The Shape of Dread

by Marcia Muller

  Amy seemed to have banished whatever fears she’d felt, however. She hurried up the sagging steps, fitted another key into the door lock, and pushed it open. I put out a hand to restrain her, to urge caution, but she stepped inside.

  Directly ahead I saw a dark brick fireplace, with a huge stuffed fish that certainly had never swum in these waters mounted on a plaque above it. A fishing rod-the old-fashioned varnished-wood kind with big metal guides for the line-leaned against the mantel, an open tackle box on the floor next to it. The ceilings were low and beamed; the floors were hardwood, covered by brown rag rugs; around the hearth stood a grouping of the sort of knotty pine and chintz-cushioned chairs often found in summer houses. A pair of floor lamps equipped with low-wattage bulbs and yellowed shades illuminated the semicircle.

  Marc Emmons sat to the right of the fireplace. Amy said, “We’re here!” and trotted over to him, leaving me to shut the door. When I came all the way into the room, she was standing beside his chair in a stiff, defensive posture, eyes fixed on the man who sat in the shadows across from him.

  It was Rob Soriano, aka Warren S. Howard. He perched tensely on the edge of the low chair. In his right hand was a .32 revolver.

  Belatedly I realized that the car I’d seen pulled under the trees farther down the road was parked at an inconvenient distance from the lighted house, but not really all that fare from this cottage.

  Soriano nodded at me, steel-rimmed glasses glinting. Behind them his eyes were jumpy. When he said, “Ms. McCone, I thought you’d never get here,” his voice was higher pitched than usual.

  I placed my hands on the back of the chair in front of me. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Less than an hour. Marc here has been trying to convince me you wouldn’t show up at all, but since I’d found out that Amy was waiting for you at All Souls, I knew it would be only a matter of time.”

  So that had been Soriano on the phone. I’d figured the right motive for the call but the wrong caller.

  I glanced at Emmons. His face was pasty and sheened with sweat, in spite of the chill in the room. He licked dry lips and said thickly, “He found out from Jay where we were and that you were going to bring her here. Why the hell’d you have to call him, Amy?”

  Amy didn’t reply. She was still staring at Soriano.

  Oddly enough, I wasn’t afraid, even though I now knew Soriano had somehow rigged the explosion at the club and probably intended to kill all of us, too. Dead calm settled over me. I dropped my shoulder bag onto the chair and thought, I’ll take this slowly. Very slowly.

  Emmons said to me, “Rob was there in Jay’s office when your assistant called and said you’d gone to L.A. looking for Tracy. You found Lisa instead, didn’t you?”

  “The lead in L.A. didn’t pan out,” I lied. Since he’d been there, Soriano also had overheard Larkey tell Rae he’d realized there was something odd about Tracy’s dental records. Blowing up a crowded nightclub seemed an extreme measure to take to prevent Jay from passing on his suspicions to the authorities, but Soriano had committed murder and arson before-maybe more than once. He couldn’t be aware that I knew about his past, however….

  I cast a pointed look at the gun in Soriano’s hand and said, “What is this, anyway? I came up here because Amy and Marc want me to help them deal with the sheriff about a minor obstruction-of-justice charge. I don’t understand why you’re here.”

  Soriano said, “I wasn’t aware you were an attorney.”

  “I’m not. Seems they’re too cheap to hire one.”

  He didn’t respond. I glanced at Amy and Emmons, to see if they understood how I wanted to play this. Comprehension was dawning in Emmons’s eyes; Amy merely flashed me a reproachful look.

  Emmons said to her, “Is that what you told her, Amy? I said I’d be glad to pay. Why didn’t you just bring one of the lawyers, honey?”

  Even now nothing registered with her. She glared down at him. “That wasn’t the plan-”

  “Honey, it was too.” To me he added, “I’m sorry she dragged you up here. Why don’t you just go back to the city? We’ll settle our problem with Rob and get in touch with one of the lawyers in the morning.”

  “Marc! I’m not staying here with him-”

  “Then you go with Sharon, honey. The problem’s really between Rob and me.”

  Soriano was observing the exchange with grim amusement. “Not too bright, is she?” he said. His meaning was clear; he saw through our charade.

  Amy whirled on him, face suddenly twisted in fury. “I’m not too bright! Look who’s talking!”

  Emmons reached for her arm in a panic, but she slapped his hand away. My God, I thought, she’s going to tell him off while he’s got that gun in his hand!

  The smile faded from Soriano’s lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, just look at you. You’re dead broke-oh yeah, Marc told me all about that-and then you go and burn the club down with all those people inside, including Jay. I suppose you think you can collect on the insurance.”

  Soriano half rose from his chair. His face was ashen now, and his lips writhed, seemingly incapable of forming words. In that instant I realized that this was a man on the brink of coming apart. Rigging the explosion had been an act of madness, without regard to the consequences. Silencing Emmons-which undoubtedly had been his next intention-had grown complicated, now included silencing both Amy and me. He had no way of knowing what we’d told others, who else might know enough to turn suspicion on him. Soriano’s world was collapsing around him, in spite of frantic efforts to shore it up.

  “See how stupid you’ve been?” Amy said triumphantly.

  Shut up, I thought. Shut up!

  “So now who’s not too bright? You should have learned from the last time.”

  He got himself under control, said hoarsely, “The last time?”

  “Yeah, in Florida.” She looked at me. “That arsonist in the newspaper picture was old Rob, all right. I always suspected his hair was dyed. He was just porkier then, and needed a facelift-”

  Soriano took a step toward her. Amy retreated behind Emmons’s chair. Emmons sat very still, gripping the wide armrests with whitened fingers.

  Soriano said to me, “You’ve seen the newspaper article.”

  “I don’t know what she’s talking-”

  “Don’t give me that! If you hadn’t seen it, the first thing you’d have mentioned when you arrived here was the fire at the club.”

  I didn’t reply. Thanks to Amy, there was no more need for pretense.

  “And I suppose,” he added, “you want to turn the information over to the police-just like Tracy Kostakos.”

  “Was that what she planned to do?”

  “You suspected blackmail instead?”

  “She had her ways of getting what she wanted.”

  “Blackmail wasn’t one of them. The girl had an incongruous moral streak when it came to crime. Marc had been trying to persuade her not to do anything for over a week before she died. But that last night she thought Jay had turned on her. She saw going to the police as a noble protective gesture toward Jay-one that might make him forgive her rather rampant promiscuity.”

  I watched Soriano silently. His eyes darted about the room, resting first on me, then Emmons, then Amy. A tic had developed in one of the lines that bracketed his mouth; it fluttered, was still, fluttered again. When I glanced at Emmons, he seemed frozen. Amy had finally figured the situation out; her eyes were wide with terror, and she was backing up against an old upright piano on the wall behind Marc’s chair.

  The peculiar calm still infused me. I stared intently into Soriano’s eyes, trying to divine what his next move would be. They showed nothing but panicky purpose; there was not a trace of remorse, or distaste for what he intended to do.

  I thought, This is the most evil person I have ever know. I refuse to die by this man’s hand.

  I said, “You haven’t asked about your wife. Whether she was one of the people
killed at the club.”

  “Was she?” He spoke almost absently.

  “Yes.”

  I’d hoped to elicit some sort of reaction with the lie. Soriano merely said, “Too bad.”

  Those cold, cold words accomplished what his obvious insanity and the implied threat of death hadn’t: my calm shattered. An equally icy rage rose in its place.

  I waited until I could speak in a deceptively level voice. “She meant that little to you?”

  “The woman was a fool. Like that one over there.” He jerked his chin toward Amy. “Like the other fool in the chair. He’s a prize, Marc is. I’m glad I won’t have to rectify his blunders any longer. The idiot couldn’t even keep from getting blood all over Kathy’s car when he dumped the Kostakos girl’s body. I had to lay out damn good money to convince my assistant to report it stolen from him.”

  At first I thought I’d heard him wrong. But I hadn’t. I narrowed my eyes until my vision blurred. When I widened them, everything was clear.

  I looked at Emmons. “You killed her.”

  He merely sat there, his mouth partially open.

  Soriano said, “You thought I did?”

  “Not anymore.” He hadn’t known that she’d been shot in the car. Or that Emmons couldn’t have taken her body by car to the boat where he’d hidden it. Soriano had no reason to lie about that-not with all the other deaths he had caused. “How much did he tell you about the murder?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t making much sense when he came to out house afterwards. He may have discussed the details with Kathy at some point, but I didn’t want to know any more than I had to.”

  Emmons continued to sit still. His breath wheezed faintly through his open lips. Amy stood rigid in front of the piano, her hands jammed over her mouth.

  “Why?” I asked him. “Why?”

  After a moment he shook his head, as if awakening from a trance. He looked at me, then at the gun in Soriano’s hand. Finally he let out a sigh that was very nearly a whine. “She wouldn’t agree not to go to the cops. When I called Rob at the club after she left my place that night, he promised me an immediate slot on the program if I would shut her up. So I came here and tried talking to her again, but she wouldn’t listen. She tried to run out on me, so…”

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “I had it at home.”

  “Was it the one from the club?”

  “Yes. I took it a week or two before.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged.

  “You planned to kill her, didn’t you?”

  He rose unsteadily from his chair, big body swaying. Shook his head again. “I…at first I planned to kill myself. She’d left me for Jay, and I’d heard rumors about…others. But when this thing about Rob came up and I thought I’d have a chance at what I’d always wanted…well, all that was standing between me and it was Tracy.”

  Behind him, Amy closed her eyes and screamed, “You bastard!”

  His clown’s face twisted. “You don’t understand, Amy,” he said. “I hated her. Hated her for what she’d done to me-and what she was going to do to me. It was my life, and she was just going to crumple it up and toss it away.”

  Amy began to sob, slumping against the piano’s keyboard. Chords crashed dissonantly.

  Emmons took a step toward her, stumbled and lurched back toward Soriano. Soriano brought the gun up.

  Emmons slewed around, saw it, lost his head, and lunged. I darted inside the semicircle of chairs, intent on getting my hands on the .32.

  Soriano shoved Emmons away. His big body crashed into mine, knocking me toward the fireplace. He fell back against his chair.

  As he lay there panting, Soriano shot him in the head.

  28

  Emmons’s left eye became a ragged, bloody hole. He slumped back in the chair, limbs twitching.

  Amy screamed and ran toward the door.

  My rage flashed from cold to white hot. As Soriano raised the .32 at Amy’s fleeing form, I grabbed the fishing pole that leaned against the mantel. Swung it up and slashed it down on his gun hand.

  He howled and dropped the .32. Whirled. Lunged at me.

  I swung the pole again. It caught him a glancing blow on the temple. The metal line guide left a bleeding track on his cheek.

  I whipped the pole back, brought it down on his shoulder. He staggered, bent over, looking for the gun.

  I whacked him on the small of the back. He gave a high-pitched scream. Then he bolted for the door. I went after him. He got the door open before I could hit him again, and ran outside. By the time I reached the porch, he had disappeared into the pyracantha thicket.

  Behind me Amy sobbed hysterically. I turned, saw she was lying on the floor in a fetal position, arms wrapped around her knees. Ignoring her, I dropped the pole and hurried back to the semicircle of chairs to check on Emmons. He was dead.

  I felt none of the things that I’d come to expect when confronted with violent death-nothing but the rage, burning dangerously high now. Dropping to all fours, I located the gun under the chair Soriano had sat in. Then I ran back outside.

  The branches of the pyracanthas had stopped rustling. I listened, but heard no footfall, no car engine. Cautiously I made my way to the gate; it was closed, as Amy had left it. I looked down the road. The car was still parked under the trees. I could make out its shape now: it looked to be the Jaguar that I’d seen parked in the Sorianos’ driveway the previous noon.

  Why was it still here? Soriano had had ample time to get to the car and drive away. Then I thought, No, he doesn’t want to leave witnesses to his murder of Emmons. I suspected he was hiding nearby, recovering from the blows I’d dealt him, waiting for another chance at Amy and me.

  I wanted to go hunting him, but I couldn’t leave Amy alone; that would be inviting him to kill her or take her hostage. And I couldn’t summon help; the cottage had no phone. But there was another way….

  I hurried back to the cottage. Amy was still lying on the floor, her sobs diminished to whimpers now. I knelt and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  She thrashed around in sudden panic, making a protesting sound. “Amy,” I said, “it’s me. Soriano’s gone.”

  After a few seconds she opened her eyes and peered at me from under her drooping petals of hair. “Gone?”

  “Yes. He can’t hurt you.”

  She unwrapped her arms from her knees and struggled to sit up.

  “Marc?”

  “He’s-” I hesitated. “We need to get help.”

  “Marc killed Trace. He killed her!”

  “Don’t think about that now.”

  “That’s why he sent me for you. He was going to confess, wasn’t he?”

  “Probably. Everything was closing in on him.” I went to where my bag sat on the chair, rummaged around until I found my Swiss Army knife, and jammed it into the pocket of my coat. Then I got her to her feet, turning her so she couldn’t see his body. “Let’s go.”

  She looked down, saw the gun in my hand, and shuddered.

  I said, “It’s okay. He’s unarmed. I’ll protect us.”

  Slowly she nodded. I put my arm around her shoulders and led her to the door, gripping the .32 in my other hand.

  When we reached the gate, I peered through it; the Jaguar was still there. I stood for a minute, looking up and down the road, debating which way to go. There were no lights in the houses in the row that extended back toward the railroad bridge, but through the trees at the far end of the turnaround, the lights I’d glimpsed earlier were still on. I guided Amy through the gate, and we set off, straight down the middle of the road, where we couldn’t be ambushed from the shrubbery.

  Moonlight fell on the rutted pavement and the plain belonging to the salt company; once again I was reminded of an ice floe on the barren terrain. The air was chill, and a strong wind whipped tree branches about; their soughing was punctuated by snaps and thumps in the underbrush. Warped phantom shapes darted through the shadows to th
e side of the road, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. My gaze pursued the fleeting images, but they eluded it in the dark.

  I kept my arm firmly around Amy’s shoulders, the gun ready, and led her along.

  We had almost reached the turnaround when there was a loud tearing sound. Amy cried out as a jagged tree limb crashed to the pavement inches from us. I spun, bringing the gun up, peering into the underbrush. Nothing but shifting lines and shadows.

  I reached for Amy, grasped her elbow. Whispered, “Just the wind, that’s all.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “It’s only a little farther.”

  We kept on, to where Soriano’s car was parked. Now my own tension heightened, and I searched the darkness to see if he might be lurking close to his means of escape. I saw no one, heard nothing.

  Beyond the car was a narrow dirt track leading through a grove of trees toward the lighted house. Amy and I turned in there. The underbrush was close on either side now. The shifting, sighing branches created a babble that would mask all but the loudest of sounds. When I looked around, the phantom-shapes danced and leaped, playing tricks on my eyes.

  I said to Amy, “Let’s walk faster now,” and hurried her along.

  When the track emerged from the grove, it meandered across a large area of cleared land. The house was perhaps fifty yards away. I waited until we were well in the open before stopping, then scanned the terrain on all sides of us. No one was in sight. Over by the house a dog began barking; it must have been chained up, because it didn’t come running out to see who was there.

  Amy stood beside me, silent and motionless. I looked at her and realized she was no longer afraid. The slickness of her mouth and the sluggish way she moved her eyes told me she was operating automatically now, her emotions shut down. She didn’t question why we’d stopped, just waited quietly.