“Famous?”
“Don’t you know? Everyone watched that press conference.”
“Swell. All of it?”
“Yes. Even when that cow attacked you. My friends are boycotting her show now.”
“Well… don’t be too hard on her. She’s lost her only daughter.”
She gave me another squeeze. “Susan, how long till I can come home with you?”
Above us, I saw Ozzie’s frown intensify. “My lawyer is working on it. We’re supposed to have a hearing in a few days.” I pulled her away a bit and addressed her captors. “Mind if I take her to my car? I’d like to talk to her privately for a moment.”
Ozzie was succinct. “No.”
“We’re not going anywhere.”
“You step off the front porch, I call the police.”
I sighed heavily. He was probably bluffing. But given the current delicate circumstances, I couldn’t take the risk. “Rache, I’m sorry I haven’t been by. But it’s important that I work on this case.”
“I know. He’s so sick.”
“It’s more than that, honey. I have to be able to tell the court that… that I’m working. That I have a steady income. That I’m gainfully employed. I need good references.” I could see she didn’t really understand. But that was okay. Just so she knew I hadn’t forgotten about her. “But as soon as I get you back home, we’re going to spend some major time together.”
She looked at me carefully. “Just the two of us?”
I didn’t know what she meant. Well, I couldn’t be sure. “Just the two of us.”
“You’ll come by again soon?”
“Sure. How about tomorrow night?” Which of course was not my next scheduled visitation.
I heard the tiniest hesitation in her voice. “Oh-geez. I have church tomorrow night.”
“Church?” I gave Ozzie and Harriet the long look. “Trying to bring her to Jesus?”
“They’ve got a big youth group,” Rachel explained. “It’s kind of cool, actually.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s real queer banana,” she added hastily. “Corny like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m tolerating it.”
Uh-huh. I gave her foster parents another once-over. They were more dangerous than I realized.
“You won’t let that crazy man hurt you, will you, Susan?”
I stood and smiled. “Are you kidding? I’m going to put him behind bars where he can’t hurt anyone. Just a matter of time.”
It was well past dark, but he continued reading, reading and rereading, poring over the prose-poem that for him held all the keys to understanding. The answers were there, buried beneath its cryptic passages. They had to be.
Had he erred? Had he somehow misinterpreted the prophecies? Why had the Golden Age not begun?
All along, he had been buoyed by an innate confidence, an ineffable sense of rightness. He had always been an edacious reader, but for years now he had perused nothing but the texts, reading them over and over, subjecting them to the most intense lucubration. He had discovered the truth and he would use it to work miracles. But the offerings had been made, the triumvirate had been sacrificed. Each of them-Helen, Annabel, and the lost Lenore-in turn had been translated in a manner prescribed by the texts. But there had been no passage to Dream-Land. No Golden Age.
No Virginia.
Why had it not happened as prophesied? The final globe of globes will instantaneously disappear, and God will remain in all.
There must be something he was missing, something he had yet to do. But what was it? What could it be?
He staggered away from his reading table, his hand pressed against his brow, his heart filled with sorrow. Why did it have to be so hard? Was this despair that the prophet had felt? Was this why he had ultimately failed? Why he had drunk himself to a crapulous demise on the streets of Baltimore?
He threw his arms up toward the heavens. Why must the road to redemption be strewn with thorns? Would he never find peace?
Don’t go near the ocean, Ernie. Nana told you not to go near the ocean.
He closed the door to his bedroom and entered the living area, then turned on the television and began scanning channels. It was a little early for the news broadcasts, but perhaps there would be something to transport his mind for a brief time…
In only a few moments, he had found a program of interest. That woman. The mother. And another man, prematurely gray hair, bulge around the center.
They were talking about him. His work.
That part didn’t interest him much. The media attention had ballooned to such an extent that he had almost tired of hearing about himself. Idle speculation, repetition, sidebars on other cases not remotely similar to his own. It was all the same uninformed claptrap, over and over again, signifying nothing.
But this woman had something very different to say.
“Dr. Spencer,” the host said, “you’ve been caught in the eye of the hurricane. After building a career based upon helping others, including those bereaved by violent crime, you find yourself crime’s victim. To the rest of the country, perhaps even the world, this is a fascinating, gruesome murder mystery. But to you-it’s personal. How are you dealing with the loss of your daughter?”
She was wearing a red dress, he noticed, red like the blood of the offering, with a neckline more suitable for a prostitute than a mother. No doubt she had used that costume to get on the air, to excite impure thoughts in unsuspecting men. She cared nothing for sweet Annabel. She craved attention for herself.
“It’s a struggle, Chet. I won’t lie to you. Pulling myself out of bed. Facing a new day. Confronting the horror of… of what happened to Annabel. A loss like this-it’s just devastating.”
“I can only imagine,” he said, his eyes watery. “And yet you’ve managed to keep going.”
“It’s been hard. But I-I have an obligation to Annabel. And her child-my unborn granddaughter. Annabel was a fighter, right to the very end.” As if she would know. “So I have to be, too. I have to be strong for her.”
“I think you’re doing an impressive job of that, wouldn’t you agree?” The live audience unleashed a supportive round of applause.
Spencer smiled slightly. “I’ve always thanked the Lord for my blessings-especially Annabel. No matter how busy things were in the world of television, I never forgot that Annabel was my top priority.”
He choked. Not what she told me, you two-faced harridan. You were an absentee mother who didn’t even call on the weekends. She told me you couldn’t identify her boyfriend, didn’t even know she had one. Why don’t you explain to the man why you didn’t know your own daughter was pregnant? Why she flew to Vegas rather than to you for help?
“Now Dr. Spencer, you’ve been quite active in the investigation into your daughter’s murder.”
“Chet, I have no choice. She was the dearest thing in my life.”
“And you haven’t been afraid to criticize the law enforcement officers investigating the case, either. You’ve been quite vocal about your objections.”
She paused thoughtfully. “I never thought of myself as a tub-thumper. But how can I remain silent? This killer tortured and murdered my daughter! Most crimes are solved shortly after the crime is discovered or they aren’t solved at all. I first talked to the LVPD officers twenty-four hours after my daughter’s remains were discovered, and they knew nothing. That hasn’t changed-even now, when a third victim has been discovered. All my suggestions, all my offers to help fell on deaf ears. And they’ve made the most inexplicable, unforgivable personnel assignments.”
“You’re talking about the behavioral expert, aren’t you? Susan Pulaski.”
“Among others. God knows I hate to single out the only woman working on the case. But she’s an alcoholic. Barely out of rehab. It’s inexcusable.”
She was doing it again. Making her ad hominem attacks on Susan for her own petty reasons. Spreading Susan’s secrets to every moron with a television. Had she no sense of decency? Of propriety? How would she like it if her secrets were bared on the open airwaves?