No, she thought, I will not die for you.
Then she remembered what fed him. He needed his victims conscious. He ripped her shirt from her. She closed her eyes and went limp. He backed off her throat. She didn't wait, arching her body in one tremendous buck upward. Both thumbs poised for his eyes. He reeled back. She put her head down and butted his face. He grunted. Her hand reached for the tool. As her fingers closed around the handle, she knew she had only one chance. His male muscle mass was going to win out. He pulled her down again. Her thumbs dug deep into his biceps, reaching for his bones. She would leave her mark. As many ways as possible. Pauley forced her arms to her sides and then pinned them there with his knees. She kicked at the back of his head, but he seemed oblivious to her efforts.
Behind her she heard a whirring sound. She craned her head back, searching for the source of the noise. What she saw was Robin sitting on the floor. A camouflage-painted box was wedged between her legs. She cranked the handle on top, all the while watching Pauley as if asking for his approval. Wires trailed from the box. The ends were clipped to a lamp cord. As Robin cranked, the lamp glowed brighter. Munch smelled something cooking—some kind of meat. There was a sizzling sound and then the lamp went dark.
"Broke the connection," Pauley said. "Bring me the cooker, Robin. Let's show her how it works."
"He's really very smart," Robin said. She picked up a piece of two-by-four. A blackened tube of something hung by one of the large nails protruding from the surface of the board. Munch realized it was a charred hot dog.
"Robin, he's going to kill us," she said.
"Bring it here, Robin," Pauley repeated. "That's a good girl"
Robin walked zombie-like across the floor to them. She moved like some kind of wind-up doll, head wobbling ever so slightly, mouth agape.
"Stop him," Munch screamed.
"I can't," Robin said.
"There's two of us now," Munch said. "Together we can take him."
Robin hesitated. A look of confusion fluttered across her face.
Pauley said, "Honey remember we talked about this. It's you and me. We're the team."
"I'm sorry" Robin said again. She turned the board so that the points of the two nails were facing down. She raised the contraption above Munch's exposed chest. Munch shut her eyes and twisted her face in anticipation. Then she heard a wet-sounding thunk, and the weight on her arms lessened. She opened her eyes. Pauley was weaving. One of his hands spread across his face. Blood leaked out from between his fingers. Robin pulled the board back and swung again. This time when she connected, something went crack in Pauley's face. Munch pushed him off her and jumped to her feet. The lamp had fallen off its table. She picked it up and swung it down on Pauley's head with all her might. He slumped unconscious to the floor.
"Let's not take any chances," Munch said with a grin to Robin. Then the two women hit him again. He didn't even groan. Munch rolled him onto his stomach. "Hand me that tape," she said to Robin.
Robin still moved in odd, jerky motions. Fast and then slow. Munch pointed at the half-used roll of silver duct tape on the floor by the bed. Robin picked it up as if it might bite her and handed it over. Munch used it to wrap Pauley's wrists together. Then she moved down to his feet and wound three layers of the strong, thick tape around his ankles. He wasn't going anywhere.
Robin picked up the tape when Munch was done with it and tore off a twelve—inch strip. She lifted Pauley's head up off the floor by his ear. His lips parted slightly Bright red blood dripped from his nose.
"Let's just get out of here," Munch said. "We'll call the cops."
Robin found a rag on the floor and began forcing it into Pauley's slack mouth.
"Robin," Munch said. "C'mon. Time to go."
Robin stretched the strip of tape across Pauley's face, making it impossible for him to spit out the rag. His eyes flickered open.
"My turn/' Robin whispered. She walked across the room and retrieved the camouflage box she had been cranking earlier. Munch realized where she'd seen such a device before. It had been on TV in one of those old World War II movies. The guy who carried it was always called "Sparks." While artillery fire held the platoon at bay Sparks would crank up his field generator, power his radio, and put in a desperate call to command for backup. At some point, Sparks usually took a bullet in the back right through his equipment pack.
The spinning, ringing sound of the generator building current filled the room. The concrete walls and floor amplified the noise. Robin's eyes filled with a queer, even maniacal light. Munch reached down, putting her hand over Robin's, making her stop.
"Don't do this," she said.
Robin looked disappointed, then her shoulders sagged and she began to cry.
"C'mon," Munch said, helping her to her feet. "Let's go find a telephone."
Munch stared at the photographs covering the wall and then down at Pauley again. All this time, he had been watching her. His short, short hair and clean-shaven face was a disguise, as was the soft voice and concerned air he presented at the station. She thought of the peephole in the bathroom wall and knew it had been Pauley He had spied on her and every other woman who came into the station, getting some strange vicarious thrill from catching his victims unawares. He probably fondled himself as he watched the women wipe, listening to conversations not intended for his ears, intruding and perversely sharing their most private moments. It was revolting.
"You're still inadequate," she told him, not caring if he understood. She picked up the odd contraption made of wood, careful to avoid the charged nails. It was tempting, all right. She stepped on the trailing wires and yanked the piece of wood upward until the solder broke. "We're better than this," she told Robin.
The two women hiked back up the stairs and out to the van. Munch found Pauley's mobile phone in the console between the seats. She called 911 and explained the situation. The operator asked for her location.
"Mandeville Canyon, I think," Munch said, looking at Robin for confirmation.
Robin nodded. "Bluebird Lane."
"Bluebird Lane," Munch repeated for the operator. "And call Detective Pete Owen of the West Los Angeles Police and Emily Hogan of the California Bureau of Investigation. They know all about this."
The operator told Munch to keep the line open until the police arrived.
"No problem," Munch said. "Tell them to hurry You know, code three."
* * *
The patrol car arrived first. Followed soon afterward by Pete Owen in his unmarked Buick. Munch led the cops back inside the house. They made her stay behind them, descending the stairs with their flashlights and guns extended.
Pauley had rolled onto his back. The duct tape around his ankles and wrists had held. Blood spattered his shirt, but wasn't flowing actively. One of the patrol cops shined his flashlight down the length of Pauley's body.
The second uniformed cop panned his flashlight across Pauley's trophy wall, then let the beam come to rest on the bed where four leather restraints lay in wait for the next victim.
"Shit," he said.
Owen leaned down and shined his light in Pauley's face. One pupil was larger than the other. Owen removed Pauley's gag and said over his shoulder, "Head injury here, it looks like."
Pauley only blinked. A tear rolled down his cheek.
"Let's get him out of here," Owen said, straightening. The first uniformed cop rolled Pauley back onto his stomach and replaced the duct tape with handcuffs.
Owen looked at the wall of pictures and shook his head in disgust.
"This is Veronica Parker," Munch said, pointing to a photograph of the stripper she'd met at Joey Polk's studio. "She got raped about two months ago."
Owen grunted when he saw the photo of Robin tied to the bed, her mouth twisted in pain.
"What I don't see," Munch said, "are any pictures of Diane Bergman/'
"That doesn't mean much," Owen said.
"How can you say that? The pictures were a huge part of his ritual."
"The guy's a wacko. You can't expect him to follow an exact schedule."
"But he kept pictures of the others."
Owen looked at Pauley's trophy mural again. "He didn't kill the others."
"That's part of my point," Munch said. "He didn't know we'd ever see this wall. So why would he leave her out?"
"Give it a rest," Owen said, not unkindly. "We got the guy It's over. With what we got here we can put him away for a long, long time."
Munch noticed a sheet of Peg-Board studded with key hooks mounted by the door. From the hooks dangled keys, both automotive and residential. Beneath these keys were neat labels listing addresses and license plates. She found the key to her house on the next to the bottom row. That explained why her keys had been out of order on her ring after Pauley waxed her GTO. She also found Robin's address and corresponding keys, but on none of the labels did she see a Chenault address nor mention of a Honda Prelude.
Pauley groaned as he was helped to his feet. He spit blood.
"Arrest her," he said, pointing with his shoulder at Munch.
"Her and that other cunt assaulted me. I probably got a concussion."
Owen held his middle finger extended in front of Pauley's face. "How many fingers do you see?" he asked. He spun Pauley around and gave him a rough shove, propelling him in the direction of the stairway. "We give medals for what they did, you little piece of shit."
Munch followed the procession of cops and prisoner out into the light. Emily Hogan had arrived. She was wrapping a blanket around Robin's shoulders and leading her to her car. Munch joined them.
"I guess this means you'd better cancel that all-points bulletin on D.W."
"Already handled."
"Can I catch a ride with you?" Munch asked.
"Yes," the agent said. "I need you to come to the office and make a statement."
"I'd be happy to, but first I need to get back to my kid and boyfriend and let them know what's going on."
"I'm sure they'll be very relieved to know it's over," Agent Hogan said.
Munch wished she felt as mollified as everyone seemed to think she should be.
Chapter 24
Emily Hogan took Munch to her car. The engine was still running. Munch checked her watch, knowing that she had missed all of Asia's game and how it wasn't going to be simple to explain why to her daughter without revealing some of the world's ugliness. At least Garret had been there. It had to be so much easier to raise a kid with a partner. Not to mention how much cheaper it would be to split the expenses of rent and utilities on a bigger place compared with what she spent on a smaller house alone. But wasn't there supposed to be more to a relationship than a pooling of resources?
She heard people talk about needing others. And she bought the concept up to a point. She needed customers. She needed the fellowship of A.A. meetings. But another adult human being in her life was going too far. Dependency on other people only led to trouble. Disappointment and worse.
She pulled into the ball field's parking lot where a few scattered station wagons remained. Two figures were sitting on the bleachers. Asia and Garret. Asia raised a hand in greeting. Munch waved back.
"What happened to you?" Garret asked. "We were starting to worry. How'd you get that bump on your head?"
Munch put a hand to her forehead and fondled the goose egg that had risen there. It was tender. The skin around it felt stretched. She pulled her collar up to hide the stun gun burns. "I ran into a little problem. The good news is that Robin's attacker has been caught. He was holding her captive. My guess is since Thursday. "
Garret grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. "Thank God you're all right," he said, holding her face tenderly to his chest and kissing the top of her head.
I should be feeling something, she thought. Not just waiting for him to finish.
"Are you still up to house hunting?" he asked. "I've been telling Asia all about the new yard. We've been trying to decide what color to paint her room."
"Yeah, listen," Munch said, looking at both of their open, hopeful expressions, "about that . . ."
"You're tired now," Garret interrupted, "it can wait."
Munch looked at him sadly, Maybe now was not the moment to tell him, but sometime soon he would have to hear her decision.
"Let's get some food and go to a movie," Garret said. "How does that sound?"
Asia slipped her hand into his. "Can we get ice cream, too?"
"Sure." He turned to Munch. "How about you, Mom? Can we bribe you with ice cream?"
She relented with a smile. "Yeah, okay anything but hot dogs."
* * *
Munch couldn't concentrate on the movie. She kept replaying all the events of the last few days. Begging fatigue, she sent Garret home. Emily Hogan called. Munch answered all her questions and learned that Robin had been transferred to a psychiatric hospital in Brentwood.
"How could Pauley brainwash her so quickly?" Munch asked.
"It's a defense mechanism," Agent Hogan explained. "Human nature. Robin was faced with a situation where her captor controlled her life. She had to find something sympathetic to attach to in his personality in order to survive."
"Like when Patty Hearst joined the SLA?"
"That's a perfect example. We see this with battered women time after time."
"Abused kids, too, I bet," Munch said.
* * *
On Sunday she unplugged the phones and spent the day with Asia. They went to the nursery and bought flats of flowers, sacks of fertilizer, and vegetable seeds. Together they worked the dark rich soil of the flower beds, planting the small seedlings that would bloom in the coming months. Sweet William and stock for scent. Pansies and snapdragons for color.
The year before, Derek had brought Munch railroad ties and built a ten-by-ten-foot raised bed for vegetables. Now, Munch dumped several cubic feet of manure into the bed and then attacked the clods with hoe and shovel until sweat poured down her face. Asia sat on the edge, arranging the bright packets of seeds.
"Almost ready" Munch said, feeling the blisters rising on her palms. Typical. Everything to extreme. Any job worth doing was worth doing until you dropped.
Asia cupped her hand over her eyes and squinted at her mother. "You're not hurting yourself, are you?"
Munch drew straight furrows in the dirt with the edge of the hoe. "You know me." It struck her how comforting those words were. "You know me," she said again.
"I heard you twice the first time," Asia said. Munch laughed and squirted Asia with the hose. Asia screamed, reaching that decibel that little girls achieve so easily.
Munch pointed at the seeds. "Rip those babies open."
Asia started with the radishes. Under Munch's tutelage, the little girl knelt beside the newly formed rows, poking one hole at a time with her perfect little finger, then dropping the tiny black beadlike seed into the aperture, and covering it up.
They labored for hours, content to be working, to be together, smelling the earth, feeling the sun on their backs, the knees of their jeans soaked with muddy water.
Garret would see the product of their loving labor. See the empty packets of snap peas, carrots, radishes, and broccoli stuck on round wooden stakes identifying the coming crop. And he would realize that he was witnessing a work in progress.
Maybe she had a problem. She wasn't sure if she suffered from rape trauma syndrome. Hell, she barely believed in carpal tunnel syndrome. One fact was clear. A fact that she couldn't deny any longer. She wasn't in love with Garret and never would be.
* * *
Mace St. John had been moved to a private room. The doctors successfully restored blood flow to his heart. He would not be as good as new, but the damage to his heart muscle was minimal. Munch and Asia came to see him Sunday night. Caroline was there with a stack of magazines, surrounded by junk food wrappers.
"How's the patient?" Munch asked.
"Grouchy" Caroline said.
"So back to normal, huh?"
> "What happened to you?" St. John asked.
Munch touched the bruise on her forehead. "You should see the other guy "
"I heard you had some excitement," he said. His eyes were sober, awash with conflict. He turned to his wife. "Honey, why don't you and Asia go grab a bite."
Caroline looked from one to the other and said, "All right. We'll be back in a little while."
After they were gone, St. John asked, "What the fuck is the matter with you?"
"What?"
"I can't turn my back for five minutes."
"Hey it's not like I planned it."
"That's the problem."
She told him everything then, from her interviews with the strippers until the police took Pauley into custody. "A few things are bugging me, though."
"Just a few?"
"Do you know if Pauley confessed to Diane's murder?"
"No, he hasn't. But don't worry He's not going anywhere."
* * *
Munch went home that night and searched through her tax records until she found the receipt for her donation of limo time. Diane had typed her a formal thank-you note on Bergman Cancer Center stationery She could use the documentation, Diane said, as proof of her contribution. The members of the board were all listed along the stationery's left margin. Diane Bergman's name came first, identifying her as the founder and president. Logan Sarnoff was second, the first vice president, next in command, attorney for the estate. Then there was the treasurer, Ken Wilson, the stockbroker.
Everyone was so anxious to tie Pauley's activities to Diane's murder. What if they had all been wrong?
Chapter 25
MONDAY
Monday morning came with the usual headaches. Asia woke up grumpy and had to be argued into every step of the getting-ready-for-school process. This meant a seven-minute delay in getting on the freeway, which then translated into a fifteen-minute morning go-to-work traffic snarl, and Asia almost missed the school bus.
The news of Saturday's misadventures and Pauley's subsequent arrest had already reached the gas station. Lou had had to come in Sunday and allow the cops to search Pauley's locker. Among the items recovered were telephone repairmen's handsets, a twelve-inch masonry drill bit, and three women's negligees in pastel colors. All were bagged, tagged, and taken away.
Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella Page 20
