Running Blind (55 page)

"Are you ready now?"

"I don't know," she said.

The visitor smiled.

"I think you're ready. I really do. What do you think? Are you ready?"

She nodded, slowly.

"Yes, I'm ready," she said.

"Did you apologize to the cop?"

She nodded again. "Yes, I told him I was sorry."

"He has to be allowed in, right?"

"I told him, whenever he needs it."

"He has to find you. He has to be the one. That's the way I want it."

"OK," Scimeca said.

The visitor was silent for a long moment, just standing there, saying nothing, watching carefully. Scimeca waited, awkward.

"Yes, he should be the one to find me," she said. "If that's the way you want it."

"You did good with the padre," the visitor said.

"He wanted to help me."

"Nobody can help you."

"I guess not," Scimeca said.

"Let's go into the kitchen," the visitor said.

Scimeca moved away from the door. Squeezed past the visitor in the narrow hallway and led the way into her kitchen.

"The paint is right here," she said.

"Show me."

Scimeca took the can out of the bag and held it up by the wire handle.

"It's olive green," she said. "Closest they had."

The visitor nodded. "Good. You did very well."

Scimeca blushed with pleasure. A tiny pink flush under the white of her skin.

"Now you need to concentrate," the visitor said. "Because I'm going to give you a lot of information."

"What about?"

"About what I want you to do."

Scimeca nodded.

"OK," she said.

"First thing, you have to smile for me," the visitor said. "That's very important. It means a lot to me."

"OK," Scimeca said.

"So can you smile for me?"

"I don't know."

"Try it, OK?"

"I don't smile much anymore."

The visitor nodded, sympathetic. "I know, but just try now, OK?"

Scimeca ducked her head and concentrated and came back up with a shy, weak smile. Just a faint new angle to her lips, but it was something. She held it, desperately.

"That's nice," the visitor said. "Now remember, I want you smiling all the time."

"OK."

"Got to be happy in our work, right?"

"Right."

"We need something to open the can."

"My tools are downstairs," Scimeca said. "Have you got a screwdriver?"

"Of course," Scimeca said. "I've got eight or nine."

"Go get a big one for me, would you?"

"Sure."

"And don't forget the smile, OK?"

"Sorry."

The mug was too big for the Crown Vic's cup holder, so he drank all the coffee straight off because he couldn't put it down between sips. That always happened. At a party, if he was standing up holding a bottle, he drank it much faster than if he was sitting at a bar where he could sometimes rest it on the napkin. Like smoking. If there was an ashtray to rest the butt in, the cigarette lasted much longer than if he was walking around with it, whereupon he demolished it in about a minute and a half.

So he was sitting there with the empty mug resting on his thigh, thinking about carrying it back up to the house. Here's your mug back, he could say. Thanks very much. It would give him another chance to drop a hint about how cold he was. Maybe he could get her to put a chair in the hallway, and he could finish his shift inside. Nobody could complain about that. Better protection that way.

But he was nervous about ringing the bell again. She was an uptight character, that was for damn sure. Who knows how she might react, even though he was being real polite, just returning her mug? Even though he'd gotten rid of the chaplain for her? He bounced the mug up and down on his knee and tried to balance out between how cold he was and how offended she might get.

***

The taxi drove on, through Gresham, through Kelso, through Sandy. Route 26 picked up a name, Mount Hood Highway. The grade steepened. The old V-8 dug deep and rumbled upward.

"Who is it?" Harper asked.

"The key is in Poulton's report from Spokane."

"It is?"

He nodded. "Big and obvious. But it took me some time to spot it."

"The UPS thing? We went through all of that."

He shook his head. "No, before that. The Hertz thing. The rental car."

Scimeca came back up the basement stairs with a screwdriver in her hand. It was the third-largest she had, about eight inches long, with a blade fine enough to slip between the can and the lid, but broad enough to make an effective lever.

"I think this is the best one," she said. "You know, for the purpose."

The visitor looked at it from a distance. "I'm sure it's fine. As long as you're comfortable with it. You'll be using it, not me."

Scimeca nodded.

"I think it's good," she said.

"So where's your bathroom?"

"Upstairs."

"Want to show me?"

"Sure."

"Bring the paint," the visitor said. "And the screwdriver."

Scimeca went back to the kitchen and picked up the can.

"Do we need the stirring stick too?" she called.

The visitor hesitated. New procedure, needs a new technique.

"Yes, bring the stirring stick."

The stick was about twelve inches long, and Scimeca clasped it together with the screwdriver in her left hand. Picked up the can by the handle with her right.

"This way," she said.

She led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Across the upstairs hallway and into her bedroom. Across the bedroom and into the bathroom.

"This is it," she said.

The visitor looked it over, and felt like an expert on bathrooms. This one was the fifth, after all. It was medium-budget, probably. A little old-fashioned. But it suited the age of the house. A fancy marble confection would have looked wrong.

"Put the stuff down on the floor, OK?"

Scimeca bent and put the can down. The metal made a faint liquid clonk as it hit the tile. She folded the wire handle down and balanced the screwdriver and the stick across the lid. The visitor came out with a folded garbage sack, black plastic, from a coat pocket. Shook it out and held it open.

"I need you to put your clothes in here."

He got out of the car, with the mug in his hand. Walked around the hood and into the driveway. Up the looping path. Up the porch steps. He juggled the mug into the other hand, ready to ring the bell. Then he paused. It was very quiet inside. No piano music. Was that good or bad? She was kind of obsessive, always playing the same thing over and over again. Probably didn't like being interrupted in the middle of it. But the fact that she wasn't playing might mean she was doing something else important. Maybe taking a nap. The Bureau guy said she got up at six. Maybe she took a siesta in the afternoon. Maybe she was reading a book. Whatever she was doing, she probably wasn't just sitting there hoping he'd come to her door. She hadn't shown any inclinations along those lines before.

He stood there, indecisive, his hand held out a foot away from her bell. Then he dropped it to his side and turned around and went back down the steps to the path. Back down the path to the driveway. Back around the hood of his car. He got in and leaned over and stood the mug upright in the passenger footwell.

Rita looked confused.

"What clothes?" she asked.

"The clothes you're wearing," the visitor said.

Scimeca nodded, vaguely.

"OK," she said.

"I'm not happy with the smile, Rita," the visitor said. "It's slipping a little."

"Check it out in the mirror, tell me if that's a happy face."

Scimeca turned to the mirror. Gazed for a second and started working on the muscles in her face, one by one. The visitor watched her reflection.

"Make it a big one. Real cheerful, OK?"

Scimeca turned back.

"How's this?" she said, smiling as wide as she could.

"Very good," the visitor said. "You want to make me happy, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"So put your clothes in the bag."

Scimeca took off her sweater. It was a heavy knit item with a tight neck. She hauled the hem up and stretched it over her head. Shook it right side out and leaned over and dropped it in the bag. Second layer was a flannel blouse, washed so many times it was soft and shapeless. She unbuttoned it all the way down and pulled the tails out of the waistband of her jeans. Shrugged it off and dropped it in the bag.

"Now I'm cold," she said.

She unbuttoned the jeans and undid the zip and pushed them down her legs. Kicked off her shoes and stepped out of the jeans. Rolled the shoes and the jeans together and put them in the bag. Peeled off her socks and shook them out and threw them in, one at a time.

"Hurry up, Rita," the visitor said.

Scimeca nodded and put her hands behind her back and unhooked her bra. Pulled it off and tossed it in the bag. Slipped her panties down and stepped out of them. Crushed them into a ball and threw them into the bag. The visitor closed the neck of the bag and dropped it on the floor. Scimeca stood there, naked, waiting.

"Run the bath," the visitor said. "Make it warm, since you're cold."

Scimeca bent down and put the stopper in the drain. It was a simple rubber item, secured by a chain. She opened the faucets, three-quarters hot and one-quarter cold.

"Open the paint," the visitor said.

Scimeca squatted down and picked up the screwdriver. Worked the tip into the crack and levered. Rotated the can under the screwdriver, once, twice, until the lid sucked free.

"Be careful. I don't want any mess."

Scimeca laid the lid gently on the tile. Looked up, expectant.

"Pour the paint in the tub."

She picked up the can, both hands. It was wide, not easy to hold. She clamped it between her palms and carried it to the tub. Twisted from the waist and tipped it over. The paint was thick. It smelled of ammonia. It ran slowly over the lip of the can and poured into the water. The swirl from the faucets caught it. It eddied into a spiral pattern and sank like a weight. The water started dissolving the edges of the spiral and thin green color drifted through the tub like clouds. She held the Can upside down until the thick stream thinned, and then stopped.

"Careful," the visitor said. "Now put the can down. And don't make a mess."

She turned the can the right way up and squatted again and placed it gently on the tile next to the lid. It made a hollow, empty sound, damped slightly by the residue coating the metal.

"Now get the stirring stick. Mix it up."

She picked up the stick and knelt at the edge of the tub. Worked the stick into the thick sunken mass and stirred.

"It's mixing," she said.

The visitor nodded. "That's why you bought latex."

The color changed as the paint dissolved. It went from dark olive to the color of grass growing in a damp grove. It thinned, all the way down to the consistency of milk. The visitor watched carefully. It was OK. Not as dramatic as the real thing, but it was dramatic enough to be using paint at all, in the circumstances.

"OK, that'll do. Put the stick in the can. No mess."