“You thought it was Jill,” I said. “It had been so long.”
The old man stood up.
“I’m going out of here now,” he said.
Bobby Horse moved silently in front of the exit door. Zabriskie stopped and turned and looked slowly around the room.
“You read about the harassment, and the bodyguard, and all. You figured people would assume her death was linked to whoever had been bothering her. You could shoot her and go back to L.A. and sit tight and in a while you’d inherit her money.”
There was no expression on Zabriskie’s face. He seemed solely interested in whether there was another exit.
“I’ll bet,” I said, “when the cops match up the bullet they took out of Babe with the test bullet they fire from your gun, it’ll match.”
The old man decided that there wasn’t another exit. He looked down at Jill.
“You’re an unloving and unnatural daughter,” he said. “If you had given me some money . . .”
He put his left hand almost tiredly under his loose shirt and came out with the .357. Behind the bar Chollo didn’t seem to move, except suddenly there was a gun in his hand, and it fired, and Zabriskie slammed backwards over the coffee table and bounced against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. By the time he hit the floor Chollo’s gun was out of sight again. Jill, in her tight coil, turned her face against the chair and moaned.
“Quick,” I said to Chollo. He smiled modestly.
Del Rio said, “Can you get her out of here and back to Boston?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Do you need money?”
“No. How about this, can you clean this up?” I said.
“I own the hotel,” del Rio said. He smiled slightly. “Among other things.”
I bent and edged my arms under her and picked Jill up from her chair. She put her arms around my neck and placed her face against my shoulder.
“Bobby Horse will drive you,” del Rio said. “She’s going to need a lot of attention. I want you to give it to her. On the other coast. You need money, call me.”
“I won’t need money,” I said.
The Indian opened the door and I went through carrying Jill.
Behind me del Rio said, “Adios.”
I paused and half turned and looked back at him and the still motionless Chollo.
“Si,” I said.
38
I took Jill up to Maine, to a cabin on a lake that I’d built with Paul Giacomin nine years before. The cabin belonged to Susan, but she let me use it. We got there on a Thursday, driving straight from the airport, and on Saturday morning while I was making breakfast Jill still hadn’t spoken.
The snow was a foot deep in the woods, and the other cabins were empty. Nothing moved but squirrels and the winter birds that hopped along the snow crust and seemed impervious to cold. I kept a fire going in the big central fireplace, and read some books, and did push-ups and sit-ups. I would have run along the plowed highway, but I didn’t want to leave Jill.
Jill was silent. She sat where I put her, she slept a lot, she ate some of what I gave her. She smoked and had coffee and in the evening would drink some. But she didn’t drink a lot, and she spoke not at all. Much of the time she simply sat and looked at things I didn’t see and seemed very far away inside.
I ate some turkey hash with corn bread, and two cups of coffee. Jill had some coffee and three cigarettes. It didn’t seem too healthy to me, but I figured this might not be the time for rigorous retraining.
“I came up here, about nine years ago,” I said, “with a kid named Paul Giacomin.”
It was not clear, when I talked to her, if Jill heard me, though when I offered her coffee she held out her cup.
“Kid was a mess,” I said. “Center of a custody dispute in a messy divorce. It wasn’t that each parent wanted him. It was that neither parent wanted the other to have him.”
I put a dab of cranberry catsup on my second helping of hash.
“We built this place, he and I. I taught him to carpenter, and to work out, read poetry. Susan got him some psychotherapy. Kid’s a professional dancer now, he’s in Aix-en-Provence, in France, performing and giving master’s classes at some dance festival.”
Jill had no reaction. I ate my hash. While I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes, the phone rang. It was Sandy Salzman.
“Studio’s up my ass,” Salzman said. “Network is talking cancellation. Where the fuck is she?”
“She’s with me,” I said.
“I know that, when the hell does she reappear?”
“Later,” I said.
“I’ve got to talk with her,” Sandy said. “Put her on the phone.”
“No.”
“Dammit, I’ve got to talk with her. I’m coming up.”
“I won’t let you see her,” I said.
“For crissake, Spenser, you work for me.”
“You can’t see her,” I said.
“Somebody from the studio, Riggs, somebody from business affairs?”
“Nobody,” I said.
“Dammit, you can’t stop me.”
“Yes, I can.”
“I’ll bring some people.”
“Better bring a lot,” I said.
“Spenser, I’ve got authorization, from Michael Maschio himself, to terminate your services as of this moment.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t see her. Her agent doesn’t see her. Michael Maschio doesn’t see her. Captain Kangaroo doesn’t see her. Just me, I see her. And Susan Silverman. Nobody else until she’s ready.”
“Spenser, goddammit, you got no right . . .”
I hung up. In fifteen minutes I had a similar conversation with Jill’s agent, who must have been calling before sunrise, West Coast time. At 9:45 I talked on the phone with Martin Quirk.
“We got the gun killed Loftus,” he said without preamble when I answered the phone. “Registered to a guy named William Zabriskie. LAPD found him in the trunk of a stolen car parked in the lot of Bullocks Department Store on Wilshire Boulevard. Gun was on him. Been shot once through the heart.”
“How’d they come to check with you?” I said.
“Anonymous tip,” Quirk said.
“Got a motive?”
“No,” Quirk said. “Why I’m calling you. Ever hear of this guy?”
“He’s Jill Joyce’s father,” I said.
“The hell he is,” Quirk said.
I was silent.
“And?” Quirk said.
“And I don’t know what else, yet. I need a little time.”
“I don’t have any to give you,” Quirk said. “I got lawyers from Zenith Meridien and the TV network and the governor’s office and the Jill Joyce fan club camped outside my office. The D.A. wants my badge.”
“Marty,” I said, “he molested her as a child. She saw him killed.”
The silence on the line was broken only by the faint crackle of the system.
“You got her up there with you?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of shape she in?”
“The worst,” I said.
“Susan seen her?”
“Not yet.”
More crackle on the line. Behind me Jill was watching the fire move among the logs.
“You can’t keep her up there forever,” Quirk said.
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have a long-range plan. Right now I’m figuring out lunch.”
“How long you need?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know how Zabriskie got killed?” Quirk said.
“Yes.”
“You
planning on sharing that with me?”
“Only off the record.”
“Gee, I love being a homicide cop,” Quirk said. “Get to ask people lots of questions and they have no answer.”
“It’s L.A.’s problem,” I said.
“True,” Quirk said.
Again we were silent, listening to the murmur of the phone system.
“I’ll do what I can,” Quirk said.
“Me too,” I said.
We hung up.
Susan Silverman showed up at noon. She came in along the driveway too fast, like she always did, in her white sports car, only this time there were three mongrel dogs in it with her. They came out as she held the door for them, gingerly, sniffing carefully, the two junior dogs watching the alpha dog. After a moment of sniffing, they apparently established it as appropriate territory because they began to tear around, noses to the ground, investigating squirrel scent and bird tracks. Susan had brought with her a trunkful of groceries, and she was starting to unload them when I came out of the house.
“Time for that in a moment,” I said and put my arms around her. She smelled of lilacs and milled soap and fresh air. She hugged me and we kissed and then we carried in the bags.
Susan smiled at Jill when she went in, and said, “Hi.” Jill gazed at her without reaction. We went to the kitchen end of the cabin to put the groceries away.
“She talk yet?” Susan said.
“No.”
“What’s she been doing?”
I told her. Susan nodded.
“What do I do with her,” I said.
“You can’t help her,” Susan said. “If you’re right about her life she needs more than you can ever give her.”
“I know.”
“But you may be able to help get her to a point where she can be helped,” Susan said.
“By giving her time?”
“Yes, and space, and quiet. Try to get her healthy. Eat more, drink less, some exercise. But don’t push it. All of her addictions are probably symptoms, not causes, and will yield better to treatment when the source of her anguish is dealt with.”
“Thanks, doctor,” I said. “Care to shtup me?”
“How could I resist, you glib devil, you?”
“Can you wait until evening?”
“Anxiously,” Susan said.
I had left the door ajar for the dogs, and now they nosed it open and came in, sniffing vigorously around the cabin, their eyes bright from their return to the woods. One of them sniffed at Jill as she sat there, and she turned and bent down toward it. It licked her face and she reached out suddenly and began to pat it. Susan nudged me and nodded, but I’d seen it already.
The other two dogs joined the first one and Jill took turns patting them. One of them reared on his hind legs and laid his forepaws in her lap and licked her face again. Jill put her arms around him and hugged him, her face against the side of his muzzle. Tears moved on her face. The dog looked a little anxious as she rocked sideways holding him in her arms, but then he discovered the salty tears and lapped them industriously, making no attempt to escape.
39
BY the time Susan left on Sunday night, Jill was talking. She wasn’t saying much. But she said yes, and no. As in:
“Would you like more coffee?”
“Yes.”
“And would you like to take a walk?”
“No.”
On Monday morning a reporter from the Herald showed up and I was forced to threaten him. I got phone calls from the Globe and all three network affiliates in Boston. I told each that I would shoot anyone I saw.
A half hour later I got a call from Rojack.
“I want to know how Jill is,” he said.
“She’s resting comfortably,” I said.
“I’d like a bit more than that,” he said.
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “How’d you get this number?”
“I know a lot of people,” Rojack said. “Some of them are important.”
“Nice for you,” I said.
“I know you don’t hold me in high regard, Spenser, but I care about Jill. I have the right to know how she is.”
“Un huh,” I said.
“You have no right to interfere. I want to see her.”
“No.”
“I love her, dammit, do you understand that?”
“Not in this case,” I said. “You can’t see her. Later, maybe.”
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’ll turn me inside out.”
“If I can get the number, I can get the location,” Rojack said. “Perhaps Randall and I will pay you a visit.”
“Perhaps I will stick Randall in the lake,” I said.
“Whatever you may think, Spenser, I love that woman. I want to help her.”
“The way you help her now is to leave her alone.”
“You won’t change your mind?”
“No one sees her,” I said.
“We’ll be up. You were lucky with Randall the first time.”
“I was kind the first time,” I said. “This time he’ll get hurt.”
I heard the phone click. I hung up and looked at Jill sitting by the window in a straight chair looking at the lake, where the three dogs were busy sniffing out something. I picked up the phone and called Henry Cimoli and asked for Hawk. He was there.
“Remember I told you about a guy named Stanley Rojack?”
“Un huh.”
“Walks around with a big geek named Randall, thinks he’s tougher than Oliver North.”
“Wow,” Hawk said.
“They say they’re going to come up here and bother us,” I said.
Jill continued to watch the dogs through the window. If the name registered it didn’t affect her.
“You want me to drive out and tell them not to?” Hawk said.
“Yeah,” I said, and gave him the address. “Randall does karate,” I said.
“Good,” Hawk said. “It’s fun to watch.”
I hung up.
“That takes care of that,” I said to Jill.
She made no response.
Jill spent a lot of time with the dogs. She got dressed for the first time, on Monday, wearing some clothes that Susan had bought her, and sat on the floor trying to get the dogs to take turns retrieving a ball. She did this in so soft a voice that I didn’t know what she was saying, and when she spoke to the dogs she leaned very close and whispered in their ears. She ate some potato and leek soup for lunch with a homemade biscuit, and after lunch when I suggested a walk she said, “Can we take the dogs?”
“Sure.”
And so we did. It was clear and sunny and maybe thirty-five degrees when we went out. Jill had on a red down-filled parka, and I wore my leather jacket. I had my gun on in case one of the squirrels got aggressive, and the three dogs raced out ahead of us, crisscrossing as we went, snuffling the ground and occasionally treeing one of the squirrels. When they did they’d moil silently around the base of the tree, leaping sometimes at the branch twenty feet above where the squirrel perched. Hound’s reach must exceed its grasp.
We were on an old logging road, where the sun had caused faster snow melt than under the trees, and the melting had caused a sag in the snow cover that defined our way. The snow was only a few inches deep here and packed harder by the melt and refreeze cycle. We didn’t say anything as we crunched along. Ahead the dogs began to bark frantically and dashed off to the west of the road. When we reached the place where they’d left the road I could see rabbit tracks, the neat front paw marks, the long slur of the back feet. With the dogs out of sight Jill looked anxiously after them.
“They’ll be back,” I said.
Jill nodded, but still she stared off in the direction of the dogs. In another minute the dogs reappeared, tongues lolling, bearing themselves proudly, as if they’d actually caught the rabbit. I could hear Jill’s breath ease out in relief.
The road wound deeper into the woods, and where the trees had shaded it the snow was deeper and the going harder. Jill was beginning to puff, and I slowed my pace for her. She was slipping a little in the deeper snow, and I put my hand out. She took it. We walked on, holding hands. The dogs found a blue jay working on a pinecone and drove him up into the white pine tree behind him. One of them ran about for a while with the pinecone in his mouth. Finally he dropped it. The other dogs sniffed at it in turn but left it behind them as they ranged off in search of better. We were deep in the woods now, and there was no more trail. Jill held on to my hand as we went, and we crunched through the deeper snow in the evergreen woods. It was harder going, in deep; but she seemed to want to keep going. She was breathing hard and hanging on to me even harder when we broke from the woods and saw the lake again. It was frozen and snow covered, and there were the tracks of animals across it. We turned and walked along the margin of the lake. Here the sun had burned away the snow so that rocks showed and occasionally patches of earth with the grass dead and pale in the winter sunlight. The walking was easier. Ahead we could see the cabin. We had come in a slow loop back nearly to where we’d begun. The dogs saw the cabin and headed for it, running full out, heads extended, bodies bunching and flattening. They were milling at the front door when we got there and all three dashed for the water bowl and drank when I opened the door.
The fire was down and I added wood. There was electric heat in the place. The fireplace was more for show. But when it was going it warmed the room, and I turned the heat off. Jill took off her parka and hung it on the back of her chair and went and sat at the table and rested her chin on her elbows.
“I want a drink,” she said.
I mixed two, and brought them to the table and put one down in front of her. Then I sat at the table across from her.
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” I said. I sounded exactly like Humphrey Bogart. Jill drank a little and so did I. The new wood on the fire had blazed up and the flames frolicked in the fireplace. The afternoon light came at a low slant through the windows.
Stardust Page 19
