Iveta was here—America, Boston, Sedona—because of the fat man. His name was Hiram Fish. He and Madame Belle were enemies, something from the past—she must have been very young. Iveta was here with Daniel because she had done a favor for Madame Belle, who wanted photos that showed Fish having sex. The term in English was “compromising position.”
Iveta had met Fish through a restaurant owner in Prague, a friend of Madame Belle. When Fish came to the restaurant to look her over, Iveta passed the test. He took her to dinner, tried to get her drunk, and then she took him to a perfect little maison de passe, made camera-ready by Madame Belle’s technicians.
The hidden cameras caught Fish wearing a black rubber bra, a pink baby bow, and pink panties. Iveta wore a wig and a silver domino. “Let’s pretend there’s a party,” she said.
The camera also caught Fish slapping Iveta, trying to tear off her mask. She was pushing him away, the girl who said no. She remembered getting angry when he broke her tooth. She punched him in the gut, he coughed. Then he called her a bitch. She broke his nose. There was blood.
She remembered the pain; it hounded her for weeks. But she had escaped Prague. She had thrived in Paris. She had found her man in Boston. She had counted on never seeing Fish again, and now here he was in this very hotel, looking smug and ugly and evil.
Iveta had a mission. She needed to warn Madame Belle. She was no longer in Prague, no longer in Paris, no longer working for Madame Belle. But the debt would last forever.
Chapter 45
When her shift ended, Karla rode her bike to Vortex Bank. The sun felt lovely on her legs. No word from Charity … where was the effing money? She told herself to relax; Charity loved playing games. As she rolled into the parking lot, Karla could not suppress her excitement. She was smiling big-time as she parked her bike beside the yellow beauty of Mr. Cypher. He waved at her through his window, something he’d never done before today.
She was still smiling inside the bank, feeling the eyes of Larry and Joe, two old girl-watchers drinking free bank coffee and sitting in rent-free chairs along the west wall. Mr. Cypher was up out of his chair, holding the door for her. Inside his fish-bowl office, she asked him for help opening a new account.
His eyes followed Karla’s legs as she crossed them. She saw what the girls were talking about. When a guy wanted you, and when he let you know it, and when he was a solid guy with a good job—then Mr. Darwin took control, not only of your body, but your survival reflexes.
She put Mr. Cypher through the Mr. Right Checklist—good genes, good resources, good behavior. His good genes showed up in the handshake, the slim build, his body heat. He had good resources—job, house, car, and he made steady money at the bank. His swell behavior back in Los Angeles had rescued Karla from a bad college loan. She was curious about his behavior if she could get him alone. The legs crossed again, testing, the eyes followed. For a moment she had control.
She mentioned her trouble in L.A. and that triggered his memory—of course he remembered helping Karla arrange a new payment plan on her student loan. Was he lying to make her feel good? Did he really remember or was it her bare just-shaved legs? His smile said he liked her, maybe even wanted her, and Karla could feel herself responding. She asked, did he also remember advising her to join the army? He said, Did I? But now they had a connection, soldier to soldier.
She kept waiting for him to bring up the subject of Benny Kelwin, the bastard who got her pregnant, deserted her. And she flashed on images from her pregnancy dream—the stolen pickup, the sturdy deer guard, the impact when she hit Kelwin coming out of the apartment of his new girlfriend. If Mr. Cypher knew something, he could send Karla to jail.
But all he said was, “I’m hungry. How about some lunch?”
They drove north into Oak Creek Canyon. They ate outdoors, sitting side by side, shoulders touching, like two lovers in a fictional romance. The breeze came up and Mr. Cypher loaned Karla a parka from North Face that reminded her of Santa Fe, the cold stairwell, the falling body of Frederick Delaplane.
The wine was a Pinot Noir. One glass and Karla was tipsy, and then Mr. Cypher said how beautiful had been in Los Angeles, so young, so vulnerable. That was seven long years ago. The compliments flowed through her, fire in the blood, and voilà, she felt the sizzle of romance.
There was a motel next to the lunch place. The room was clean; the mattress did not squeak. There was a fake fireplace like the one in Ackerman’s penthouse. Had Mr. Cypher been here with other women?
Everyone said Mr. Cypher was in shape. They were right on. From the doorway, Karla watched him strip down. Khaki suit, blue button-down shirt, boxer shorts. She had expected winter pale skin, but his skin had seen recent sun. Valley rumors claimed that Mr. Cypher was hung like a horse—those rumors did not lie.
Mr. Cypher asked permission to undress her, showing good behavior. His hands were clever—not his first time with a woman. He said how beautiful she was, how he had watched her from afar, from his office at the bank.
She was nervous, so she mentioned the mystery workshop with Miss Steinbeck and Mr. Cypher said he had a signed copy of the book, Murder on Drake Island. They stopped talking about Miss Steinbeck. He finished stripping away Karl’s clothes. Naked, she moved close and there was his hand on her thigh. She turned, a slow pirouette, until his hand slid between her legs. She laughed, sounding like a girl in a movie. They moved to the bed. The sex was good; this guy knew about women, what they needed to feel comfortable. Karla was in love.
Chapter 46
After the superior sex with Karla Kurtz, Cypher dropped into Zen Mode.
Had he found his perfect woman at last? She was attractive, hard-working; she knew what she wanted from life. A Latina Cinderella, climbing up from the ashes.
Her leg was thrown across his. Her lips nibbled his throat. She told him about her childhood in Los Angeles, the violence, stabbing a Latino guy because he got her sister pregnant, the cops were scary. Then she told him her hope of being a famous writer. Miss Steinbeck really liked her workshop writing and when she read, the whole room got hooked and ….
Cypher was not listening because Karla’s memories shoved him back into the twisted tunnel of his own childhood.
Cypher remembered singing solos in the church choir, taking voice lessons. The teacher said, “You’ll have a career in music.” While Karla remembered violence, Cypher remembered drawing in art class, winning a state contest, where one judge said he was channeling Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo became Cypher’s first real hero—thinker, artist, inventor, man of the world.
Cypher remembered reading books about Leonardo’s inventions, the parachute, the aerial screw-helicopter, the 33-barreled organ—the forerunner to the Gatling Gun. Cypher filled notebooks with hero stories, exotic weapons, adventures in foreign lands. He remembered burning the stories after Father died, after Mother was being courted by the preacher, Brother O’Brien, who had a fat face, like Senator Fish. He remembered the girl next door, Alyson the blonde cheerleader, he remembered her naked knees when she jumped, the sexy pleated skirt, go team go ….
“Hey,” a voice said.
“What?” he said.
“Where did you go?”
“I’m sorry. You were telling me about the workshop, the Yavapai room, three days a week—taught by our local writer, Miss Steinbeck.”
“And you drifted off.”
“What’s your gory tale about?” he said.
“A nasty uncle gets a girl pregnant,” Karla said. “She loses the baby, then pushes the uncle off a bridge. He’s drunk … no more uncle. The girl is named Faith Marie. She has red hair, a Southern accent, a killer body. She lusts for revenge. Her daddy is a preacher. She blames her parents, hates men. Flash forward, she’s famous for pushing guys downstairs, and gets hired by this Mr. X guy, who has this list, see, but she needs help, so she recruits a newbie and—”
“You love the act of writing, don’t you?”
“Writing is exciting,” she said. “The wor
ds flowing, your heart beating.”
“I’d be honored to view a sample,” he said.
“It’s on disc,” she said. “Would you care to edit me?”
Chapter 47
Helene Steinbeck lay on the metal exam table.
Her feet were cold. She shivered in the white gown. Her knees were open, her feet planted in the metal stirrups. The doctor wore a surgical headlamp. Her exam gloves were white latex. Helene could not stop trembling. Every time she felt a touch, she wanted to shriek.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” the doctor said. “It’s normal. Just one more peek, okay?”
Helene twitched at the touch. She was afraid. She kept seeing the eyes of the madman. The invasion of her body by the doctor triggered a flashback.
The doctor went away, leaving Helene on her back in the madman’s office. On his bed with the ritualistic black silk sheets. He stood over her, grinning. Helen was pumped full of drugs. He swayed back and forth, fading, coming back into focus. Helene blinked. He went away. The doctor stepped back, stripped off her white gloves and dumped them into a little metal can.
“All good. You can get dressed now.”
The doctor was named Ruth Gold. She still had the New York accent. Helene was here because Dr. Ruth was a friend of Axel Ackerman.
Dr. Ruth was a GP. She did minor surgery. She did gynecology and internal medicine. She did ears, noses, throats, but not eyes. She was a naturopath, a homeopath, an herbalist. She was a licensed pediatrician.
All that was on her office door. Squeezed onto her business card. Maybe she also did psychiatry. That’s what Helene needed.
While Helene was dressing, the door opened and the madman strode through.
He was naked except for his uniform cap and pistol.
He aimed the pistol at Helene. She hunkered down behind the exam table.
“Everything okay?” the doctor said.
The madman frowned. He rolled his eyes. He vanished.
“I just saw my rapist,” Helene said.
“That’s normal,” the doctor said.
“I’m going crazy,” Helene said.
“Tell me about the rapist.”
“He kidnapped young women. We went after him. We split up.”
“Who’s we?” the doctor said.
“Murdock and me,” Helene said.
“Your significant other?”
“I think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I think so.”
“How did you think about Murdock before the rape?”
“We were so good,” Helene said. “It seemed fated. We were tight. Our brains were in sync.”
“How was the sex?” the doctor said.
“The sex was amazing,” Helene said. “Spontaneous, natural, loving.”
“And after the rape … how’s the sex now?”
“Zero sex,” Helene said. “Nada, zip, nothing.”
“Has he tried?”
“Not physically … but I can feel him. You know men.”
“Have you tried?”
“I can’t.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“I have the bed. He has the sofa.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Not much.”
“Taking any drugs?”
“No.”
“Want some?” the doctor said.
“Sometimes.”
“Tell me how you got locked in with the rapist.”
Helene told her about the manhunt, how she and Murdock split up, how she ended up drugged, strapped to a bed, and raped.
“Whose idea was it to split up?” the doctor said.
“My idea.”
“Why?”
“The man was attracted to me. I thought I could handle him.”
“Were you right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you able to handle him?”
“I killed him,” Helene said.
“How?”
“I drove a hat pin into his eye. And that’s what I dream about, the close-up of his eye. And that’s why I’m going crazy, and that’s why I’m here!”
“You don’t have to shout,” the doctor said.
Helene shook her head. Had she been shouting? She looked around the room. She was in the doctor’s office, sitting in a chair, sipping tea. She did not remember asking for tea. The cup was warm in her hands. Her face was hot. If the madman walked through the door, she would kill him again.
“So,” the doctor said. “Was it morning? Afternoon? Night?”
“Afternoon,” Helene said. “It was Indian summer on Angel Mountain. A lovely Sunday and that dirty, slimy bastard—”
“If you could replay that afternoon, would you make the same decision?”
“Yes.”
“Knowing that the filthy bastard would rape you?”
“He would have killed Murdock,” Helene said. “I knew I could handle him.”
“Had you killed before?”
“Once,” Helene said.
“How did it feel?”
“Necessary,” Helene said.
“Because you are good killing evil?”
“It was clear to me at the time.”
“So you feel justified?”
Helene nodded. The doctor handed over a small mirror. Helene stared at herself. Her face had the high color of anger, exasperation. Her eyes were narrow and fierce. Her lips were drawn back against her teeth. She exhaled. She was here, in a quiet office in Oak Creek Village, seven miles south of Sedona. She was alive. The madman was dead. Murdock was alive. She missed Murdock.
“What are you feeling right now?”
“Anger,” Helene said. “I am pissed off.”
“Are you angry about the rapist?”
“The code of honor,” Helene said.
“Explain that,” the doctor said.
“We knew this guy was bad. He was flaunting his evil, taunting us. He wanted to kill Murdock and have sex with me, then kill me too. There wasn’t enough hard evidence, nothing we could take to court. Society has its rules. So we went after him.”
“Were you doing it for Society?” the doctor said.
“We were doing it because he was evil.”
“What are you feeling now?”
Helene grinned. She felt better. This doctor from New York knew her stuff. The doctor grinned back. Breathing was good.
“So what now, Doctor?”
“Have you talked to Murdock?”
“Not about this.”
“Do you know why?”
“There’s this wall,” Helene said.
“Have you asked for a hug?”
“No.”
“I can give you something to help you sleep,” the doctor said. “It’s herbs and homeopathy. The physical exam showed no internal damage. Think of the wall as a net across a tennis court.”
“The ball is back in my court, correct?”
“Getting raped is terrible, and this thing is still big—larger than you or me—so don’t downplay it. Come back and see me in a week.”
Helene sat there, feeling heavy. Questions whirled in her brain. Why was she here? What did she hope to gain by coming here? Why was she eating so much?
“Something else?” the doctor said.
“I’m gaining weight,” Helene said. “I feel really fat.”
“Chocolate cravings?” the doctor said.
“And Danish. At the hotel. They are awesome.”
“Eating gives you control,” the doctor said. “Chocolate has caffeine; it gooses your endorphins, you feel good. You’re tall, you can handle the weight. Are you exercising?”
“Not enough,” Helene said.
“Has Murdock noticed?”
“He sees everything. He has a good eye for the female anatomy.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No, but I can feel him thinking it.”
“Anything else?”
“I’
m jumpy,” Helene said.
“Normal,” the doctor said.
“Not for me,” Helene said. “Before the rape I had nerves of steel. I was a cop, then a town marshal. I killed my friend and—”
“Why did you kill your friend?”
“To stop her from killing little girls,” Helene said.
“Would you do it again?”
“Yes.”
“So this rape snatched away your self-control. And the eating is further proof that you have lost control, and you’re here to get it back.”
“But I don’t know how!”
“What does Murdock think?”
“Is that my assignment, professor?”
“Start with the hug,” the doctor said.
They walked together through the outer office. They stood on the sidewalk. The sun sagged toward the Hieroglyphs, southwest of Sedona. The doctor’s office sat next door to Vortex Bank. Cypher’s yellow bike was padlocked to the bike rack.
The doctor handed Helene a paper sack. Inside she found three bottles of pills. One said SLEEP. One said MEMORY. One said HUGS. Helene hugged the doctor, could they be friends? She said, “Thank you.”
The doctor said, “De Nada.”
On the way up the hill toward Sedona Landing, Helene phoned Geronimo Airport. Murdock’s plane was due at four.
Chapter 48
Through the window of Ackerman’s plane, Murdock saw the Humvee. It was parked beside the runway at Geronimo Airport. He thanked the pilot, grabbed his backpack. His heart did a little flip when Helene stepped down from the Humvee. She said hello, gave him a hug. He wanted to hang on; she broke away. The driver’s door opened and she climbed inside. Murdock took the passenger seat. The wall between them was back.
“How was Amarillo?”
“Found a guy with a motive.”
“Who?”
“Young Joey Wilson, son of Honest Joe Wilson, the owner of—”
“What’s the motive?” Helene said.
“The Crew wrecked his family business. They also wrecked the family.”
“How old was Joey?”
“Fourteen or fifteen.”
“So he’d be like forty-five now?”
Murdock Rocks Sedona Page 16
