T he call came at one a.m. Earl had been asleep, but not for long and not deeply. It had to be a wrong number or the guy from the other night, Earl thought as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. What few people he knew wouldn’t call him at all probably, except Grandma O. No one, including her, would call at midnight unless it was seriously bad news. He could find the phone in the darkness. This wouldn’t be good, he thought.
‘Hello,’ he said hesitantly.
‘Earl?’
Earl was pretty sure it was the guy, but not one hundred percent sure. It could be a doctor or someone.
‘Who is this?’
‘Now, Earl you have to listen for awhile. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not going to turn you in. I just want to tell you what I know and warn you.’
‘Warn me?’ Earl said reflexively.
‘I’ll get to that Earl. Will you listen to me?’
‘Don’t talk too long,’ Earl said. He knew that didn’t make much sense, but he was unsure of what he should do.
‘I won’t Earl. I’m on your side. Listen. Don’t hang up. I know about the girls. The ones you strangled. You didn’t really want to do it, did you?’
‘Fuck,’ Earl said. This was pretty lame. Social worker language. He’d heard it before. Here he was afraid of this wimp. ‘Get on with it fuckhead.’ Earl felt tough again.
‘Come on, Earl. You didn’t want to at first, did you?’
‘I ain’t sayin’ I did nothing. You keep talking and I’ll hang up when I get bored with this shit. OK?’
‘OK, Earl.’ Now the voice got harder. ‘So you are a tough guy now. What are you going to do about the witness?’
‘What witness?’ Earl asked. He’d said it before he thought.
‘The witness. The one on the hill. Sutro, you know? You, your Camaro and that girl? The naked girl?’
‘So why haven’t the cops arrested me if they got somebody so sure I done it?’
‘Because she was scared. Now she isn’t. You’re not off the hook, you know that. The cops have talked to you, right?’
‘Who says you’re not a cop?’
‘I wouldn’t be giving you a chance to eliminate the only thing in this world that can convict you. When she’s gone, you’re home free.’
‘So, who is she?’
‘I’ll tell you when it’s time.’
‘Don’t jerk me around. Why do we have to wait?’
‘Because I want it done right, when the time is right, when we’re sure no one is watching you. I’ll let you go now.’
‘Who’s watching me?’
‘I don’t know if anybody is, Earl. You are a suspect. We both know you are. We just have to make sure the time is right.’
‘I didn’t say I did anything, you know?’
‘Right Earl. I know.’
‘Listen…’
‘What?’ the voice asked, sympathetically.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You want to talk for awhile?’
‘No. No I don’t.’
‘I understand these things. I really do.’
‘Bullshit,’ Earl said, but not with much authority.
‘You feel OK?’
‘I fuckin’ feel fine,’ Earl said belligerently. He hung up the phone. What made him angry was that the guy didn’t really want to know if he was all right. He was just digging in, trying to control him. The caller, in all his anonymity and his knowledge had the power. Earl slipped on a pair of jeans and a pair of Nikes, not bothering to lace them up. Why is it somebody else always had the power?
He went to the door.
Gratelli looked at the clock – 1:10 a.m. He wondered why he was awake. Then he remembered the dream. It was Mickey. The dream was a replay. Gratelli walked into the bathroom, and there was Mickey crawling out of the tub. The side of his head had been blown off. His white shirt was soaked scarlet. He cursed in much the same manner as he had when his bowl of noodles were cold or the traffic was snarled.
‘Fuck, can’t I do anything right?’
‘Damn,’ Gratelli said. Was there more to it? If there was, Gratelli didn’t want to know. It was clear to Gratelli that he’d been bothered by McClellan’s death more than he cared to admit. He’d been slacking, too. Coasting. All he really had to do these days, besides a few court appearances on previous busts, was Bateman. And he wasn’t sure where to go with what little he knew.
He rarely let things get to him. Something was getting to him now. It was some damned combination of Bateman and McClellan.
Once he got a new partner, Gratelli thought, the cases would begin to flow. He’d be back in the swing. Things would return to normal.
Paul had eventually given up on the tea and had three – or was it four – Singhas. A positive belief in the future – as required by their initial toast – needed a little reinforcement. It wasn’t clear that either was convinced.
He’d walked Julia back to her place, arriving there by ten, going immediately to this address on Stanyan. He had a photo of Earl Falwell, the person who lived there. The likeness showed pockmarks and dull eyes on an otherwise average Caucasian face. This was probably the ugliest picture of the kid ever taken. There was no such thing as a looker on a mug shot – unless you use your imagination.
The stake out on Falwell held little promise, Gratelli told him. It was true the killings had stopped while Earl Falwell was incarcerated. But it was also true Earl Falwell had been out long enough to renew his efforts if he were the one. Maybe the killer had long since moved to some other part of the country or the world and continued his nasty ritual where the connections wouldn’t be made. Maybe the killer was dead. Killed himself. Not an improbable end to this kind of thing.
Bateman’s may have been a separate crime in any event. Certainly, the occurrence in that cabin that night was different from the others, perhaps different enough to change the killer, to alter the patterns, to force him to stop or move on or completely change his procedure. Hell maybe the killer was dead.
Julia Bateman had gone to bed. Then, too restless to sleep, she got back up, put on a robe and paced. The dinner had gone well. A few beers and the restaurant took on a golden glow. The exotic smells, the mix of people, the music and chatter – all made her feel alive again. But a little anxious. By the time they were ready to leave, a light, drizzly fog moved in and they walked back.
Maybe she shouldn’t have had the coffee. Maybe it was the time change. Jet lag. Whatever it was, she was on edge. She had put on some music. Every CD she tried irritated her. Too fast. Too slow. Too romantic. Too cold. She picked up a thick Margaret Atwood paperback; but it proved too complex for a mind that seemed to flit around like a butterfly. She shut out light. Maybe she could sleep now.
The steam radiators had caught up with the chill. Now she felt hot. The room seemed stuffy. No air conditioning. She went to the windows, pulled the lever down and pushed out, her body leaning out over the fire escape. She caught the cold breath of a summer night in the city. She caught movement across narrow Ivy Street – an indistinct figure in the window. It took a moment to realize what he was doing there. What had been discomfort now had a dark, eerie edge. She recognized the symptoms of panic creeping into her mind. She took a deep breath. She shut the window, pulled the shade down.
She picked up the phone and dialed Paul.
‘Thanks for calling,’ came the response. ‘I am not available at the moment. If you’ll leave your name and number and a brief message, I’ll return the call as quickly as I can.’
‘Paul,’ she said in the loudest whisper. Then, realizing it was a little foolish, she spoke in a nearly normal voice. ‘Paul, pick it up. Please.’
She repeated herself, waited. Nothing. She thought about going down the hall. She had a key. No. She was over-reacting. She thought about calling the police. No, no. She wasn’t ready for an all-nighter and the questions.
It wasn’t the killer. He wasn’t in the window for her. Was he? Then who? He was in the window before she got there. He couldn’t have known she was going to open the window. Had he even noticed?
Julia went to the kitchen, found a bottle of white rum and discovered the half-empty bottle of tonic water in the fridge. It was several months old. It had to be flat. She’d try to settle her nerves. First day back and it felt like the day had gone on for weeks.
Julia went to the window again, peeked from the side of the shade. He was still there. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to go out into the night. The alcohol hit her stomach like peroxide on an open cut. Had she made a mistake by coming back?
Iowa wasn’t the answer. But was coming here a solution? She didn’t know. She didn’t have answers. She wasn’t sure she understood the questions. And all of that frightened her almost as much as the peeping Tom.
Earl went out his door, crept from the rear of the three-story Victorian, down the narrow walkway between the houses, toward Stanyan. He didn’t venture far enough to be seen in the hazy glow of the street lamps. No life on the street that he could see. He scanned the row of parked cars. The drizzle had coated most of the windows so it was difficult to tell if there was an occupant in any of them. He watched for some sign of movement.
He was familiar with most of the cars – a couple of them he had thought about hot wiring and just taking off. Maybe for San Antonio or Atlanta. Some place totally new. Away from the cops and the phone calls.
There was a tan Toyota he hadn’t recalled seeing before. And there was a VW bug. The windows were fogged. Either someone had just parked it or someone was in it.
Just as he focused in on what would be the driver’s window, a hand swiped across it. It startled Earl. His body lurched involuntarily. Someone was watching. Could be a couple making out or talking after a date, Earl thought. Could be someone was watching him. Could be the guy who was calling him now. A guy with a cell phone.
Anyone who had staked out Earl’s place would know any movement would have to be on Stanyan. No way to watch from the rear. And it would be difficult for anyone leaving from the back to go anywhere but the front to leave. No alleys. No paths in the back.
The late night drizzle coated Earl’s flesh. His fear turned to anger. Then, like some sort of electrical charge, he became confident. If someone were stalking him, he’d turn the tables. It was as if his brain was lit. He had a feeling similar to the one he had with his young victims. Heartbeat increased, brain cleared, sharp. The excitement was also sexual as it had become for that guy in the Panhandle. This was even better. Earl Falwell had reached some sort of new level.
This was exciting. Danger. A contest. Putting his own life on the line. The scared killer who preyed on weak, unsuspecting young girls was history.
Paul’s cat investigated the newly cleaned window, crawling on Paul’s lap, moving up on his shoulder. Paul swiped at the window again. He thought he saw something move near the house he was watching. It was taller than the ferns that seemed to wall the space between the buildings.
‘I did a really stupid thing,’ Paul said to his cat. He wished the mark he’d made on the window would fog up quickly. He blew on the space that had been cleared.
‘Christ, Chat, what do I do, someone’s coming over here,’ Paul said, knowing full well the cat would do nothing to protect him. ‘Why couldn’t you be a Rottweiler or something? Look at that?’
Earl’s body caught the soft light of the street lamp. He had a body that would have served Calvin Klein well. A body that bore firm muscles, narrowing down to a flat chiseled belly. As it crossed the street and came closer, the commercially pornographic image bore the face of Earl Falwell, more handsome, more frightening than his picture.
Rather than race away and blow any cover he might have, Paul decided to stay and talk his way out of it. Checking on his girlfriend, that was it. Wondering why she wasn’t home. Admit to a little jealousy. He rolled the window down.
‘Hi,’ Earl said.
‘Hello, what’s up?’ Paul said.
‘That’s what I was gonna ask,’ Earl said.
‘Just waiting here,’ Paul said, hoping the nervousness he felt wasn’t apparent in his voice.
‘For what?’
‘It’s kinda personal.’
‘Yeah,’ Earl nodded. ‘I think maybe it is kinda personal because somebody tells me on the phone that somebody is minding my business. Like scoping me out, you know?’
‘Well rest easy…’ Paul said, pausing. He’d almost said ‘Earl.’ He continued. ‘Rest easy, guy. I’m waiting for my girl to come home. I think she’s seeing someone else. Just playing private eye, you know?’
‘Funny, I get a call saying I might be watched and I come out here and sure enough someone’s parked out here.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Paul said. He wondered who’d be calling Earl. ‘Why do you think they’d say that?’
‘I don’t know. What’s her name? Your girl?’
‘Trish,’ Paul said. He wasn’t sure where he got the name. He never felt more white.
‘She lives around here, you say?’
‘Yeah.’ He wanted to change the subject before he got trapped. ‘You’re going to catch cold.’ Paul nodded toward Earl’s drizzle coated torso.
‘You could too. Why don’t you come over to my place.’
‘What?’ Paul was confused by the friendly attitude.
‘Couple of lonely guys, huh?’
Was it that obvious? Paul asked himself. ‘Just thought you were getting pretty wet out there. And cold. I’m fine. I really want to know who comes back with Trish. If it’s a girlfriend, hell, who cares? But if she’s seeing some other guy…’
‘Yeah?’ Falwell said, challenging Paul’s statement. ‘I like your sweatshirt.’
Paul Chang looked down. The shirt read: ‘Boys will do boys.’ Christ, Chang thought. His stomach pitched. He was so used to being gay, he gave no thought to what he put on for the evening.
‘My place is just over there,’ Falwell said. He reached in, put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘We can talk about your girl.’ Falwell smiled.
‘Uhhh…’ God, Paul thought. Was he actually thinking about doing it? About going with Earl? He’d played rough before. He’d taken some chances. The guy was coming on to him. ‘No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.’
‘What have you got to lose?’
Paul tried to disconnect his brain from his penis. It was difficult because there was a legitimate intellectual process going on. Well, one legitimate, one quasi-legitimate. One was the intimacy of strangers which was both an emotional need and an artistic pursuit. The other was his task to learn more about Earl Falwell. How better to find out about him than spend some time with him in his own environs. Paul had already blown his cover.
‘Don’t think so,’ Paul said, not quite losing the battle with his brain. Earl was bigger, tougher. What would happen to…
From Paul’s belt came the electronic beeps.
‘What’s that?’ Earl asked.
‘My beeper,’ Paul said, pulling it out. Looking at the number. It was Julia’s. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go.’
‘You can use my phone,’ Earl said, his fingers tightening on Paul’s shoulder.
Paul turned the ignition key. The engine engaged. ‘I gotta go. It’s an emergency.’
‘Just a few minutes,’ Earl said. His fingers clamped around the back of Paul’s neck, the other on the steering wheel.
‘Gotta go,’ Paul said, turning the wheel and accelerating, wrenching himself and the car free, spinning Earl’s body down on the wet pavement. As Paul drove from Stanyan to Haight and up Haight Street, Paul wondered who it was telling Earl Falwell he was being watched. Nobody knew about it except for Inspector Gratelli – and the inspector didn’t seem likely to broadcast it.
‘I wonder if I would have died tonight,’ Paul said to his cat. Whatever Earl did tonight or seemed likely to do, it didn’t necessarily connect him to the dead girls or to Julia Bateman.