For much of the drive to Perdido, I let my mind go blank. The day was typical of California: clear blue skies, temperatures in the seventies, a light breeze that scuffed at the surf, kicking up a spray as fine as dust. The five off-shore islands were clear enough to count the ridges on the range of hills: Anacapa, Santa Barbara, San Miguel, Santa Rosa, and Santa Cruz make up the Channel Islands National Park, which offers hiking, camping, snorkeling, kayaking, and bird-watching—all activities that had so little appeal, I’d cut my wrists first. San Miguel, in particular, has thirty-mile-an-hour winds that render the place especially hostile—or so I’ve heard, never having made the trip. None of the islands provide water, goods, services, public phones, indoor toilets, or overnight accommodations. Visitors are expected to bring all their own food and supplies. Why is that fun?
The twenty-six miles sped by while I entertained myself with foul thoughts. I was reassured by the uniformed woman posted outside Phyllis’s hospital room, but nothing prepared me for the sight of her. She seemed shrunken. Her dark hair was wispy and unkempt, which a hospital stay would do for anyone. Her veins could have been applied with pale blue transfer tissue on arms that were painfully thin. She had an IV line in her right arm and her left in a cast. Her left eye was still so swollen she looked like the prize fighter who’d just lost in the ring. I could see the bony substructure of her badly bruised left cheek, which might never be smooth again.
The nurse cautioned me to keep my visit brief.
I pulled a chair close to the bed and held Phyllis’s hand, which was as cold and as light as snow. “What’s going on, babe?”
Her voice was raspy from disuse and the wired jaw caused her to speak through clenched teeth. “I told Ned. When he beat me.”
“Told him what?”
“Sent you Celeste’s name and location. Thought I was lying . . .”
“Ah. Which is why he came back to the condo to search the remaining boxes.”
She nodded as best she could. “Worried sick,” she murmured.
“I am, too. Turns out he set up housekeeping under my office and jerry-rigged the phone so he could listen to my calls. That’s how he picked up your address. It never occurred to me he’d found a way to breach my safeguards. Happily, I managed to fire several shots at him, nicking him at least once if his shrieks were at all indicative.”
“He wants Celeste.”
“I’m aware of that. I’ve already talked to her and we have a plan in place. She’s flying in from an unknown location. As soon as she has reservations, she’ll let me know what time her flight gets in. I’ll meet her and then take her to the police station, where she’ll hand-deliver the evidence to Lieutenant Phillips, who’s in charge of the case.” After that, I’ll take her back to the airport and send her on her way.”
“Dangerous.”
“I understand your concern, but I don’t see how he could get wind of it. She’s being extremely cautious.”
“No, no. Tell her don’t come.”
“That may not be possible, but I’ll do what I can.”
? ? ?
On the return drive to Santa Teresa, I wondered if there was really any way to effect a change of plans. I had no idea where Celeste was coming from or where she’d pick up her connecting flight. My only hope was to catch her before she left. The minute I got home, I went straight to the phone. My message light was blinking and I pressed Play with dread. One sentence: “Arrive 1:15 on agreed date.”
I retrieved the fold of paper from between my boobs and punched in her number. The line rang and rang and rang. This time there wasn’t any reassuring beep to indicate that I could leave a message. I let the line ring fifteen more times and then I hung up. So much for warning her off or canceling her trip to Santa Teresa. I could feel my stomach churn. Phyllis’s anxiety was contagious, but I couldn’t see where the plan could go wrong. Wherever Ned was holed up, I didn’t see how he could intercept either one of us. We’d just have to keep moving forward and hope for the best. As plans go, “hoping for the best” is not a good one.
36
IRIS AND JOEY
Friday, October 6, 1989
Joey, barefoot and in his robe, brought in the morning paper and tossed it on the counter between the kitchen and the living room. He continued into the bedroom, where he’d strip and take his shower. In the kitchen, Iris poured a cup of coffee as the toaster popped up. She put the toast on a plate, buttered it, and carried it to the table, snagging the folded newspaper before she sat down. She opened the Dispatch, took one look at the front page, and screamed. She jumped up, the chair tipping dangerously before it righted itself.
“Joey! Oh my god, oh my god!”
Joey appeared in the doorway in his boxer shorts. He was accustomed to her hysteria and wouldn’t address the shrieking until he knew what she was going on about. “What?” He knew he sounded faintly annoyed.
She pointed at the paper.
“What!”
“Fritz is dead. Look at this. He was found yesterday up at Yellowweed. He was shot to death.”
Joey said, “That can’t be.”
Her hand shook as she held out the paper. He sat down and scanned the article, then opened the front section to the continued coverage on an inside page.
Joey said, “Jesus. This is terrible. Wonder what happened?”
“We’re screwed. This is the end of us. Oh my god,” she said. She sank into a chair, white-faced. She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “What do we do now?”
Joey said, “Hang on a sec.”
He read the article again carefully. “This is bad. Poor guy.”
“Should we turn ourselves in?”
Joey frowned. “What for? We didn’t kill him.”
“But what if they pick up on the blackmail and trace it back to us?”
“Why would it occur to anyone to look at us? He’s a pal. We’re his best buds. How’re they going to trace anything?”
“I don’t know, but suppose they do. Maybe it’s better to go to them before they come to us. If they link us to the blackmail, we’ll be prime suspects. The only suspects.”
“Calm down. Just settle down and let’s take a look at this. Sure, we knew about the blackmail. Fritz told everyone, so that in itself wouldn’t be significant.”
“They have the message you left. That’s your voice on the machine.”
“They don’t know that. It could be anyone. Austin, for instance.”
“What if they trace the call?”
“They can’t trace a call from a recording,” he said, though he was not at all sure of it. Technology was a wonder these days. No telling what forensics could do.
Iris leaned forward and hung her head between her knees as though she might pass out. “It’s over. We’ve had it. If we don’t go to them and they figure it out, how’s it going to look? Like we’re guilty of murder!”
“But we’re not. We didn’t do anything. Paper says he’s probably been dead for close to a week and we were nowhere near Yellowweed. We don’t even own a gun, so how could it be us?”
“He called us at home. Remember?”
“But we didn’t see him. We didn’t connect up with him. We ate dinner at my stepmom’s. She can vouch for us.”
“What if they pull phone records? How are you going to explain his call?”
“We don’t deny the call. I’ll tell ’em how it went. He said he was going to meet the guy and wanted us to come along—”
“Why would he ask us?”
“He was nervous. He needed moral support. We told him not to do it and he got pissed off. That’s all it is. That’s as much as we know. We advised against it. We told him not to do it. We had no idea he’d actually meet the guy. Right?”
Her mouth trembled and her faced tightened into an unbecoming mask.
Joey put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, babe. It’s okay. Don’t go all wonky on me.”