I thought if this place had a god he was lonely and barbaric, tormented by colored memories, bored by the giant inhuman drama of starset and sunrise and sunset. I glanced at Bozey’s sleeping face, swollen and discolored now like the face of a drowning victim hauled up out of black depths after many weeks. His head was on Jo’s shoulder. She was awake and looking down at him.
I shoved the car’s long shadow due west across the flatland, so tired that I had to exert a steady pressure of will to hold the gas pedal down. In sight of Tehachapi Pass, I shook Bozey awake and listened to his mumbled directions. The side road turned off to the left a few miles farther on. It led down into a hidden canyon, dwindling to a cattle-track.
The floor of the canyon was still in shadow. Four ragged buzzards wheeled above it. They soared away from the sound of my engine into the blue upper brilliance. Where the bed of a dry stream wound among the scrub oaks at the foot of the slope, a black convertible stood.
“There she is,” Bozey said.
I left him under MacGowan’s gun and crossed the gravel to the abandoned car. The front of it was empty, the rear trunk locked. A bobcat had left the marks of his pads on the dusty turtleback.
I went back to my car for a pinchbar. From deep in the grotesque mask of his face, Bozey’s eyes followed me questioning.
MacGowan put the question into words: “Isn’t she in there?”
“I’m going to break open the trunk.”
I broke it open, and she was in there, lying with her knees pulled up like a child in an iron womb. There was a badge of blood on the front of her sun-dress. The heel of one of her sensible brown shoes was missing.
I leaned over to look at her face. Tears gathered behind my eyes and almost blinded me. Not that she mattered to me. I’d never seen Anne Meyer except in a snapshot, laughing into the sun.
It was anger I felt, against the helplessness of the dead and my own helplessness. Overhead, the buzzards turned in wobbly circles like tipsy undertakers. The sun’s insane red eye looked over the canyon’s edge.
Chapter 27
Her body lay on a rimmed table made of stainless steel. It was ivory white except for the tips of the breasts, the hole under the left breast, the two long incisions curving down from the shoulders to a point below the breastbone.
A middle-aged pathologist named Treloar was working at a sink in the corner. He cleaned his instruments and set them on the sinkboard one by one: a scalpel and a larger knife, a bone-saw, ah electric vibrator saw. They gleamed in the frosty fluorescent light.
He turned to me, peeling off his rubber gloves. “You had some questions.”
“Have you recovered the bullet?”
He nodded and smiled with professional cheerfulness. “I went after it first thing. Had to use X-ray to find it. It pierced the heart and lodged between the ribs close to the spine.”
“Can I have a look at it?”
“I turned it over to Danelaw an hour ago. It’s definitely .38-caliber, but he has to use his comparison microscope to ascertain if it came from the same revolver.”
“How long has she been dead, doctor?”
“I can give you a more precise answer when I have a chance to make some slides. Right now I’d say a week, give or take a day.”
“Six days minimum?”
“Absolute minimum.”
“This is Saturday. She was shot last Sunday then.”
“No later than last Sunday.”
“And she couldn’t have been seen alive on Monday.”
“Not a chance. I’m telling you the same thing I told Westmore. I’m scientifically certain, even without the slides.” Professional pride sparkled behind his glasses. “I’ve done over forty-three hundred autopsies, here and overseas.”
“I’m not questioning your competence, doctor.”
“I didn’t think you were. Your witness was either lying or mistaken. Westmore believes he was lying.”
“Where’s Westmore now?”
“In the hospital somewhere. Try the emergency room – they’re sewing up your prisoner.”
Treloar went back to the sink to wash his hands. I started for the door. It opened before I touched it. Displaced air moved coldly against my face, and Church came in.
He passed me without noticing me. All he saw was the woman under the light. He leaned on the foot of the table.
Treloar glanced over his shoulder. “Where have you been, Brand? We held up the p. m. as long as we thought we should.”
Church paid no attention. His eyes were steady and shining, focused on the woman. They seemed to be witnessing a revelation, looking directly into the white heat at the center of things.
“You’re dead, Anne.” He spoke to her as though he was addressing a dumb animal, or a child too young to talk. “You’re really dead, Anne.”
Treloar looked at him curiously and came forward wiping his fingers on a hospital towel. Church was unaware. He was alone with the woman, hidden in the intensity of his dream. His large hands moved and took one of her feet between them. He chafed it gently as if he could warm it back to life.
Treloar backed to the door and jerked his head at me. We went outside. The door shushed closed behind us.
He whistled softly. “I heard that he was stuck on his sister-in-law. I didn’t realize he had it so bad.” His smile was crooked with embarrassment. “Cigarette?”
I shook my head. Something deeper than embarrassment tied my tongue. On the other side of the metal door there were rough and broken sounds: a man’s dry grief, a woman’s name repeated in deaf ears.
“Excuse me,” Treloar said. “I have to make a call.”
He walked away quickly, his white smock flapping behind him.
Chapter 28
Westmore was leaning against the wall beside the door of the emergency receiving-room. His face looked thinner and grayer, and his glasses were dirty. When he saw me he straightened up and squared his narrow shoulders.
“Good morning,” he said with a kind of aggressive formality. “Where have you been, if I may inquire?”
“I snatched a couple of hours’ sleep.”
“That’s more than I was able to do. I understand you’ve been leaving quite a trail of destruction – you and your old man of the mountain.”
“It seemed to be indicated. You can’t handle armed mobsters with kid gloves.” But I felt more compunction than I admitted: red fire had swirled and flared through my morning dreams.
“I hate to say I told you so,” he said. “But your sainted MacGowan seems to be a liar after all.”
“MacGowan made an honest mistake. He never claimed to be making a positive identification of the woman. What I don’t understand is how the heel got there. It came off Anne Meyer’s shoe, didn’t it?”
“No question about that. But it’s obvious it was planted.”
“MacGowan saw her lose it.”
“So he claims. The chances are he planted it himself and led you to it deliberately. I’m holding him as a material witness.”
“And the girl?”
“She’s in the custodial ward. I’ll interrogate her later. Right now I’m waiting to question Bozey. With the evidence we have, he should be ready to make a full confession.”
“So the case is all wrapped up in a neat package and tied with a blue ribbon?”
“Thanks to you, yes.”
“Don’t thank me. I don’t want any part of it as it stands.”
He peered in surprise through his smeared lenses.
“I have a question for you, Mr. D. A. A hypothetical question.”
He fended with his hands, half-humorously. “I’m rather leery of those. I’ve seen them last three and four hours in court.”
“This one is short and simple, and not so very hypothetical. Say one of your colleagues in county government was fronting for hoods, or worse. What would your attitude be?”