My night nurse, Melissa, preceded them, asking if I was up to having more visitors. I blinked. The frequency of visitors tired me, but it also made me feel a connection to the world I’d involuntarily left behind.
They were still there at ten o’clock when Hy arrived with the information that the file on the background investigations Amanda Teller had requested last year had been deleted from the office’s system but recovered by Derek. Hy had read it and found it was a simple background check on people Teller had considered potential political allies or adversaries.
But it had been deleted. Now I had a lot more to process.
If I could talk, or even write, I would’ve brainstormed with the three of them. Explained the connections I sensed, even if I couldn’t back them up. Asked them to look for the missing pieces. But for some reason Julia wasn’t reading the signals I was trying to give her with my eyes—probably exhausted from nonstop working. And Rae was reading too much into them. It made me afraid for her; she had a tendency to stray unprepared into dangerous territory.
Hy, on the other hand, understood. We were closely attuned to each other, as always. “You’re putting something together, but you need more facts.”
Blink.
“Well, maybe tomorrow ...” He lapsed into silence as Rae and Julia gathered their things and left.
Hy looked discouraged, slouched in the armchair, his hair tousled and his cheeks stubbled. His cellular rang, and he checked it, said he had to take the call, and went out into the corridor. Since the shooting my hearing had become more acute—a compensation for the loss of other functions. Hy probably thought he was out of my earshot.
“Weathers, what d’you want?... No, nothing yet... I said I’d call you if I had a problem. Where did you get this number? ... Well, don’t call it again.”
Weathers.
There was a pilot at North Field by that name. Flew a small jet, and Hy had always gone out of his way to avoid him. Come to think of it, Weathers went out of his way to avoid Hy. So why was Weathers calling him now?
I tried to remember what Hy had told me about the man. Couldn’t come up with anything. If he had talked about Weathers it’d been a long time ago and I hadn’t retained any of it.
Hy returned, sat back down. Instead of explaining the phone call, he said, “I’m going to sleep here tonight. Your brother’s driving me crazy. He keeps concocting preposterous revenge schemes for when we find out who did this to you.”
Revenge .. .
And right then I remembered that I did know something about Weathers—first name Len. Hy had known him in Thailand, was surprised when he turned up in the Bay Area. Avoided him because he suspected Weathers had become a professional killer.
Oh God, no, Hy! Don’t do it that way!
* * * *
MONDAY, JULY 21
* * * *
HY RIPINSKY
H
e’d seen the bewilderment in Shar’s eyes when he reentered her room; probably she’d overheard his conversation and was trying to figure out who Len Weathers was. Alarm had soon replaced bewilderment. She’d tried with her eyes to get him to talk about his involvement with the man, but he’d avoided her unvoiced questions, pretending to doze. He had stayed in the chair beside her bed until she slept with decreasing restlessness. When he slipped out at first light she seemed less fitful.
The institute was close to Land’s End, a favorite spot of theirs because it resembled the wild, rocky coast at Touchstone. The westernmost promontory was called Point Lobos, after the sea lions—once called sea wolves—who now made their resting place at Seal Rock, offshore from the historic Cliff House restaurant. The shadowy cypress, pungent-smelling eucalyptus, and miles of coastal views made for a stunningly beautiful and peaceful setting—especially this early in the morning.
Hy drove there and took the trail down the bluff to the large viewing platform above the point. The sun was cresting the city’s hills, suffusing the sky with an orange-pink color. The open sea spread before him, the Farallon Islands faintly visible through the mist in the distance. A foghorn bellowed its melancholy message. Hy sat on a bench by the railing and did some soul-searching.
His past had been violent, that was true. The post-Vietnam era in Southeast Asia bred despicable activity, especially when you were in a kill-or-be-killed situation. He flashed on the memory of the bodies of the Laotian family attempting to escape to the US, frozen in the skin of the plane because they hadn’t listened to his instructions about not removing their heavy outerwear while concealed there. That hadn’t been his fault, but the massacre in the jungle, where he’d been forced against his will to turn his gun on his own passengers ... Maybe if he’d been smarter, more receptive to the signals he was getting that day—
Old recriminations. No use dwelling on them.
In the years since then he’d married a good woman, Julie Spaulding, who was devoted to environmental causes. He’d become devoted, too, still sat on the board of the foundation she’d funded in her will. But when Julie died of multiple sclerosis, as they’d both known would eventually happen, he’d turned to radical environmentalism, taking out his anger at her loss in violent protests and demonstrations. Spent more time in jail than your average boy from the high desert country.
That had changed when he met Shar. Well, not totally: he’d been arrested the next March in Siskiyou County for disorderly conduct during an anti-logging demonstration. Fortunately, the charges were dropped.
But still he’d changed...Her love had changed him. He’d been sure of it. He was sure of it still.
So what had he been thinking, contacting a killer like Weathers?
Not thinking: indulging in blind rage. Find the shooter, send Weathers to deliver him, then take his time killing him. Make it slow and painful. Make sure the bastard knew exactly what he had coming to him—and why.
And what would that make him?
Hy stared into the mist receding over the sea, trying to avoid the question. But he couldn’t do it. The answers were too clear-cut.
Killing the shooter would make him no better than Weathers. It would mean that he was unchanged after all, the same man he’d always been, the side of him he’d always hated.
No. He wasn’t like Weathers, couldn’t let himself act as Weathers did.
If he did, it would be a betrayal of his love for McCone. There had to be some other way to channel all this rage.
* * * *
RAE KELLEHER
A
lternative Resources had its offices in a six-story smoky-glass building off the 280 freeway in Cupertino. Another not-particularly-attractive monument to the new microchip technology that had sprung from the young and brilliant minds that now populated what had once been an area of orange groves. A quiet revolution had been born here and through booms and busts the world had forever been changed. In 1939, Stanford classmates Bill Hewlett and Dave Packard couldn’t have imagined what their tinkering in a Palo Alto garage would lead to.
There was one slot left in the visitors’ parking area. Rae squeezed her little BMW into it between two oversize gas-guzzling vehicles. Security was surprisingly lax in the building: the guard at the desk motioned her through without really looking at her credentials. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor and was directed by a receptionist to Cheryl Fitzgerald’s office.
Fitzgerald was a plain-faced woman, her skin a doughy white. She wore her graying hair long and parted down the middle; heavy black-framed glasses magnified keen brown eyes. She took time to read Rae’s card, then set it on her desk and leaned forward.
“You should have made an appointment, Ms. Kelleher.”
“I would have, but I was pressed for time. I’m—”
“I know who you are, who you’re married to, the titles of the books you’ve written, and who you’re working for. How is Ms. McCone?”
“Fully cognizant, although she can’t move or speak. They call it locked-in syndrome.”
“I’ve read about
that. But I hope in her case, the mind triumphs over the body. Are you trying to find out who attacked her?”
“In a way. I’m interested in the Pro Terra Party.”
Fitzgerald’s face remained impassive, but she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Buying time, Rae thought.
“What on earth would the party have to do with Ms. McCone’s shooting?”
“Most likely nothing. It’s only one line in the overall investigation.”
Such an explanation wouldn’t have satisfied Rae, but Fitzgerald accepted it. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
”Why did Don Beckman leave the party?”
”He and I were ... involved. Pro Terra was our child. But then he decided he wanted a child of our own; I couldn’t bring one into the world—not this world.”
”So he left the party, and you ... ?”
”Carried on. Until the leadership was co-opted by elements that were at odds with our original philosophy. At that point, I had to resign.”
“Who were these elements?”
She hesitated. “I haven’t talked about this since I left the party, I was determined to put it behind me and simply lead a useful life. And if I tell you what I know and it becomes public, I’ll be up against some very powerful forces. Dangerous people.”
”What you tell me will remain confidential.” Unless the police made her give it up—but Fitzgerald didn’t have to know that.
Fitzgerald glanced at her watch. “It’s too long a story, and I have an appointment in five minutes. Why don’t you meet me at eleven? There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor of the building—the Real Bean. We’ll talk then.”
* * * *
Rae waited at a table in the Real Bean, a cooling cup of cappuccino in front of her. Every now and then she’d take a sip, which only reminded her how much she hated designer coffees. Why had she ordered it? Maybe it went with the territory.
All around her casually dressed workers were sipping exotic brews and nibbling on muffins, carrot cake, or sandwiches with an inordinate amount of alfalfa sprouts protruding from them. Many worked on laptops, others read newspapers. Although it was a small shop, none of the patrons acknowledged the others and it seemed to Rae they even avoided eye contact with the counterpersons. Another sign of twenty-first-century isolationism.
Rae watched the clock behind the counter. Eleven-thirteen. Eleven-twenty-two. Eleven-forty. Fitzgerald had been held up at the office ... she hoped.
Eleven-fifty.
Noon.
Twelve-oh-seven.
No, Rae had been stood up. She left the cafe, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and asked the receptionist if Ms. Fitzgerald was still in.
“I’m sorry, she isn’t.”
“When did she leave?”
“At about a quarter to eleven. She said she’d be gone the rest of the day, on urgent personal business. Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow?”
“No, thank you.”
Rae turned away, went to push the elevator button.
Urgent personal business? Was Fitzgerald covering her ass with the “powerful forces” and “dangerous people”?
* * * *
SHARON McCONE
L
ast night I dreamed I was flying. It felt so real—the freedom, the soaring, the thrilling turbulence. But then I woke to dull light and immobility, and Hy was gone from the armchair. And I remembered his side of the conversation with Len Weathers that I’d overheard. Became afraid for him all over again.
In my presence, Hy’s demeanor had been calm, supportive, and loving. But I felt the tension and rage that was roiling inside him. He would do what he felt he had to do about the person who had put me into this state, even if it forced him to sacrifice himself.
No way to stop this thing he’d set in motion. Unless ...
Unless I could identify the perp myself—in cooperation with my operatives, of course. Could I guide them in this investigation? Sure. I’d already taken control, my eyes telling them what to do. I’d lead them to the shooter; then they could go to the police and have the person taken into custody where Len Weathers couldn’t get at him.
I didn’t care what happened to the shooter; if I weren’t bound to this bed and could nail him myself, I wouldn’t treat him gently. But I didn’t want Hy involved in a murder-for-hire case.
Murder for hire.
No, that wasn’t Hy’s style. He’d told Weathers he needed him if there was a problem. Backup, that was all. Hy would do the job himself. And that would add to the burden of guilt he carried from his time in Southeast Asia—a burden that only in recent years had begun to ease.
Can’t let that happen.
I began focusing in a way I never had before: split my energy between trying to will my fingers and toes to move and examining the facts of the case. One finger, one fact. One toe, another fact. Over and over. And the energy, instead of weakening from the split, grew stronger. My mind seemed to expand, to grow—
Although I only imagined the twinge of feeling in my right hand, it gave me hope.
* * * *
A woman came into my room: short, blonde, with an upturned nose—what in my cheerleading days we used to call perky. She sat in the armchair and introduced herself. Sarah Lawson, speech therapist.
“I understand you’re able to communicate yes and no with eyeblinks,” she said.
I blinked once.
“That’s wonderful, because this afternoon I’m going to start working with you, so you can spell out words with your eyes. One blink, A; two blinks, B; and so on.”
And twenty-six blinks, Z. An exhausting process.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sarah said, “and I won’t deny it. The process is tough, and it’ll take a long time until you can put a coherent sentence together. But you can do it; many patients have. A French editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, dictated an entire book that way.”
I’d heard of Bauby. He died within two years of the stroke that disabled him.
I closed my eyes and let the tears flow.
* * * *
JULIA RAFAEL
B
y noon, when the SFPD still had no leads on the Haven Dietz murder, Julia decided to drive to the Brandt Institute and share both the Dietz and the Peeples files with Shar.
Shar looked tired, and Julia understood why: on the way in she’d seen Hy escorting Kay Hunt, Shar’s adoptive mother, out to his car. Julia had met Mrs. Hunt only once when she’d paid a visit to the pier on one of her trips to the city; she’d seemed fine then, but Julia had heard about the scene here yesterday. Today must have brought more of the same.
Madres! Mierda!
She read each file through verbatim to Shar, held up the photographs appended to them for her to see: formal headshot of Dietz before the attack; group shot with the staff at the financial management firm where she’d been employed; informal and badly lighted snap of her in front of her apartment. Formal shot of Peeples; Larry with his parents at the vineyard; Larry and Ben Gold with Seal Rock in the background. Shar’s eyes lingered on all of them.
Julia asked, “Is there something I should be looking into more deeply?”
Blink.
“Peeples?”
Blink.
“The money?”
Blink.
“It had to come from someplace, right? Maybe Thelia or Diane can help me there?”
Blink.
“What about Dietz?”
Blink.
“The police’re investigating her murder. You think I should conduct my own investigation?”
Blink, blink.
“What, then? Dig deeper into her background? Maybe go back a long time before she was attacked?”
Blink.
Julia paused, then realized what Shar was trying to tell her. “In her job Dietz had access to a lot of money.”
Blink.
“I hear you.”
Even if you can’t speak, I hear you loud and clear.
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* * * *
CRAIG MORLAND
H
e and Mick sat across the round table in the conference room, going over the city hall investigation file with Diane D’Angelo. D’Angelo, the latest addition to the agency staff, was tall, willowy, and blonde, with what Craig thought of as patrician features—the kind of woman he’d dated in prep school and college and later in Washington, DC. The kind of woman his parents had expected him to marry.
Locked In - [McCone 29] Page 13
