Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 7

At one on Friday, a week after Gus Marchand's death, Will Thaxton called her at the office. "Hi, Barbara. I've been thinking about that rain check-you know, dinner, jazz, all that. How about knocking off early, let me pick you up, do a little shopping at Trader Joe's, pick up some goodies, and then head out to my house. I can make a mean grilled steak, and I have lots of jazz CDs. Besides, I want to show you the house I was boasting about. And the big selling point: you don't have to dress up."

There was that note of excitement again. If anyone was listening, she hoped he thought Will's excitement was over seeing her. "That sounds pretty tempting," she said. "But I have to get back here early. Work."

"I'll get you back whenever you say the word. Deal?"

"Sure. You cook."

"About three? I'll pick you up at your office. You'd never find my house without a guide."

Something had happened, she thought when she hung up. They had to see her, not just talk to her on the phone. She considered the risks of going to Will's house, then dismissed them as negligible. So she had a date with an old school friend. Then she opened the file on the members of the hospital committee, and this time she jotted down their names. She had to kill time until Will arrived at three, and she might as well be doing something.

At one minute before three, she walked out, carrying her laptop. Will pulled to a stop just as she left the outside stairs.

They both said hi, the way old friends do, and she got into the pa.s.senger seat and fastened her seat belt; as soon as he had engaged the gears and was driving, she asked, "What's up?"

"Don't know," he said. "Graham called me around noon and said he has to see you. We had an office meeting this afternoon and I couldn't get away sooner. I told him we'd come to the house as soon as we both were free. So, here we go."

They drove to Trader Joe's and he tossed things in the basket; she picked out wine, and soon they were heading south on Willamette.

"Have you noticed anyone following us?" she asked.

"Not sure. I'm not a pro at this kind of thing. Maybe a green Dodge, six, seven years old at least.

She groaned. Bailey's car.

They drove past a commercial strip on south Willamette, then up a steep hill with a cemetery on the right. The road climbed past it, up to an intersection with Fox Hollow Road, which started to wind around the back of the forested hill. His house was another mile farther. Here the houses were set well back from the road, hidden by trees and shrubs on large lots. His house was invisible until he turned at a driveway that curved in a semicircular approach.

"We have arrived," he said, stopping at the front entrance to a rambling split-level house. A garage was off to one side, a rose garden on the closer side. No other car was in sight.

"They park in the garage," Will said, getting out. They retrieved the bags of groceries from the back seat; Barbara picked up her laptop, and they walked to the front door and entered a foyer. Dr. Minick was standing in it.

"I'm glad you could come," he said.

"What's wrong?" Barbara asked. He looked haggard and tired, worried.

"I'll stow this stuff away," Will said, starting to move past them.

"I have things to show you both," Dr. Minick said. "I took the liberty of using your kitchen table, I'm afraid."

Going to the kitchen, Barbara caught a glimpse of a living room off to one side, a dining room on the other, another hall.... It appeared to be a very s.p.a.cious house, airy and bright, with scatter rugs on gleaming wooden floors. And, as Sh.e.l.ley had said, abstract art on the walls.

Dr. Minick had drawn vertical blinds in the kitchen, but even so, it was bright with high clerestory windows on three walls.

"Alex is upstairs on the computer, in his chat room," Dr. Minick said. "I was watching for you and came down when you drove up. I realized later that I shouldn't have left this material on the table, in the event someone else had come. But I wasn't thinking too clearly, I imagine."

On the table were sheets of paper with words scrawled with a black marker. Barbara moved closer to read them.

TAKE YOUR DEVIL FREAK AND GET OUT!.

THE DEVIL WALKS AMONG US! THE WRATH OF THE DEVIL IS UPON US.

Will reached for one of the sheets of paper and Barbara caught his hand. "Don't touch them. We might be able to recover some prints. Who handled these?" she asked Dr. Minick.

"I did, and Alex. They were thumb tacked to trees down by the Old Opal Road. This one was in the mailbox." He pointed to a longer message that appeared to have been generated by a computer and printer. Big bold fonts, underlined words.

LO, IF THE DEVIL ENTERS YOUR MIDST, SMITE HIM OUT. THE LORD IS WITH YOU. SUFFER NOT THE DEVIL TO DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF THE RIGHTEOUS...

There were seven messages altogether, some hand-printed in block letters, some printed out on a printer. All ugly and frightening.

"I was down at The Station this morning," Dr. Minick said, "and Benny told me that feelings are running pretty high. Gus and Leona, and now Hilde Franz. People want someone to pay. Leona was liked by everyone-loved by most folks, I guess-and Hilde was popular. But they're frightened. They began to remember that someone fell and broke her leg after Alex moved in; the crop failed one year, goats went dry, the blight appeared in the orchards; the drug scene hit the countryside, on and on. They're frightened, and now three deaths. They want a scapegoat. They'll settle for Alex."

"When did you find these?" Barbara asked, motioning toward the table.

"I was at The Station around ten, in no particular hurry. I sat at one of the tables waiting for someone to come along and chat, but no one wants to talk to me right now. Benny came out and sat with me for several minutes. He owns The Station. Then I walked home. Someone put those up while I was out."

Will had looked sick when he read the first message, and looked a little better now, but he said, "I'll start the grill and put on some music, in case your private-eye tail comes in close enough to wonder what we're up to."

"Do you have a large envelope?" Barbara asked him.

He nodded, left, and returned with a big envelope and tweezers. Watching her pick up the papers with the tweezers and carefully put them away, he said, "Do you have a detective on deck yet?"

She shook her head.

"We do," he said. "Harris Dougherty. He's good tracing a money trail, other things, but he can lift fingerprints, too. Let's keep this in my office for the time being. It would make sense for my client, Dr. Minick, to bring junk like this to me and for me to try to get to the bottom of it, if a question ever arises."

Dougherty, she thought, recalling the investigator. Frank called him the Doughboy. But it did make sense for her to stay in the background. Uneasily she nodded, not happy with dividing the responsibility this way.

"When will Alex be down?" she asked Dr. Minick then.

"A little after six," he said.

"Okay," she said. "I'll think about this while Will's putting together some dinner."

"Alex won't eat in front of people," Dr. Minick said.

"He can keep his back turned," Barbara said. "We need to talk, and we all need to eat. This is a G.o.dd.a.m.n mess! Will, do you have any wine handy?"

Then, carrying a gla.s.s of wine, sipping it now and then, she wandered out to the terrace. Red flagstones, good cedar outdoor furniture. A gas grill. When Will came out and began to do things to the grill, she wandered back inside and began to pace.

Could they go home and pretend nothing had happened? Would the message senders do worse? Dr. Minick could call the police and ask for protection, or at least an investigation. Could they hide out somewhere? One of the places where they had camped in the past? Dangerous, she thought then, if the police took that as a sign that Alex might be avoiding their questions, even trying to escape an inquiry. Was it time to reveal Alex's ident.i.ty to the police, just so they would know they were dealing with someone of importance, not the neighborhood idiot? Would Alex agree to such a course? She acknowledged with irritation that she was piling one question on top of another, and getting no answers whatsoever.

When Alex finally came down, he looked at the table set for four and shook his head. "I'm not hungry. I'll get something later."

"Now," Barbara said. "I'm supposed to be on a date with Will. We will take our plates out to the terrace, and you and Dr. Minick eat in here. And stay out of sight, just in case my shadow is lurking about." She realized only then that music was playing, Ella Fitzgerald singing "Blues in the Night."

A little later, on the terrace, Will leaned forward and said, "My mama done tol' me that the life of a criminal lawyer is fraught with uncertainty, is exciting, and a pain in the a.s.s. And my mama was right."

"Boy, was she ever! The steaks are wonderful. You really can grill a mean steak."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Lay out the options for them to consider. This is so ugly. A true zealot, or just simple orneriness? I wish I knew."

When they went back inside, Dr. Minick and Alex were at the sink washing their few dishes. "Thank you, Will," Dr. Minick said. "That was very good indeed. Do you trust me with your coffeemaker?"

Will laughed. "Go to it. I make lousy coffee, but with the best intentions and the best equipment, and the best beans. Go figure."

Barbara wanted to hug him.

Then, finally, with coffee at hand, they sat at the kitchen table and Barbara said, "Let me tell you the various courses we can follow. If you have thought of something else, jump right in. It's a free-for-all."

She told them the different actions they could take, their pros and cons.

Partly turned away from her, Alex did not say a word until she finished. Then he said, "Let me tell you a dream I had a long time ago, years ago. I told Graham, and it's as fresh in my mind now as it was the next day when I woke up. In the dream I'm trotting through a woods, not like the forest here, an eastern woods with deciduous trees. There are leaves underfoot like snowdrifts, crunchy under my feet. I stumble and fall down. I'm not in pain, I just can't get up. Some people come by and see me, and one of them turns me over with his toe. I roll right over. He does it again and again, rolling me like a log, and I'm getting covered with mud and leaves so thick that I'm not really there anymore. I'm a log. Together, some of the people lift me and put me on the fire, another log to be burned."

No one spoke for a time. Then Barbara said, "I guess the trick is for you to stay on your feet."

Facing away, Alex laughed. "That's the trick, all right. I'll do whatever you say, up to a point. But I won't go to prison. They'd kill me. And I prefer to pick the time and place and circ.u.mstances of my own demise without official help. Now tell us what to do."

They decided that Alex should stay in Will Thaxton's house, and Dr. Minick go back to Opal Creek.

"We don't want the investigators to suspect anyone has fled," Barbara said. "You don't have to tell them where Alex is unless they come up with a warrant. But if they do make it official, call Will. Where should an official statement be taken?" she asked, turning to Will. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours," Alex said. He shrugged, then added, "I don't think the attorneys at Will's place care much for me."

"One more thing," Barbara said. "Alex, there could come a time when, for your own protection and safety, we will have to reveal your ident.i.ty. Do you accept that?"

"No! Barbara, there are many kinds of death. I've given this some thought. There's the bolt of lightning, the fatal heart attack, a truck out of control. Then there's the death of a thousand cuts, a slow, tortuous path that I choose not to take. I've come to terms with life, you see. I stay out of sight and do my thing, and it's okay. That would end if the world comes clamoring around. If there's a remote possibility that you're going to reveal my ident.i.ty, I don't want you to represent me. We should be very clear about this now, before temptation beguiles you irresistibly."

His voice, low and intense, held an edge that had not been there before. She felt as if she had been warned: don't push too hard, or too far.

She nodded. "I promise that I won't tell anyone without your permission."

Later, as Will was driving her back to the office, he said, "Do you think he meant it? He was talking about taking his own life, wasn't he?"

She nodded. She had no doubt that Alex meant every word. She said, "He tried living with people and it didn't work, remember. I think he has decided that if he can't live alone, or at least on his own terms, he won't live at all."

11.

Barbara didn't linger at the office after Will dropped her off, but went on to her apartment. In a large complex close to the Rose Garden and the river, blocks away from traffic noise, it was still a walkable distance to downtown and her office. Her two-bedroom unit was on the second floor of the building, with one large area that was living room, kitchen, and dining s.p.a.ce. A divider could be closed to screen off the kitchen, but she never bothered with it. One of the bedrooms was her office at home. And best of all, she had a hallway she could pace from her office to the kitchen and back.

But that evening when she entered, she looked about discontentedly. After Will's s.p.a.cious, beautifully decorated house, her apartment looked barren. She should get some art, she thought, surveying the living room, thinking of the paintings Will had acquired-not that she was that fond of abstract art, but the colors were brilliant. And some doodads, knickknacks or something. She didn't even consider plants. They always started to die the minute she paid for them. She had a lot of books and magazines scattered around, even a cloisonne candy dish that was always empty because the only time she thought of it was when she actually wanted a piece of candy. That was the crux of the problem, she knew; her homemaking skills were on a par with her cooking skills, which meant zilch.

She scowled at a pair of going-to-court shoes by the sofa, and scowled even more at a messy heap of newspapers on it. Tomorrow she would straighten up, clean things, do a little shopping. Her refrigerator more often than not was just about as empty as the candy dish.

Her phone rang and she picked up when she heard Sh.e.l.ley's voice. "I've been watching for your lights. Can I come over?"

Barbara told her to come ahead, then started opening windows. It was getting dark outside, and the evening air had cooled magically. The breeze that drifted in felt good; later it would be too cool.

Sh.e.l.ley arrived, carrying a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. She lived across the pool area in an apartment identical to Barbara's, but hers was crammed with stuff, all very good stuff, chosen by someone with a very discerning eye, aware of the overall impact, which was of luxury, abundance, and good taste.

"What's going on?" Sh.e.l.ley asked by way of greeting.

"Let's crack that bottle, and I'll tell you."

Then, sitting in the living area, where Barbara nudged her shoes aside, she told Sh.e.l.ley about the notes.

"He meant it," Sh.e.l.ley said in a low voice. "He'd rather die than be a public spectacle. He knows what that would mean."

Barbara nodded, then said, "Well, we're doing what we can for now. I've got that list of the hospital-committee members, and I started looking up people. A seventy-year-old priest, a nun, a bank president... G.o.d, this is a mess. I don't even know if that list means anything."

"Don't you trust Dougherty? Couldn't he do that?"

"The Doughboy," Barbara said. "The problem is that I don't know. I don't know how good he is, or if he can keep his mouth shut, or even if he's ever done this kind of work. It has to be kept absolutely quiet."

They both understood that she meant this was Bailey work.

After a silence Barbara said, "What are you doing at home on a Friday night anyway?"

For the past two years or longer Sh.e.l.ley and Bill Spa.s.sero had been a thing, and to all appearances they were the perfect couple. Barbara always thought of him as a dandelion gone to seed, with a great head of platinum hair. And probably penny for penny, they were a perfect match; both were independently wealthy. He was a public defender with a growing reputation as a fine attorney.

"We had dinner, then I told him I have work to do. He thinks you're a slave driver."

"True," Barbara said.

"He's pushing too hard," Sh.e.l.ley mumbled. "He wants to get married, and I keep telling him I'm not ready."

"Ah," Barbara said. She knew that Bill had been after Sh.e.l.ley to get a house or an apartment together, but Sh.e.l.ley had not mentioned a proposal before.

"He knows I'm not going out with anyone else," Sh.e.l.ley went on. "It just seems reasonable to him for us to make it official, I guess. But I'm not ready. I don't want to get married and settle down. Not yet."

"Then don't," Barbara said.

Sh.e.l.ley smiled then. "It's so simple, isn't it? Just say no." She stood up. "You want me to dig into the people on that list? Whatever's public anyway."

"Nope. My job. I've got to be doing something, might as well be that."

Several hours later she admitted to herself that she could just as well have spent her time knitting a scarf; the results couldn't be more discouraging than what she had accomplished. Apparently everyone on that list was above reproach.

It had not helped any that the image of Alex being rolled like a log and tossed on a campfire kept interposing itself between her and her monitor. She turned off her screen and roamed through her apartment, turning off lights, closing windows partway. The night had grown quite chilly, as she had known it would. June was the perfect month, warm and sunny days, not too hot yet, and blanket nights. At the kitchen window she sniffed and decided that Maria had been right; rain would move in overnight.

Then she was thinking of Hilde Franz and her death. The newspaper article reported no sign of foul play, but Frank's suspicions had been aroused and Barbara had confidence in his instincts.