Bateman’s may have been a separate crime in any event. Certainly, the occurrence in that cabin that night was different from the others, perhaps different enough to change the killer, to alter the patterns, to force him to stop or move on or completely change his procedure. Hell maybe the killer was dead.
Julia Bateman had gone to bed. Then, too restless to sleep, she got back up, put on a robe and paced. The dinner had gone well. A few beers and the restaurant took on a golden glow. The exotic smells, the mix of people, the music and chatter – all made her feel alive again. But a little anxious. By the time they were ready to leave, a light, drizzly fog moved in and they walked back.
Maybe she shouldn’t have had the coffee. Maybe it was the time change. Jet lag. Whatever it was, she was on edge. She had put on some music. Every CD she tried irritated her. Too fast. Too slow. Too romantic. Too cold. She picked up a thick Margaret Atwood paperback; but it proved too complex for a mind that seemed to flit around like a butterfly. She shut out light. Maybe she could sleep now.
The steam radiators had caught up with the chill. Now she felt hot. The room seemed stuffy. No air conditioning. She went to the windows, pulled the lever down and pushed out, her body leaning out over the fire escape. She caught the cold breath of a summer night in the city. She caught movement across narrow Ivy Street – an indistinct figure in the window. It took a moment to realize what he was doing there. What had been discomfort now had a dark, eerie edge. She recognized the symptoms of panic creeping into her mind. She took a deep breath. She shut the window, pulled the shade down.
She picked up the phone and dialed Paul.
‘Thanks for calling,’ came the response. ‘I am not available at the moment. If you’ll leave your name and number and a brief message, I’ll return the call as quickly as I can.’
‘Paul,’ she said in the loudest whisper. Then, realizing it was a little foolish, she spoke in a nearly normal voice. ‘Paul, pick it up. Please.’
She repeated herself, waited. Nothing. She thought about going down the hall. She had a key. No. She was over-reacting. She thought about calling the police. No, no. She wasn’t ready for an all-nighter and the questions.
It wasn’t the killer. He wasn’t in the window for her. Was he? Then who? He was in the window before she got there. He couldn’t have known she was going to open the window. Had he even noticed?
Julia went to the kitchen, found a bottle of white rum and discovered the half-empty bottle of tonic water in the fridge. It was several months old. It had to be flat. She’d try to settle her nerves. First day back and it felt like the day had gone on for weeks.
Julia went to the window again, peeked from the side of the shade. He was still there. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to go out into the night. The alcohol hit her stomach like peroxide on an open cut. Had she made a mistake by coming back?
Iowa wasn’t the answer. But was coming here a solution? She didn’t know. She didn’t have answers. She wasn’t sure she understood the questions. And all of that frightened her almost as much as the peeping Tom.
Earl went out his door, crept from the rear of the three-story Victorian, down the narrow walkway between the houses, toward Stanyan. He didn’t venture far enough to be seen in the hazy glow of the street lamps. No life on the street that he could see. He scanned the row of parked cars. The drizzle had coated most of the windows so it was difficult to tell if there was an occupant in any of them. He watched for some sign of movement.
He was familiar with most of the cars – a couple of them he had thought about hot wiring and just taking off. Maybe for San Antonio or Atlanta. Some place totally new. Away from the cops and the phone calls.
There was a tan Toyota he hadn’t recalled seeing before. And there was a VW bug. The windows were fogged. Either someone had just parked it or someone was in it.
Just as he focused in on what would be the driver’s window, a hand swiped across it. It startled Earl. His body lurched involuntarily. Someone was watching. Could be a couple making out or talking after a date, Earl thought. Could be someone was watching him. Could be the guy who was calling him now. A guy with a cell phone.
Anyone who had staked out Earl’s place would know any movement would have to be on Stanyan. No way to watch from the rear. And it would be difficult for anyone leaving from the back to go anywhere but the front to leave. No alleys. No paths in the back.
The late night drizzle coated Earl’s flesh. His fear turned to anger. Then, like some sort of electrical charge, he became confident. If someone were stalking him, he’d turn the tables. It was as if his brain was lit. He had a feeling similar to the one he had with his young victims. Heartbeat increased, brain cleared, sharp. The excitement was also sexual as it had become for that guy in the Panhandle. This was even better. Earl Falwell had reached some sort of new level.
This was exciting. Danger. A contest. Putting his own life on the line. The scared killer who preyed on weak, unsuspecting young girls was history.
Paul’s cat investigated the newly cleaned window, crawling on Paul’s lap, moving up on his shoulder. Paul swiped at the window again. He thought he saw something move near the house he was watching. It was taller than the ferns that seemed to wall the space between the buildings.
‘I did a really stupid thing,’ Paul said to his cat. He wished the mark he’d made on the window would fog up quickly. He blew on the space that had been cleared.
‘Christ, Chat, what do I do, someone’s coming over here,’ Paul said, knowing full well the cat would do nothing to protect him. ‘Why couldn’t you be a Rottweiler or something? Look at that?’
Earl’s body caught the soft light of the street lamp. He had a body that would have served Calvin Klein well. A body that bore firm muscles, narrowing down to a flat chiseled belly. As it crossed the street and came closer, the commercially pornographic image bore the face of Earl Falwell, more handsome, more frightening than his picture.
Rather than race away and blow any cover he might have, Paul decided to stay and talk his way out of it. Checking on his girlfriend, that was it. Wondering why she wasn’t home. Admit to a little jealousy. He rolled the window down.
‘Hi,’ Earl said.
‘Hello, what’s up?’ Paul said.
‘That’s what I was gonna ask,’ Earl said.
‘Just waiting here,’ Paul said, hoping the nervousness he felt wasn’t apparent in his voice.
‘For what?’
‘It’s kinda personal.’
‘Yeah,’ Earl nodded. ‘I think maybe it is kinda personal because somebody tells me on the phone that somebody is minding my business. Like scoping me out, you know?’
‘Well rest easy . . .’ Paul said, pausing. He’d almost said ‘Earl.’ He continued. ‘Rest easy, guy. I’m waiting for my girl to come home. I think she’s seeing someone else. Just playing private eye, you know?’
‘Funny, I get a call saying I might be watched and I come out here and sure enough someone’s parked out here.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Paul said. He wondered who’d be calling Earl. ‘Why do you think they’d say that?’
‘I don’t know. What’s her name? Your girl?’
‘Trish,’ Paul said. He wasn’t sure where he got the name. He never felt more white.
‘She lives around here, you say?’
‘Yeah.’ He wanted to change the subject before he got trapped. ‘You’re going to catch cold.’ Paul nodded toward Earl’s drizzle coated torso.
‘You could too. Why don’t you come over to my place.’
‘What?’ Paul was confused by the friendly attitude.
‘Couple of lonely guys, huh?’
Was it that obvious? Paul asked himself. ‘Just thought you were getting pretty wet out there. And cold. I’m fine. I really want to know who comes back with Trish. If it’s a girlfriend, hell, who cares? But if she’s seeing some other guy . . .’
‘Yeah?’ Falwell said, challenging Pa
ul’s statement. ‘I like your sweatshirt.’
Paul Chang looked down. The shirt read: ‘Boys will do boys.’ Christ, Chang thought. His stomach pitched. He was so used to being gay, he gave no thought to what he put on for the evening.
‘My place is just over there,’ Falwell said. He reached in, put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘We can talk about your girl.’ Falwell smiled.
‘Uhhh . . .’ God, Paul thought. Was he actually thinking about doing it? About going with Earl? He’d played rough before. He’d taken some chances. The guy was coming on to him. ‘No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.’
‘What have you got to lose?’
Paul tried to disconnect his brain from his penis. It was difficult because there was a legitimate intellectual process going on. Well, one legitimate, one quasi-legitimate. One was the intimacy of strangers which was both an emotional need and an artistic pursuit. The other was his task to learn more about Earl Falwell. How better to find out about him than spend some time with him in his own environs. Paul had already blown his cover.
‘Don’t think so,’ Paul said, not quite losing the battle with his brain. Earl was bigger, tougher. What would happen to . . .
From Paul’s belt came the electronic beeps.
‘What’s that?’ Earl asked.
‘My beeper,’ Paul said, pulling it out. Looking at the number. It was Julia’s. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go.’
‘You can use my phone,’ Earl said, his fingers tightening on Paul’s shoulder.
Paul turned the ignition key. The engine engaged. ‘I gotta go. It’s an emergency.’
‘Just a few minutes,’ Earl said. His fingers clamped around the back of Paul’s neck, the other on the steering wheel.
‘Gotta go,’ Paul said, turning the wheel and accelerating, wrenching himself and the car free, spinning Earl’s body down on the wet pavement. As Paul drove from Stanyan to Haight and up Haight Street, Paul wondered who it was telling Earl Falwell he was being watched. Nobody knew about it except for Inspector Gratelli – and the inspector didn’t seem likely to broadcast it.
‘I wonder if I would have died tonight,’ Paul said to his cat. Whatever Earl did tonight or seemed likely to do, it didn’t necessarily connect him to the dead girls or to Julia Bateman.
TWENTY-THREE
The phone was ringing when Earl got back inside.
‘What?’ he answered.
‘Where were you?’
‘Talking to the guy you sent over,’ Earl said.
‘Someone I sent over?’ the voice replied.
‘Fuck, you did. Don’t deny it.’
‘Earl, I didn’t.’
‘Chinese guy. A fag.’
‘Earl, listen. Don’t go crazy on me. I’m on your side. You do what you do because you have to. I understand it. It’s what you need. Like air or water. The world’s a tough place. You’ve got to survive. I know that. Everybody does what they have to do. I could go on for hours about all the stuff that people do to each other – all legal. Killers. Make things that get people addicted and kill them. And society thinks you’re bad. It’s what you get by with. That’s all that counts.’ There was a pause, then the caller continued: ‘You didn’t have it easy did you?’ Another long pause. ‘Who cared about you?’ Nothing. ‘Tell me.’ There was more silence. ‘Earl?’
‘What?’
‘Who cared about you?’
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’
‘Who gives a shit about how you feel? Who understands how lonely you are? Who in the hell ever talked to you like you were a human being? Like you were a decent guy? Who ever held you, loved you, wanted to protect you? Who calmed you after your nightmares? Who cares about whether you live or die? That’s what I’m talking about.’
Earl thought about Grandma O. She was separate. He never talked about her to anyone. If he did, it would spoil it.
‘No one, I guess,’ Earl said.
‘See, that’s the point. The only one who cares about you is you. You have to protect yourself.’
‘Yeah? From who? You?’
‘No, Earl. I’m trying to help, remember? From this woman who saw you on the hill, above Haight, remember? She can identify you. She can identify your car.’
‘I’m tired,’ Earl said.
‘Go to bed, Earl. Get some sleep. I’ll let you rest, OK?’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, Earl. We’ll talk later.’
‘I just don’t know,’ she said to Paul after explaining what had happened. ‘Since I’ve been back, everything seems dark, more desperate. A nightmare. For a moment I thought that this guy up there in the window was him. Why not? It could have been. It’s like I’m waiting for the moment when he returns or when some other monster comes out of the dark.’
‘I know.’
‘I panicked. But I’m afraid I’m going to go from one panic to another. I’m scared. I’m scared of being scared.’
‘Don’t apologize, Jules.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I normally take these things in stride. Now I feel sorry for the poor pervert across the alley. Just lonely and screwed up.’
For a moment she looked as lost and forlorn as she had in the hospital. As she did then, Julia Bateman stared down at her hands.
‘Don’t leave me here alone,’ Paul said to her, remembering how she’d been at the hospital – staring at her hands and lost. ‘You just got here. I need you.’
‘It’s all just too strange, Paul.’
‘That it is, dear girl,’ he said putting on an Irish brogue. ‘But Father O’Chang is here for ya, lass.’
‘That’s good to know. What part of your life did I screw up by beeping you?’
‘Neither of us will ever know.’
He wasn’t about to tell her.
‘You want me to stay the night?’ he asked.
‘No. But go lock the window, will you. I really don’t want to see him.’
‘You could come stay with me. I’ve got one of those things people take along on camping trips . . .’
‘Those things with the zippers?’
‘Those very things.’
‘I don’t know what you call them.’
‘I can’t think of it either,’ Paul said. ‘But I’ve been trying to find an excuse to sleep in it. What’s his name left it.’
‘What’s his name left the whatchamacallit?’
‘Right.’
‘Bradley,’ she said.
‘Yeah, him.’
‘You miss him?’
‘I don’t know. I kept thinking life was going to be like the Brady Bunch.’
‘How was that supposed to happen?’ Julia asked.
‘I don’t know, exactly. We could get some puppies and name them Greg and Peter and Bob and . . .’
‘And Marsha and . . .’ she said.
‘I forget the girls,’ he said.
‘Go home.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I can handle it. Some milk and cookies and Hawaiian music and I’ll drift off to Paradise.’
‘Bye toots,’ Paul said, kissing her on the forehead. ‘I’m a phone call away and I won’t be going out anymore tonight. I’ll just pack up some of Bradley’s depressing artwork and his strange diaries.’
Morning streamed in through the side window. Only the general, dispersed light nagged Julia from sleep. It was quiet. Strangely normal. For a few moments she had forgotten the months in Iowa, the trip back and the tiny attacks of panic gaining a hold for the final, sorry disturbance across the alley.
A car door slammed down on Ivy Street. She slipped out of bed, went to the little white tiled mosaic bathroom. She checked out the fact of her existence by looking at the mirror.
Yes, it was one Julia Bateman, not too much the worse for last night. Actually not too much worse for the last year or so. The body the attacker left her – broken and bruised – was almost back to normal. The broken nose showed only the slightest bump now. She smiled to show herself h
er teeth. The new dental work was good. Though they weren’t all real, she might have a slightly better smile. She had aged faster than the calendar. A kind of five years for one toll, she now felt better about exchanging for the gift of life.
Actually, in some ways, with the jogging and exercise in Iowa City, she was probably in better shape than before. She was certainly trimmer.
‘Get on with it,’ she said to her image, applying that to both the day and the rest of her life. Funny, after all these months, the scent of the spilled perfume still lingered.
The phone rang. It was Inspector Gratelli.
Apparently she wouldn’t be getting on with it without dragging a bit of the past along behind her.
‘I’m sorry to be bringing this up again,’ Gratelli said, settling on the small chair opposite the one by the desk where she sat. He had quite a day ahead of him. This interview, then a quick drive up to Petaluma for the viewing. McClellan’s widow had asked him to come. Had asked him to speak at the funeral later the same day. He would rather have faced a firing squad. But he agreed. ‘It’s important.’
‘That’s all right,’ she said, thinking perhaps she had been a little too curt.
‘Are you OK now?’
‘Yes, I am. I’m pretty sure.’
‘You’ve just gotten back, I know. Are you sure you want to talk about this now?’
‘It’s fine, really.’ It wasn’t fine. She just wanted to get on with it. With all that had gone on yesterday and last night and a rough sleep, Julia was on edge. On top of that she had fed her jangled nerves three cups of coffee in the half-hour between the inspector’s call and his arrival.
‘Have you thought about this at all?’ Gratelli asked.
‘Yes . . . but I’m not really sure what you mean.’ She stood. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Sure,’ Gratelli said. ‘But what you need is a shot of bourbon.’
She laughed. ‘I know. I know.’ She sat back down. ‘You want to know if I can remember anything more than I did when we last met.’
Good to the Last Kiss Page 19
