Might, yes, if I could learn to believe again. But could I, after so many years? Religion is no comfort at all without faith, and I was no longer even sure I had faith in myself, let alone in a higher power.
Something to think about. One more thing to think about...
My building was deserted, as usual on Sundays. When I let myself into the office I stood for a few seconds, listening. The only sounds were from outside the building; inside, there was dead silence. No creaks, no groans, no ghostly complaints. Only at night, and no mistake. Just another of life’s little mysteries.
The message light on my answering machine wasn’t blinking. So Annette Olroyd had yet to respond to the request I’d left with her mother. Still out of town? Or it could be she’d got back too late last night to call and hadn’t had a chance yet this morning. I looked up her number, tapped it out.
Six rings, and a female voice said, “Hello?” Not the mother’s; this one was younger, and tiny like a munchkin’s, and diffident.
“Ms. Olroyd? Annette Olroyd?”
Brief pause before she said guardedly, “Yes?”
I identified myself. “I spoke to your mother yesterday, about the postcards you received from Nedra Merchant. Did she tell you about our conversation?”
Ongoing silence. I couldn’t even hear her breathing. The line was still open, though; faint circuit noises tickled my ear.
“Ms. Olroyd?”
“My mother,” she said, “is too trusting.”
“...I’m sorry?”
“With strangers. In person and on the phone.”
“If you think she betrayed a confidence—”
“Didn’t she?”
“No. She was candid and helpful, that’s all.”
“I don’t know you,” the woman said.
“I’m a licensed private investigator—”
“I know that. I looked up the name in the phone book. But I don’t know you. How can I be certain you’re who you say you are?”
Paranoid, I thought. With or without good reason, like a lot of people these days. “I can prove it to you easily enough,” I said, trying to sound reassuring, “if you’ll just—”
“I’m not going to give you my address,” she said. “At least my mother didn’t go that far.”
“Would you like to come to my office?”
Pause. “No, I don’t think so.”
“And you won’t tell me about the postcards on the phone.”
“No. Why do you want to find Nedra? You didn’t tell my mother your reasons.”
“I think she might be in serious trouble. You know that she dropped out of sight suddenly—”
“She explained that on her first card.”
“In detail?”
“...No. Not in detail. But she wrote the cards, they’re in her handwriting. She’s perfectly fine.”
“Is she, Ms. Olroyd? A person’s handwriting can be duplicated, you know.”
Silence.
“Or she might have written the cards under duress. Has that possibility occurred to you?”
More silence. Thinking it over, I hoped.
“If you care at all about Nedra Merchant,” I said, “please help me. We could meet in a public place, if you’d rather not come to my office. Anyplace you like — you name it.”
“...I can’t this morning,” she said. Weakening; it was in her voice. “I have things to do, I don’t know how long they’ll take. I was just about to leave when you called.”
“This afternoon, then. Whatever time is convenient for you.”
“Well, after two o’clock...”
“Two-thirty? Three?”
“Three,” she said.
“Where would you feel comfortable meeting?”
“There’s a...” she began, and then stopped and then made a throat-clearing sound. “Do you know Mountain Lake Park?”
“Off Lake Street, edge of the Presidio?”
“Yes. We could meet there.”
“Fine. Where in the park?”
“The Eleventh Avenue entrance... there’s a big rock in the grass, halfway between the entrance and the lake. It has a plaque on it, to a Spanish explorer.”
“Rock with a plaque, right. You want to tell me what you look like? Or would you rather I described myself?”
“You tell me,” she said.
“Late sixties, dark, heavy set, graying hair. Wearing a brown sport jacket, beige slacks, a blue shirt without a tie. All right?”
“Yes... all right.”
“You do still have the postcards?”
“I still have them.”
“If you’d bring them along, let me take a look at them, it would be a big help. Will you do that?”
“...I suppose so.”
“Three o’clock, Ms. Olroyd. Please don’t disappoint me. For Nedra’s sake.”
“Three o’clock,” she said in her tiny munchkin’s voice, and hung up without saying good-bye.
I was sweating a little as I cradled the receiver. Talking to people like Annette Olroyd is hard work.
The phone bell jangled as I was getting out of my chair. Kerry, I thought. Immediate reaction these days, like one of Pavlov’s drooling dogs. And the same letdown when I heard somebody else’s voice. Kay Runyon was the only woman interested in talking to me lately, it seemed.
“I called your home number,” she said, “and I called your car phone.” She sounded apprehensive but not quite as frantic as she had yesterday evening. “I didn’t think you’d be in your office on Sunday.”
“It’s just another day to me. Everything okay?”
“Yes. But I’d like to see you. Can you come here?”
“I’d already planned on it. You haven’t had any word on your husband?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just... I need to see you. Will you come right away?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Please hurry,” she said, and rang off.
More hard work coming up.
There was plenty of Sunday activity in Ashbury Heights, including a family of badminton players swatting a shuttlecock back and forth over a net strung across their tiny front lawn. Drapes and windows were open all along the winding street, to let in the sun and the warm, breezeless air — but not at the Runyon house. Huddled away in there already, I thought: mourners before the fact.
I parked in front, went up and rang the bell. The door opened in two seconds flat, as if Matt had been lurking behind it with his hand on the knob. He was strung tight this morning, so tight he was almost quivering. There was something in his face, too, that I couldn’t read because he put his back to me almost immediately, without speaking, and walked away into the Dreamsicle living room.
He stopped half a dozen paces into the room; I stopped in the doorway, with a sudden shriveling sensation in my belly and groin. Now I knew what had been in the boy’s face, why he was drawn so tight.
Kay Runyon wasn’t alone in there. Eddie Cahill stood behind the orange-and-white couch she was sitting on, the muzzle of a Saturday night special pressed against her right temple.
Chapter 18
Cahill said, “Come on in here, slick. Nice and slow.”
I moved ahead, halfway to the couch before I stopped again. You could feel the strain in there, the hard scraping edge of tension, but it wasn’t as acute as it might have been. Cahill was keyed up, sweating, but he seemed to have the furnace of violence in him under control. Kay Runyon was calm; there was no panic in her eyes, only a dull fright. She had been through so much recently, her sensibilities bludgeoned and bruised to the point of numbness. I felt bad for her, and bad for Matt, and angry as hell at the half-wit with the gun.