His mouth twisted wryly. "No, none of them ever are."

I was silent. I knew the woman; he didn't.

"What was she doing here?" he asked.

I hesitated. It was my opinion that Jane had come to The Castles to confront, maybe harm Irene Lasser. But I didn't know that for sure, and besides, she was suffering enough now—would suffer a great deal more in the future.

"I don't know," I said.

Gallagher looked skeptical. "What were
you
doing here?"

"Checking on Vicky Cushman—the woman who shot Jane Wilkonson. She's not very stable."

From inside came the sound of Vicky's voice, screaming again. "No shit," Gallagher said.

I glanced at the paramedics. They'd moved Jane onto a stretcher and gotten an I.V. started. "Look," I said, "let me ride to the hospital with her." This had been my case since Rudy Goldring had asked me to tail Jane's husband. I was not about to be cheated out of the truth at its very end.

"Why?" Gallagher said. "So you can disappear on me again?"

"Please, Ben. I can talk to her. She keeps asking for me."

"She's asking for somebody called Hernandez."

I pointed at myself.

"What did you… ? Oh hell. Go. I'll see you at the hospital."

He followed me over there and conferred with the paramedics. I knelt next to the stretcher. Jane was very pale and her face twitched spasmodically. I said, "How are you feeling?"

"Awful."

"I'm going to ride to the hospital with you."

"Thanks."

"There's something you should know." I told her my real name, and the reason I'd practiced the deception on her. I wasn't sure if she fully understood.

The medics adjusted the straps on the stretcher and hoisted it into the ambulance. I climbed up behind them. After they'd gotten Jane set, one motioned to a jump seat beside her. I took it as the siren started. The vehicle lurched across the lawn toward the automobile gate.

I put my hand on Jane's uninjured shoulder and squeezed it. The ambulance made an abrupt right turn; its siren was not nearly as loud when heard from inside as I'd expected it would be. I glanced at the medic, a black fellow in his twenties. He gave me a reassuring smile.

When I moved my gaze back to Jane, her eyes met mine. She moved her lips, and I leaned forward.

"… good not to be alone," she said.

"Is somebody with your kids?" I asked.

"Lady from the PTA. Only friend I've got in the valley."

"Was she also with them Saturday night?"

She turned her face toward the side of the vehicle. After a moment she whispered, "You know."

I leaned closer, spoke low, so only she could hear. "Did you understand what I said before—about who I am and why I was following Frank?"