"My arms are killing me," Stephanie said. "Do you have something to cut these ropes?" Dolmire stood motionless, watching. "Senator? Aren't you going to help me?"
"Stephanie, I told you before not to call me senator." He shook his head slowly. "You know, you had no business invading our privacy."
"What? Whose privacy? What are you talking about?"
From out of the haze, on every side, strangers gathered to form a ring around her. They were dressed in dirty blue jeans, torn sweat shirts, and sandals.
"Who are they?" Stephanie asked. "Why are they here?" The ropes still would not yield to her frantic throes.
"You know who they are, Stephanie." Eric Dolmire's voice was now cold.
Her eyes followed his every movement as his hand slipped into the pocket of his trench coat. When it reappeared, Stephanie heard a click as the shining steel of the switchblade flashed out. "Is this what you want, Stephanie? Something sharp?" Dolmire knelt down and placed the edge of the blade against her throat. His hand moved quickly, but she felt no pain.
There was a ringing in her ears. So this is what it's like to die. Her arms were now free, and she groped in the darkness for something, anything, to hang onto, to stop her from falling into the swirling, murky maelstrom below. The ringing crescendoed to an unbearable level.
"Hello."
"Good morning. This is your six o'clock wake-up. Have a nice day."
Stephanie felt her throat. She looked at the phone in her left hand, then down at her fully-clothed body and the unturned bedspread on which she lay.
"Damn!"
Chapter 19
Stephanie reviewed her schedule. She had an appointment at nine with Treva Billingsley in Willits and would be spending the night in Santa Rosa. Tomorrow she was to meet Angela Deerfield in Calistoga, then drive back to San Francisco and catch a flight to Bakersfield to drop off her rental car and pick up her own. She would then drive back to L.A. for an eight o'clock appointment with Cindy Pennington. She had called Hal and asked him to get in touch with Weasel and have him meet her before her appointment that evening. Hal told her that a Lieutenant Frank Satterfield had left a message for her.
Willits was a town of only a few thousand people. Stephanie had no difficulty finding the yellow frame house with the coaster swing on the front porch. She pulled in behind a white Mercedes sedan that looked out of place in the row of Chevettes, Escorts and other modest cars parked in the other driveways. Stephanie saw someone peering through the sidelight as she came up the walk. Just as she reached the steps the door swung open.
A woman in a pink housecoat stood in the doorway. "You must be Stephanie Kenyon." Her voice was deep and raspy, possibly from smoking too many cigarettes like the one dangling from her lips. Her face was deeply creased, the flaccid skin the color of beeswax. The dark roots of her blonde, mussed-up hair had grown out over an inch. She was holding a glass of amber liquid and the ice cubes rattled as her hand shook.
"Yes. And you're Treva Billingsley?" Stephanie asked.
"You can call me that if you like. To everyone else I'm Mrs. Randall Billingsley. Randall, Randall, Randall." Her eyes narrowed and she looked closely at Stephanie. "You know, when I talk with people on the phone I always try to picture what they look like. You look just like you sounded. I was a pretty foxy babe myself once." Treva Billingsley's expression didn't change. "Come on in. If we talk here the whole town will know our business."
Stephanie followed her inside. The house had a stale, smoky smell to it. All the drapes and blinds were drawn and the little bit of light in the living room came from a small ceramic lamp with a torn shade. They sat down. When Stephanie put her purse at her feet she noticed on the end table a half-empty coffee cup with a cigarette butt floating in it.
"Can I get you something?" Treva Billingsley asked. "You can have what I'm drinking, or if it's too early, I've got coffee--I think."
Stephanie glanced back down at the coffee cup. "Nothing for me, thanks."
"Sorry I'm not dressed. I didn't wake up as early as I wanted. I'm by myself here and about all I do is eat, drink, and sleep."
"Your husband doesn't come with you?" Stephanie asked. In the book the page on Treva Billingsley listed an address in San Francisco, but when Stephanie called her they had arranged to meet in Willits.
"No, he suggests that I come up here when he wants to get rid of me, which is most of the time. He inherited this house from his parents. It used to be our little hideaway, but he never comes anymore. He hasn't for a long time. I'm sure there's someone else." Treva Billingsley crushed out her cigarette. "It doesn't bother me...coming here alone. Most of the people in town probably think I'm a bit eccentric because I keep to myself, but I don't care to gossip across the fence about whose husband is screwing whose wife. I'm here for the peace and quiet. I just shut them out and there's not a damn thing they can do about it."
"Don't you still work in your husband's business?" Stephanie asked, remembering the entry in the book.
"I'm still on the payroll, if that counts for anything. I haven't actually worked in the office for several years. It got to the point that Randall and I couldn't stand to be in the same room without screaming at each other."
Stephanie was wondering if she should rethink her definition of what a successful Family member was. "Does he know you were involved with The Family?"
"Are you kidding? He's not the type who'd understand. He wouldn't even try, not that it would matter."
"Have you ever told anyone?"
Treva Billingsley paused, then shook her head. "No."
"Not even a close friend?"
She took another gulp of her drink. "I never had any close friends outside of The Family. I'm sure that sounds strange, considering all the people Randall and I know. We have acquaintances, of course, friends if you want to call them that, but not anyone I would care to confide in. It's funny I'm opening up to you so much. Maybe I needed to talk about it again."
"Again?"
"Well, I have talked about it with someone. I was in therapy for several years. My psychologist is the only one I ever told."
"When were you in therapy?"
"From, uh '72 until March of '75. That's when I met Randall. I got a job working as a secretary for a company Randall had at the time." She opened her purse and took out another cigarette. "His first wife had left him about a year before. Anyway, after we started dating I dropped out of therapy. I didn't want him to find out about it." She coughed several times, then stubbed out the cigarette she had lit only seconds earlier. "I've got to quit these stupid things."
"May I ask why you were in therapy?"
Treva Billingsley looked away, as though she were sorting things in her mind. After a few seconds she turned back to Stephanie. "Resentment, I suppose."
"Over what?"
"Over the murders. But it's not what you might think. I was mixed up back then. I couldn't afford a private psychologist on a secretary's salary, so I went to a mental health center. My therapist was worthless, but I suppose you get what you pay for. I felt resentful, but not because The Family had committed the murders. I felt resentful because I wasn't involved."
Stephanie lifted her eyebrows. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"
Treva Billingsley took another, longer drink from her glass and made a bitter face. "I was upset I didn't get to go with Mother Earth when the murders were committed because I wanted to be a part of everything she did. But before they left she told me it could be dangerous and she didn't want anything to happen to me. That's the way she felt about me. I guess it was because I was good to her, too. She used to say that I was the only one who could make her whole again. She had tremendous energy, but with everything she did she was exhausted by the end of the day. At night I would go to her tent and she would draw energy from me. She was the very essence of nature itself, so pure and unspoiled. I worshipped that woman." Treva Billingsley looked at Stephanie. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"
"Not at all.
I'm intrigued. Tell me more about Mother Earth."
"Well, for one thing," Treva Billingsley replied, hesitating, "she knows about you and what you're doing, and she's very unhappy about it."
Stephanie felt her jaw drop. "How does she know...how do you know?"
"I just got a letter from her today."
Chapter 20
"Great," Stephanie muttered to herself as she turned into the parking lot of the Happy Traveler Motel in Santa Rosa. An illuminated white sign with red letters hung precariously at an odd angle, supported by three rusty wires. Some sort of projectile had torn a gaping hole in the plastic sign, obliterating the "no" in "no vacancy." She pulled into a parking space in the empty lot and shut off the engine. She sat behind the wheel and looked at the L-shaped motel in disbelief. She counted twelve units, each one painted a faded pink and white and trimmed in cobwebs. Grass tufted up through cracks in the sidewalk. Stephanie rechecked her notebook to be sure she had the right motel, but there was no mistake. Melrose would hear about this, she vowed. Just then a short, beefy man charged out of the office. His hemispheric belly pushed against the snagged fibers of his blue Banlon shirt.
"Pull on up here, missy. We're open." He lumbered over to the car and rested his hands on the door. His eyes divided their attention between Stephanie's face and the top of her blouse. He was breathing heavily, his hot breath a mixture of garlic and beer.
"Just give me a minute, okay?" Stephanie looked straight ahead to avoid the brunt of the odorous assault.
The man squatted down to eye level. "Hey, I understand what's going on." His lips twisted. "He's not here yet, is he? Don't wait in your car. Come get signed in. Nobody will see you inside." He arched his eyebrows several times and leaned into the car.
Stephanie forced herself to look at him. "I'm Stephanie Kenyon, with the L.A. Tribune. I have reservations. Believe me, I have reservations...about this whole disgusting place."
The fat man jerked his head out of the car so fast he bumped it on the top of the door.
"Well, excuse me, lady," he snapped, rubbing the back of his head. "I know it ain't no Waldorf Astoria, but if it bothers you that much you can always stay somewhere else. You still have to pay for the room, though. I went to the trouble of holding it for you."
Stephanie looked him in the face. "Yeah, I can tell by the throngs of guests it's been hard for you to hold it." She closed her eyes and thought for a moment. She was too hot and too tired for any more hassles. "Do you have air-conditioning?"
"Some rooms, yeah."
"Telephones?"
He nodded.
"TV?"
He shrugged. "Maybe."
Stephanie sighed. "All right." She got out of the car and opened the trunk. As she reached for the handle of her suitcase a hairy hand closed over hers. She quickly pulled her hand from under his.
"Let me help you there, honey." He lifted the suitcase out of the trunk and slammed the lid shut. "Now if I remember right, you only have reservations for one night."
"You have a remarkable memory," Stephanie replied. She walked as fast as she could, eager to get to the sanctuary of her room where she could lock the door and be rid of the obnoxious slob.
"You're by yourself, then?" he asked.
Stephanie looked at him coldly. "I thought that already had been established. Besides, it's really none of your business."
"Just asking, just trying to make friendly conversation. Geez, aren't we touchy."
She followed him into the office. He stepped behind the counter and casually took two empty beer cans from the counter and tossed them into a wastebasket. He turned a page in the reservation book.
"Here we are...Los Angeles Tribune, huh? The name I have down here is Lance Melrose." A hint of a grin returned to the corners of his mouth. "He coming later?"
"May I have my key?"
The man ran his finger along the row of keys that hung from the pegboard. He picked the first key.
"Room One." He tossed it on the counter.
"Where is it?" she asked.
The manager pointed his thumb to his left. "Next door."
Stephanie pushed the key toward him. "How about something else?" She surveyed the row of keys. "How about Twelve?"
"The TV might be on the fritz."
"I'll take my chances."
The manager held out the key and dangled it before letting it drop into her hand. "Checkout time is ten-thirty in the morning, pretty lady." He cleared his throat and winked. "If you need anything--"
"I won't need a thing. And you won't have to worry about me checking out on time."
Stephanie grabbed her suitcase and headed for her room. As she walked across the parking lot she felt like the manager was watching her through the blinds. She wondered if Norman Bates had a fat brother living in Santa Rosa.
A musty odor rushed past her when she opened the door to Room Twelve. She stood in the doorway and looked the room over. Exposed pipes with peeling paint ran parallel behind the headboard of the bed. A jagged line divided the upper-right corner from the rest of the mirror above the dresser. The faded green carpet was spotted with several stains of different sizes, and an unfamiliar species of bug crawled at her feet.
No Waldorf Astoria...no shit!
Stephanie was relieved to find a chain lock on the inside of the door. She slid it into place. She sat on the bed and bounced up and down, then kicked off her shoes and stretched out. Her eyes soon closed, but then she remembered how she had dozed off the night before. She got up and turned on the television. It took awhile to warm up, but once the picture appeared it was fairly clear. After going through the channels and finding nothing that interested her, she decided a shower might make her feel better.
The tile floor felt cool beneath her feet. She slipped out of her clothes and pinned up her hair. She closed the bathroom door and felt a twinge of uneasiness when she discovered that it could not be locked.
The grout between the yellowed shower tiles was cracked and blackened with mold. When she first turned the water on it had an orange tint, but after the pipes cleared they supplied a clean, soothing spray. She pulled back the shower curtain and started to step in when she heard a noise in the outer room. She wrapped herself in a towel and opened the door. Everything was as she had left it. Before getting into the shower she stopped and stared at the curtain for a moment. She would take a bath instead.
Before she went to bed she set her travel alarm clock so she wouldn't have to bother with a wake-up call from the front desk.
Stephanie fumbled in the darkness for the phone. "Hello?" She squinted at her clock--two thirteen. There was no reply. As she hung up she once more thought of the creepy motel manager. Ten minutes passed and she was just beginning to drift back to sleep. Again the phone rang.
"Hello?" she answered. She slammed down the phone, then took it off the hook.
In the morning Stephanie dressed in a hurry and threw her suitcase into the rental car. She decided to stop and let the manager know what she thought about his early morning phone calls. She was surprised to find an elderly lady behind the desk.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Here's the key to my room. And I was wondering...what time did you take over for the gentleman last night?"
"Ten o'clock, dear. Why?"
"I got a couple of calls...it had to have been after one or two."
"That's impossible, sweetie."
Stephanie frowned. "Why is that?"
"You can't get calls directly to your room, honey. They all have to go through this switchboard, and I didn't get a call for anyone all night long."
Chapter 21
It was Stephanie's first visit to Calistoga. She found it to be a quiet, friendly little town, and it gave her a warm feeling when several people waved at her as she drove down the street to Angela Deerfield's house.
The stories Angela told about her time with The Family were nothing more than variations of things Stephanie had already heard. When Angela left The Family she chose to go ba
ck to college to earn her degree. After graduation she was hired as a kindergarten teacher. She told Stephanie she was unhappy with the books the school district was using, so she decided to write one of her own. Soon every kindergarten teacher in the system wanted copies of her loose-leaf primer. She put together a second one that turned out to be even more popular than the first. She later signed a contract with a major textbook publisher and began writing full-time. Before Stephanie left, Angela gave her an autographed copy of her latest book.
Stephanie made it to San Francisco International with more than an hour to spare until her flight to Bakersfield. To pass the time she browsed through several specialty shops looking for something to take back to Jessie for watching Eye's Odd. She finally settled on a small black Japanese vase with delicate, hand-painted gold flowers. She was headed for her gate when a voice over the loudspeaker made her stop.
"Stephanie Kenyon, phone call for Stephanie Kenyon. Gate nineteen."
She wondered who would know to reach her at the airport. She hurried over to a man behind the counter near her gate.
"I'm Stephanie Kenyon. You paged me?"
"Over there." He nodded toward the phone.
"Thanks." She stepped to the end of the counter. "Hello? Hello?" There was a click on the other end. She hung up the receiver and walked back to the clerk. "Excuse me. The person who called. Do you know who it was?"
"I never ask."
"Was it a man or a woman?"
The clerk dropped his pen and looked up. "It was a voice, okay? I don't remember. Lady, I take hundreds of calls every day, and on top of that I have to keep an eye on this counter and answer questions from people like you. It all runs together, you know what I mean? I'm sorry, I can't help you."
Stephanie picked up her suitcase and headed for the boarding gate.
Stephanie took a flight to Bakersfield and picked up her car at the airport. On the drive home she cranked up the radio and leaned back against the headrest, relieved that the first round of interviews was almost behind her. After that evening's appointment with Cindy Pennington she would get a break on Monday. She planned to spend most of the day going over everything one more time to decide which interviews she would use in the series.
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