“Cause for rejoicing, after all. Not one but two of Satan’s minions destroyed in one night.”
“All right! Yes, I’m glad they’re dead, both of them, glad they’re suffering in the Pit where they belong! Why shouldn’t I be? Any good Christian should shout hallelujah and fall on his knees with joy when the Almighty cleanses away evil, and a good Christian woman is what I am and I won’t apologize for it to you or anyone else.”
The way he was staring at me stirred a coldness into my anger. “My God,” he said in a tone I’d never heard from him before. And then again, before he went out, “My God.”
I don’t understand that man sometimes. I swear I don’t. Even after more than ten years together under the same roof, there are moments when he’s a complete stranger to me.
Audrey Sixkiller
When I found the bathroom window broken, my first thought was that it must’ve been done by the stalker — that he might still be inside the house. Irrational, because I’d been home from the rancheria three or four minutes by then and nothing had happened, but that didn’t prevent me from rushing to my purse and taking out the Ruger automatic. I’d put the gun in there this morning, after the phone call; it was illegal for me to carry it without a permit, but under the circumstances I didn’t much care about technicalities and Dick hadn’t either when I told him. With the Ruger in hand, I checked through the house room by room.
No one there but me.
But someone had been inside. I could feel it by then, the faint aura of intrusion, even though at first I didn’t notice anything disturbed or missing. That came on closer inspection, on my second pass through.
A few items gone from the bathroom cabinet. Peroxide... gauze pads... adhesive tape. Anything missing from the bedroom? Yes. Empty space on the closet shelf where I’d kept my extra blankets. The living room? No. The kitchen? Yes. Orange juice and two apples from the fridge. My office? No. The back porch? No.
Medical supplies, blankets, food.
It didn’t make sense. Or did it?
It could be the stalker, in an attempt to devil me — but I doubted he was that subtle. A man who tries to break into a woman’s home in the dead of night wearing a ski mask, who makes the kind of phone threat he’d made to me, wouldn’t break a window for any reason except to get in and at his victim. He wouldn’t bother to steal a few inconsequential items, either.
Neither would a burglar; there were too many items of value, like my Apple PC, that hadn’t been touched.
Neither would kids playing games. For the same reason, and because there was no sign of vandalism, nothing out of place.
It had to be someone who needed exactly what was stolen. Medical supplies, blankets, food. Someone hurt. And hungry. And cold and perhaps wet.
John Faith?
Not possible, I told myself. John Faith is dead, drowned in the lake. But of course it was possible. Dick believed the man was still alive, and his professional instincts were trustworthy. The prospect chilled me. John Faith in my house, a murderer in my home—
And then out of it again. Where would he go from here, with the things he’d taken?
The boat!
I threw my jacket on and ran out to the dock. The Chris-Craft was still there inside the shed, on the hoist and wearing its tarpaulin cover. But I went out on the dock anyway. The security door was unlatched, not that that meant anything because I wasn’t always as careful as I should be about making sure it was closed tight. On an impulse I climbed down the ladder, went in along the float.
Even in the shadows I could see that the hoist frame was wet, and the long, fresh scrape on the port side of the hull above the waterline.
I stepped up on the frame, untied the tarp and folded it over, and climbed aboard. When I raised the engine housing, heat and the smell of warm oil radiated out at me. The deck had been washed down hastily, I thought, and not very carefully. On the rear of the pilot’s seat was a stain of something crusty that looked like dried blood. Wool fibers, blanket fibers, were caught where the seat was bolted to the deck. I checked the storage locker. A spool of fishing line, a lead sinker, and my flashlight were gone.
Someone had had the boat out in my absence, and brought it back no more than an hour ago — someone who’d been careless docking it here or elsewhere. That much was clear. What wasn’t clear was why the boat was here now. If it’d been John Faith, there was no earthly reason for him to bring it back...
I climbed out, and when I finished retying the tarp I had the answer. Not one person — two. John Faith and an accomplice who’d taken him to an unknown destination and then returned alone, hoping I wouldn’t notice immediately that the boat had been used. That person was the one who’d broken into the house. Blood here but none inside.
It seemed fantastic, yet it was the only explanation that fit the facts. But who in Pomo would help a stranger like John Faith, a suspected murderer?
I was on my way back to the house when I remembered what I’d forgotten in all the chaotic events of last night and this morning. The appointment I’d made for nine o’clock, here, with Trisha Marx.
Lori Banner
I was pretty surprised when I opened the door and saw Trisha Marx standing on the porch. I knew her from the cafe; she’d been in dozens of times on my shift, usually with that good-looking Mexican boyfriend of hers and the rest of the semi-tough crowd she hangs out with. But she’d never been particularly friendly to me. And she’d sure never come to the house before, or even said two words to me anywhere outside the Northlake.
“Can I talk to you, Mrs. Banner?” Mrs. Banner, not Lori like in the cafe. “It’s really important.”
“Well...”
“Really important.”
“If it’s about the fight last night—”
“Fight? What fight?”
“Your dad didn’t tell you about it?”
“No. He had a fight with somebody? Who?”
“John Faith.” Saying his name brought back the down feeling I’d had when I first heard about him and Storm Carey. It was so hard to believe they were both dead. “At the Northlake, around ten-thirty.”
“Oh, God. Was it about John giving me a ride home?”
“Yeah. Your dad accused him of trying to molest you and then took a sock at him. Knocked him down.”
“What’d john do?”
“Nothing. Walked away.”
She had an odd look on her face. “He never said a word. Not one word.”
“Well, if that’s not why you’re here...”
“Can we talk in private? Just the two of us?”
“There’s nobody home but me.” Earle had gone out about ten. He hadn’t said where and I didn’t care anyway. I touched my mouth where he’d hit me yesterday; the upper lip was still sore, but the swelling was gone. One of my teeth was loose, too. He’d been all sorry and lovey-dovey last night, but that was because he wanted to get laid. I wouldn’t let him. I’d had about all I was going to take of his abuse and I’d told him so. He said he’d never hit me again, swore up and down. Well, he’d better keep his promise this time. It’s his last chance.
Trisha came in and we sat in the living room and the first thing she said was, “Isn’t it awful, what happened to Mrs. Carey?”
“Worst thing in Pomo since I’ve lived here.”
“You think he did it? John Faith?”
“Everybody says he did.”
“But do you think so?”
I’d worried that around most of the morning. Sure, he’d looked capable of killing somebody, with his size and that craggy, scarred face and his silver eyes. But I kept remembering the deep-down gentleness in those eyes, and the little-boy-lost sadness in him, and what he’d said about the world being a better place if people quit hurting other people and left each other alone. His last words to me, too, after the trouble with Brian Marx, “See? Not in this lifetime.” He could’ve taken Brian apart real easy, but he hadn’t done anything except stand his ground. He may’ve looked violent, but inside, where it counts, he wasn’t. Just the opposite of Earle. And we were supposed to believe he went out right afterward and beat Storm Carey’s head in?