Holes had been poked through Mary Claire's eyes. A bullet-entrance wound had been painstakingly drawn into the center of her forehead, and vivid red ink poured from it. Her bosom had been slashed raggedly with a razor blade.
Nothing had been done to Angel.
The picture was an unsettling combination of immature malice and adult hatred. It looked like the kind of thing the cops found hanging in David Berkowitz's bedroom when they finally nailed him as the Son of Sam. The person who'd done it wasn't all there, but she had her hatred down cold. And, of course, it had to be Mrs. Fram.
I heard her shoes slapping against the hallway floor and shoved the picture back under the pile of mail. She pushed the door leading to the hallway closed from the other side before she passed by it. Apparently I wasn't to see Baby until Baby was ready. 'There, Baby," she said from the living room. "Right there. Right there."
There was some muffled moving around. "Cover up, now," Mrs. Fram said in her slurred, mannish voice. " 'Tsa man, you know. A man from Dick."
"Dick," said a small voice. "Dick's not coming?"
"I don't know," Mrs. Fram said curtly. "Scoot up a little."
"But I need him to come. He has to come." The voice was thin and querulous, like that of a young actress trying to play an old woman.
"Hush. You hush. How do we know why this man's here?"
I stepped back from the door just as Mrs. Fram came through it. "Okay now," she said, concentrating her gaze in my general direction. "Baby's in there." She waved a hand behind her, in toward the living room. She went to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat heavily. She looked without interest at the pile of mail. I went into the living room.
"Hello, Jessica," I said.
She'd been rouged and lipsticked crudely for the occasion, but the patches of color only heightened the pallor of her skin. The dead hair had been brushed straight down and then lifted and held in place with a black bow. She looked like a teenage Miss Havisham.
"Is Dick coming?" she asked.
"Not right now," I said. "Maybe later, though."
She clenched both her thin fists and tightened her mouth childishly. "He likes to make me wait," she said. "He enjoys it."
"Wait for what?"
"The little yellow ones."
Mrs. Fram coughed in a tubercular fashion in the next room while I evaluated this. "Don't you have enough left for today?"
"Of course I do," she said impatiently. "Enough for tomorrow too. But he knows I get nervous when I get low. He likes it. I know he does."
"No, he doesn't," I said. "He just doesn't want you to have too many of them. He's just being careful."
"That's what he says. That's what Aunt Hermia says too."
"Well, and they both care about you, don't they?"
"I guess so," she said reluctantly.
"What does your mother say about it?"
"Her," Jessica said. "What does she know?"
"Is Aunt Hermia really your aunt?"
"No." Jessica gave a spiteful little smile. "She's the dragon at the door," she said, "and I'm the fair maiden. We should have a house with a tower so I could sleep in the very top room, and we could chain Aunt Hermia to an iron post next to the front door."
"And where would your mother sleep?"
"On the floor if she wanted to. She does about half the time anyway. Sometimes she sleeps standing up, like horses are supposed to."
"Jessica," I said, "You never Speak anymore, do you?"
"No," she said, looking directly at me for the first time. "That's finished. It ended when I got sick."
"And what's wrong with you?"
"I've got a Wasting Disease," she said with a certain amount of pleasure. "I can't pronounce it, but Dick says it's getting better."
"Have you tried to Speak?"
"You can't try. Don't you know anything? It's either there or it isn't."
"What is?"
"The Voice, silly. What else?"
"And where does the Voice come from?"
"I don't know. I don't remember hearing it. I just know that I heard the tapes later, and it was my voice saying all those things, except not my voice exactly."
"When was the first time you Spoke?"
"I was twelve."
"Where were you?"
"In Dick's office. His office then, not his office now."
"And what happened?"
"He was examining me."
"For what?"
"To see if I could be the Speaker," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Anna was dead."
"Was he examining other little girls too?"
"Sure. Lots. He even examined Angel, and she was only seven then." She smirked unpleasantly. "Imagine a seven-year-old Speaker."
"What kind of an examination was it?"
"Dick and Mr. Brooks were looking for a Speaker," she said as though that explained everything. "Everybody wanted to be the Speaker. Every little girl in the Church. You got to wear all those pretty clothes and have your picture taken and be famous. Who wouldn't want it?"
"I'm sure they all wanted it. But you were the one who got it, weren't you?"
A glow of pride suffused her face. "I was the only one who heard the Voice," she said. "I was the only one it wanted to talk to."
"And how did Dick examine you?"
She started to say something, glanced up at me, and then closed her mouth. After a moment she rearranged the quilt and crossed her hands demurely on top of it. "If Dick sent you," she said, looking at the top of the quilt, "how come you have to ask all these questions?"
"We're going to write a book," I lied. "Dick and I. A book about you."
"What are you going to call it?"
"Jessica Speaks. "
"Will it have my picture in it?" There was real pleasure in her face. It almost made her look young.
"On the cover."
"One of my good pictures, one of my then pictures. It'll be one of those, won't it?"
"The prettiest we can find."
She took a sidelong peek at the dining-room door. "Not her," she said softly.
"No. Just you."
"Fine," she said.
"So you see, I need to get as much information as I can in your own words."
She nodded gravely and regarded her hands. "Okay."
"Tell me about the examination."
"Just a regular exam. You know, my pulse and my blood pressure. My eyes and ears and stuff."
There was no way to avoid the question. "Did you have to get undressed?"
Real color appeared beneath the rouge. "Sure," she said.
"And was your mother in the room?"
"Not then," she said. "She came in while I was Speaking. She says she saw me sitting on the table and Speaking. She was real happy about it. She liked Dick then. I don't remember her until after."
"After what?"
"After I'd finished Speaking."
"Your mother liked Dick then?"
"Oh, sure. She was crazy about him."
"And later?"
She looked me straight in the eye. "Dick didn't tell you to ask me that," she said. "He'd have never told you to ask me anything about that."
It was the kind of moment that always made me wish I still smoked. It would have been very nice to have something to do for a few seconds.
"You're right," I said. "He didn't. We won't talk about any of that. Tell me, what did it feel like to Speak?"
She tilted her chin up and gave me an evaluative gaze. Her eyes were long, widely spaced, and slate gray.
"Like I said," she began, "I don't remember the Voice. I just remember that it always felt like someone was holding me in his arms. Somebody a lot bigger than I was. Somebody warm, who loved me."
"And then what happened?"
"When?"
"After the first time you Spoke."
She looked as though she didn't understand the question. "We went home," she said.
"When did you Speak again?"
"For Mr. Brooks. It was a few days later. It was the same, except longer. Then the third time was a Revealing."
"And then you did it how often?"
"Every week, usually. Sometimes the Voice didn't come, though."
"How often did that happen?"
"Once in a while. I just sat there with everybody looking at me. It was terrible."
"When the voice did come, what happened?"
"We went out onto the stage, you know, after the welcome and the music, and maybe sometimes there was a guest star who got up and talked about what Listening had done for him. Then she"-she indicated the door to the dining room-"and I went onto the stage and sat down. I always sat on the right, because she was supposed to say something into the microphone before anything happened. Usually, while she was talking I would hear a kind of whisper in my ear. It would say my name a few times. Then it was like I was being filled slowly with warm water, and I would go away. When I came back, it was over."
I needed a moment to think, and I got up and pulled open the curtains covering the living-room window. Sunlight poured into the room. Jessica squinted and stretched a hand out in front of her to block the light. "Don't," she said. "It hurts my eyes." I pulled the curtains closed again, and she settled back onto the couch.
"Did you understand the things you said when you were Speaking? Afterward, I mean, when you heard the tapes."
"No. Not most of it."
"And did Dick go on examining you?"
The color returned to her cheeks and she looked away.
"Sure, always. That's what the Speaker's doctor is for." She sounded defensive. "Before Dick it was that fat man. He was Anna's doctor."
"Jessica. Did either Dick or Mr. Brooks give you anything to read? Did they ask you to learn anything?"
"Like what?" she said blankly.
"Yeah, like what?" said a deep voice behind me.
I turned to see the steely-haired lady who'd left in the Land Rover. She was clutching three bags that said Taco Tiki, and she was regarding me very narrowly indeed. "And how'd you get in here?"
"You're Hermia," I said happily. "I just missed you."
"What's going on?" she said. Mrs. Fram lurched into the dining-room doorway and stood there with her jaw slack. She looked at Hermia's bags. "Taco Tiki," she said.
"I can't leave for a minute," Hermia said. "What are you, some kind of spy?"
"Dick sent him," Jessica said. "They're going to write a book about me and make me famous again. And there's nothing you can do about it."
"Is that so?" Hermia said softly, looking at me. "A book. All about little Jessica. Now, isn't that interesting?"
"We have high hopes for it," I said, wondering if Hermia were armed.
"You and Dick," she said.
It sounded thin even to my ears. "His name goes first," I said.
"Merryman and what?"
"Aren't you going to put those bags down? Your food will get cold."
"Doris," Hermia commanded, holding out the bags. Doris tottered over to get them. "Get out of here," Hermia said. "Put them in the other room. Stay there." Mrs. Fram trudged through the door, looking like the Night of the Living Dead if the Living Dead had come back for junk food.
"You're going to ruin things," Jessica said accusingly to Hermia.
"You bet your cute little hairbow, I am," Hermia said. "Now, you, what's your name?"
I stood up. She was almost as tall as I was. "Hermia," I said, "there's a lot going on that you don't know about."
She blinked. "Like what?"
"Changes. In Century City."
It didn't exactly stun her; she didn't stagger backward or clutch at her throat, but she was listening. "Which direction?" she said after a moment.
"The wrong one, dear," I said. "If you're not careful."
"I'm doing my job."
"Then how'd I get in here?"
"I had to get food. Who else is going to go out?"
"What were your instructions?"
"They wanted tacos," she said, trying for a tone of calm reason. "They can't live on pizza, and Taco Bell doesn't deliver."
"They wanted tacos," I said pityingly. "Do you know what she told me? What she would have told anyone who walked in while you were doing what? Going out for tacos?"
Nobody said anything. Then Jessica said, "I like tacos."
Hermia shot her a glance and she subsided. "How long since you were basemented?" I asked.
Hermia licked her lips. "Never," she said.
"What an experience you have in store," I said. "If you call the wrong person."
"Which one?" Hermia said.
I licked my index finger and held it up. "Check the wind," I said.
Chapter 23
"Try the American Dental Association," I said to Joyce. I was standing in a pay phone on Ventura Boulevard. Across the street, furtive-looking men stole in and out of an adult bookstore.
"I don't have to," she said. "That's what he is, a dentist. He's listed in the ADA data base. How'd you know?"
"Just a guess. Have you talked to the DEA?"
"Yeah, that's what's odd. He graduated in 1972 but he only registered with the DEA seven years ago."
"That's about right," I said. "Where'd he practice?"
"I don't know. He graduated from a college in New York."
"Good work. Just to make sure, can you check with New York to see if he was certified there? He probably practiced in or near a town called Utica."
There was a pause. "It's after five o'clock there," she said. "They'll probably be closed."
"Tomorrow morning is fine."
I figured Brooks worked until five-thirty or six, so I had a few hours. I dialed my own number and entered a two-digit code when I heard my recorded voice say hello.
"Number of messages," the machine announced, "four." I hated its smug tone of voice, and also the fact that the damn thing couldn't count.
"One," it said.
"Simeon? Roxanne." Music was very loud in the background. She must have been calling from McGinty's of Malibu, the bar where she worked. "I've been cold the last couple of nights. I drove by last night, but no Alice, and I didn't feel like getting threatened with another piece of firewood. Give me a call if you feel like sharing your warm feet." There was a pause. "Everybody here is very drunk," she said.
"One," the machine said again.
"I am Mrs. Yount," Mrs. Yount said. "That house is a mess, mister. I was just there. There's no excuse for it. Now, normally I'd just tell you to move out. But if you find Fluffy I'll forget all about it. I know she's alive. I could feel it in the inside of my bosom if she wasn't. I want to hear from you, young man." She hung up decisively.
"One," the machine said implacably.
"This is Al Hammond, goddamm it." I pushed the six button on the pay phone and the machine skipped to the next message. "One," The machine said.
"May you roast in hell," I said.
The next caller had hung up. I started to do the same.
"One," said the machine.
"You said four," I told it.
"Wo," Dexter Smif said. "Mus' be you busy. Man can't return his calls mus' be on the go mostly all the time. Just lettin' you know they a man of talent available. I ain't gonna give you my number again. If you done lost it I don't want to work with you anyways."
Dexter hung up. This time I waited. "Last message," the machine said. "Thank you for-" I was already heading for the car.
Brooks wasn't in the directory. The list of the Church board of directors, to which he belonged, didn't bother with addresses. So at five-fifteen, having dropped Eleanor's suitcase at the Times, I was parked in my invisible gray Camaro across the street from the exit to an underground parking structure in Century City. I'd circled the structure twice, dismayed at finding two exits. For a moment I'd actually thought of calling Dexter. But then what would we have done? Talked to each other on our two-way wrist radios?
I finally calmed down. One of the exits led sout
h and the other led north. South was Culver City, Palms, Mar Vista- perfectly nice places for secretaries and support staff to live.
North was Westwood, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, and several other perfectly nicer places. I had Brooks pegged as a Westwood man. Quiet and substantial.
At five-forty on the dot he came out. He'd made it easy for me by putting down the top on his cream-colored Mercedes. The streetlights flickered and then hummed above us as I followed him down the Avenue of the Stars to Santa Monica Boulevard.
At the stoplight, he checked himself out in the rearview mirror. He smoothed his hair, examined his teeth briefly, and then rubbed his chin. He seemed pretty happy with what he saw. Of course, he'd had a lot of time to get used to it.
He turned left onto Santa Monica and then right onto a cute, crooked little street that edges along the golf course of a country club. I've never known which club it is. I stayed about thirty yards behind him, just close enough to squeak through a yellow light if one got frisky with me.
Together we crossed Wilshire. He drove fast and economically, downshifting when he wanted to slow. I don't think he hit his brakes once except for the stoplights. He hit them again in the middle of the very expensive part of Beverly Glen that stretches for about half a mile south of Sunset. Then he turned right, into the yard of a big traditional colonial house with white shutters.
There was a paved parking area to the right of the house with a detached carport at the end of it. By the time he had the car in the carport, I had passed the house, parked the Camaro under a tow-away sign, and was crossing the yard. Jingling something in his pocket, he strode across the paving stones to the front door. He had no inkling of my presence behind him until he put the key in the lock and turned it and I pulled out the nasty little gun and touched it lightly to the back of his neck.
He froze in a well-bred fashion. Then he slowly turned his head to look at me. When he saw my face, his muscles relaxed slightly.
"Mr. Swinburne," he said. "How tiresome."
"It'll get more interesting," I said. "And you know my real name. You're the one who had me hired in the first place."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you weren't sure you could trust the people you gave Sally to. And you were right. You couldn't."
The four last things sg-1 Page 24
