Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (47 page)

I opened my eyes, felt them sting with tears. Then I snapped off the
flash and backed out of the cockpit. When I jumped down from the boat,
I took in the fresh, ozone-charged air in great gulps. My knees were
trembling, but I didn't want to lean against the ruin that had served
as Tracy's coffin.

The feelings of elation that had buoyed me as I drove up here were
gone now, replaced by a deep gloom. I'd found what I
wanted—indisputable proof that Bobby Foster's confession was false—but
while it would open up a whole new line of inquiry, it might still lead
right back to my client. The police could claim that he'd concocted the
confession expecting not to be believed, as a smoke screen to keep them
from finding out what he'd really done with her. Given the condition of
her remains, there would be no way of pinpointing the exact time and
date of death; even though Bobby had been at the club at about the time
Tracy had received the traffic citation, it could be argued that he'd
come up here at some other time and killed her, then ditched the car
down south in
an effort to confuse investigators.

But whatever had happened, she had certainly been dead the whole two
years. Had probably been dead since the early hours of that February
morning. All this time, while the people who loved her had waited and
hoped and suffered…

And then I thought of George.

What was it he'd said to me?

Please don't find Tracy alive, Sharon. And if you do, don't bring
her back to me.

Well, I hadn't. But I doubted that would ease his pain. What he had
thought unbearable two days before would now seem infinitely preferable
to the reality of his daughter lying for close to two years in this
makeshift grave. And what he had thought bearable would now seem
intolerable.

Much as I dreaded it, I felt that I had to be the one to break the
news to him.

The windows of George's borrowed house were dark when I arrived
there at a little after eight that evening, but a light shone in the
Moorish arch that framed the front door. A piece of paper was taped to
the door itself, fluttering in the chill wind. I hurried up the walk to
read it.

I was tired and edgy after spending over two hours dealing with the
Napa County sheriff's department. They'd been understaffed due to the
holiday, and therefore slow in responding to the call I'd made from a
cottage several doors down from the Barbour place. The medical
examiner's people were even slower, their work hampered by the rain.
The investigator in charge—a man named Stan Gurski, who looked like a
former linebacker and spoke as softly as a minister—questioned me in
detail about my case. Afterward he said he would contact Tracy's
parents to break the news and request the name of her dentist so
records could be obtained for making an identification. I explained
that her mother was in poor emotional health and ought not to be
notified by a stranger. And, I added, I would like to break the news
to her father; I knew him and felt I owed him that much.

Gurski was agreeable, so I called George and told him how I had
found her. He was badly shaken but in control. When I asked about
dental records, he said he didn't know who Tracy had gone to in recent
years; the family dentist had died shortly after she'd moved to San
Francisco. Then I remembered Jay Larkey mentioning that he offered his
employees a full medical and dental package at the Potrero Clinic.
George said yes, he recalled that, too, and asked that I tell the
sheriff's department to contact the clinic.

Then he was silent a long time before adding, "When you're done up
there in Napa, would you come here, please?"

I didn't have to ask why. I simply agreed.

After I hung up, I told Gurski about the clinic and offered to
expedite the release of Tracy's records by calling Jay Larkey. Reaching
the club owner proved to be a problem, however. Café Comedie was
closed, and there was no answer at Larkey's home number. Finally I
thought of the Sorianos; perhaps they knew where he was. Gurski
obtained their unlisted number in the affluent Marin County suburb of
Tiburon and again allowed me to make the call. I spoke with Kathy,
explaining briefly about finding Tracy's body. She displayed no emotion
whatsoever, just said she and Rob had no idea of Jay's whereabouts but,
if he got in touch, would tell him to contact the Napa authorities.

"He's going to be upset about this," she added accusingly, as if I'd
deliberately contrived to wreck his holiday. When I hung up, I banged
the receiver down harder than was necessary.

Gurski gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Thanks for your help.
If we can get hold of her records today, we can make an ID tomorrow.
Tuesday, latest."

"That's fast, considering tomorrow's a holiday."

He smiled thinly. "This is an important case. Capital case that was
mishandled badly from the start. We'll move on it." From the way he
spoke, I gathered he harbored visions of showing up the SFPD; a case
like this could be a career maker for Gurski.

I said, "I hope there's not going to be a lot of publicity until you
know for sure."

"Do you see any reporters around here?"

"Well, no, but there might be a leak—"

"I don't tolerate leaks in this office."

I believed him. After telling him I'd check in with him the next
day, I sped back to the city, keeping a wary eye out for the highway
patrol.

Now, as I approached George's door, I saw that the piece of paper
taped to it was a note, addressed to me. It said, "Look for me by the
lagoon."

I went back down the path and crossed the street. Unlike up in Napa,
the weather here was clear. The rotunda and colonnade of the Palace of
Fine Arts were floodlit, pinkish against the black of the trees and
sky. Occasional arc lights shed a soft-white glow on the cement path
and set the lagoon's water glimmering; the gently sloping lawn was deep
in shadow. Not a soul was in sight save the dejected silhouette of a
man slumped on a bench near the water's edge. I quickened my pace and
went to stand in front of him.

George looked up at me, his eyes as sheened and unfathomable as the
lagoon, his rough-hewn features sharpened by pain. For a moment I
couldn't speak. Then I said, "I'm sorry," and extended my hands toward
him.

He grasped them and drew me down onto the bench beside him. His
fingers were icy, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.

I asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I just couldn't stay in that ridiculous house. Even the dark
is preferable. Did the sheriff's department arrange to get hold of
Tracy's records?"

"Not yet, but they'll have them soon."

He merely nodded.

"Have you told Laura?" I asked.

"No, no one. Not until… No one."

We sat holding hands for a while. I had no words of comfort to offer
him; there were none that could comfort. He asked me for no more
details, and I didn't volunteer them. It was too soon for that, or to
discuss the implications of when and where she had died. The wind rose,
rippling the water of the lagoon, and I shivered, thinking of the
rippling water of the Napa River. George pulled me into the circle of
his arm, his fingers tangling in the hair that tumbled about my
shoulders.

He said, "I must have sounded like a high-minded son of a bitch the
other day, loftily telling you I didn't want my daughter back because
of the 'monstrous thing' she might have done."

"To some people you might have sounded that way. To me you didn't
because, frankly, I didn't believe you."

His arm tightened around me. "Oddly enough, I believed myself—at the
time. But when you called and told me you'd found her—where and how
you'd found her—I knew how badly I'd deluded myself. Anything—no matter
how monstrous—would have been preferable to this."

"I know."

Now he shivered. I moved closer to him, my cheek grazing the front
of his down jacket. He put his other arm around me and held me tight;
his body pulsed with restrained tension. When I looked up at his face,
I saw a white stone mask, immobile except for two tears, one sliding
slowly down either cheek. I reached up, wiped one away. He touched my
hand with his lips.

For a moment I wanted to pull back, to run from this man who had
already made a crack in the wall I'd so carefully erected around my
emotions. But I remained still as he put his fingers under my chin,
tilted my face up toward him, and kissed me.
He drew away, looking quizzically at me, then kissed me again. And I
felt the foundations of my self-protective isolation begin to crumble.

After a time he moved back, smiled at me, smoothed my hair,
straightened my collar. He said, "I've wanted you since you made me
open up about Tracy. You touched me in a primal way that no one's come
close to in a very long time. And because you made me remember her as
she really was, rather than the idealized version I'd manufactured out
of my grief, in a sense you gave my daughter back to me. Gave me hope."

"And then took her away again. Took away the hope."

"No, at a gut level I've always known she was dead. And the hope was
for myself, for a life beyond all of this."

I tried to read what was in his eyes, to confirm that he really
believed what he'd said, but they were like shiny pebbles in the
reflected light. I couldn't help but wonder if in some way he didn't
blame—

"No," he said, "I don't feel any resentment against you for bringing
me the news. I don't, and I never will."

Promises, I thought. If only we could always keep our promises.

"We'll go to the house now," he said.

"Yes."

"The psychologist in me warns that this is a predictable and banal
reaction to a death. The man in me doesn't give a damn."

The investigator in me warned the same thing. But the woman in me
didn't give a damn, either.

The master bedroom was all antlers and moosehide, just as George had
described it. Somehow the tasteless decor didn't matter. As I'd so
coyly speculated on the occasion of our meeting, he was a man who gave
himself wholeheartedly and in our lovemaking we managed to leave death
and tragedy behind.
But dreams are another thing entirely…

The first time I awoke, George was thrashing about in the throes of
a nightmare. I shook him awake and held him for a while; then he slept
more peacefully. Later my own sleep was disturbed by visions of rain
and wind and darkness. The rain's sound was persistent, and I woke to
realize it was pelting the roof. I reached for George, but he wasn't
there. When I sat up, I saw him standing naked by the window, staring
out through the water-streaked glass. I went to stand beside him, and
he drew me into the circle of his arms, fitting my body to his.

A pair of security floodlights were mounted on the wall of the house
beyond the back fence. They silvered the rain. The black bushes and
trees were whipped about by the wind. I could imagine what George was
envisioning: the lonely stretch of riverbank and rotting hulk of a boat
where she'd lain through the damp and cold of many such rains; through
fragrant spring days that promised life to everything and everyone but
her; through the relentless heat of two long summers; through the
dying, swiftly cooling days of two autumns.

As if he realized I understood his thoughts, he said, "Nearly two
years. Such a long time for her to lie there."

"I know."

"I thought I'd done all my grieving. Now it starts again."

"I'm sorry I ever went up there."

"Don't be." He released me, then cupped my face in his hands. "I had
to know. And now I have you to help me through it."

"I'll do whatever I can."

"Then do this for me—find out what happened."

"I'll try."

That seemed to satisfy him. I led him back to bed, and we made love
again. Then he slept deeply, while I lay awake and thought
about the death of his daughter.

I dozed off at some point and woke before dawn to find him gone
again. I slipped out of bed, the moosehide of the throw rug rough
against my bare feet. There was a robe hanging from a bad-taste clothes
rack fashioned from a set of antlers; I put it on and went out onto the
gallery.

Sound came from the living room—the TV tuned low. A woman's voice,
then laughter. George hunched in one of the uncomfortable chairs,
watching the screen intently. I went over there, stood behind him with
my hands on his shoulders, and watched, too.

I'd seen photographs of Tracy in the newspapers, but they didn't
begin to do justice to the living, moving young woman on the videotape.
Blond-haired like her mother, strong-featured like her father, tall and
spare, she moved expressively while delivering her lines in a deadpan
fashion, never once spoiling them by laughing at her own humor. As she
slipped effortlessly from character to character—from a single mother
named Gloria to a bewildered feminist named Fran—she became immersed in
each new persona, portraying her so convincingly that I could forget
momentarily that this was Tracy Kostakos, the daughter George mourned,
the subject of my investigation. I found myself laughing at the
feminist's dilemma, which ended in the punchline: "If God had meant for
us to have hairy armpits, would She have given us Nair?" It was the
line Kathy Soriano had quoted on Thursday night, and the triviality of
the problem made it ring true.

George was laughing, too. "Jesus, she could be funny," he said. "I
don't even like stand-up comedy much, but I could watch her for hours."

"Do you have a lot of tapes of her?"

"Dozens, of practically every character she ever performed. They
were in her apartment, and I brought them home,
thinking I'd watch them. But I never had the heart to, and when I left
Laura, she didn't want them. She said she didn't need the tapes to
remember Tracy because she would be back soon. So I brought them up
here with me. I've never watched any of them until now."