I brought Isabella home two days later, on Monday, the twelfth of July. Through a home-health-care network, I arranged-at an affordable rate-for a live-in nurse to be with us for one week. Her name was Dee. She was a very tall, big-boned woman with the round, smooth face of an infant and huge, gentle hands. It was difficult to tell how old she was, and I did not ask. Her hair was straight and honey-colored and she wore it back in a ponytail. She must have weighed well over 180 pounds.
Isabella slept most of the time. Our conversations were short; the trauma of what had happened overtook her often and without warning. We sat on the deck and looked at the canyon. Isabella was happy to see Our Lady-the formation of the supine woman with the lights of the city showing up from her middle-and even laughed when Black Death perched on a power pole and turned his unbecoming pink head our way.
Izzy ate heartily the meals prepared by Dee, who turned out to be a very good cook. Dee would never join us at the table, however; she took her meals in the guest room and left Izzy and me all the privacy we needed. But when it was time for Izzy's bath or nap or medication, Dee took over with a quiet proprietary air and dismissed me with a shy smile. It was obvious that Dee was investing more in Isabella than the simple reality of X hours for Y dollars. Isabella was hers, if only for week, and Dee was not about to let one bit of her concern go unapplied.
During the first day following the arrests of Wald and Grace Martin, Parish kept me informed by phone of the status of the questioning. After nearly a full day of separate, high-pressure, relentless interrogation, Martin's entire team of detectives had gotten nothing from Grace or Wald except slightly elaborate versions of what Wald had told me that night at Amber's: that he had followed Grace there and together they had found Alice body. They were both professing innocence and extreme outrage at what was being done to them.
With almost twenty-four hours having passed since the detention, only twenty-four more remained before either charges were brought or Grace and Erik were released. I was astonished to find Parish actually considering that possibility. An unsteadness had crept into his voice as that first day lingered on without results, and by late that night he was openly doubtful that either Grace or Wald would contradict each other, much less confess, I asked him for the tenth time to let me see her.
"No. We need to do more than just place them there he said. "They've rehearsed the story well. No chinks, yet. I ' m trying to pry Grace away, let her believe he's selling her out. No go. They anticipated that. I managed two search warrants for the weapon, but we both know they won't find it. I got the judge to give us the porno stuff and any clothing that will match up with the fibers Chet has in the lab."
"Those fibers could just as well be from our clothes, Martin."
"Yeah. I may have a trump card in that box of evidence I collected myself. Chain of custody is going to be a problem. Winters is uh… fairly furious with some of my… activities. I'll keep you posted."
"Let me see Grace."
"Not while this is going on. It just wouldn't be a good idea."
"She might talk to me."
"For the first time in her life? She's acting more like she'd spit in your face."
"Time is short, Martin."
He considered for a moment. "Tomorrow afternoon, if we haven't made any progress."
"What did the airlines tell you on the Eye?"
"He traveled Continental under the name of Mike Eis. Tall guy, smooth-shaven, scars on his face. Cash only."
"And?"
"The trail went stone-cold at JFK."
By noon the next day, Parish had made no progress at all with Grace and Wald. Peter Haight was feverishly trying to build charges against Wald for statutory rape, and one against Grace for breaking and entering, but these were thin shadows of the actual events that had occurred at their hands, and we all knew that shortly after midnight we would either have to spring them or charge them on shaky evidence. Chet Singer was doing legitimate workups on Martin's bootlegged evidence.
Parish let me into the interrogation room at slightly aft 3:00 p.m. Grace was dressed in her street clothes still, and she was not handcuffed. Parish and two lumpish deputies waited outside the closed door, watching, I knew, through the window that to us inside was nothing more than a mirror.
Grace looked exhausted and offered me little more than expression of tired recognition.
"Russell."
"Hi, Grace."
"Have you come to ask about my last meal?"
"It's not that bad."
She said nothing. She remained seated, hands on her lap and her long legs crossed beneath the table. She looked at the mirror, gave whoever was watching a little wave, then sighing deeply and rested her arms on the table in front of her.
"I'm tired."
"They working you over pretty good?"
She nodded. "It's just the hours. They can sleep and work in shifts. I have to sit here and look at my ex-stepfather's cowlike face. Sorry, Marty," she called toward the mirror. "It's a cute face, too. I mean, I always liked cows. I got some cow napkin holders at home. Somewhere."
"How long were you and Wald together?"
"I was thirteen when he was seeing Mom. It started then. You know, I've told them all about that. I might not have been a consenting adult, but I was consenting. I grew up fast. So what?" She yawned.
"Did it start as a way to get back at Amber?"
Grace nodded.
"Who hatched the idea of getting rid of her?"
"We never had that idea, Russell. That's what I've been saying for a day and a half now."
I sighed myself then, partly out of frustration, partly out knowledge of the pain that I was certainly causing my girl. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Make them let me go."
"They think you killed Alice. They're not going to let you go until you tell them what really went down."
"In that case, Russell, what on earth could you do for me?"
"I've been thinking about that."
"And?"
"Could I just offer some thoughts?"
"Offer away."
"It seems to me that the hatred you felt for your mother was… well founded. There were bad times, lots of misunderstanding, jealousy, competition. Amber admits as much."
"Large of her."
"And what I think happened was that Erik manipulated you with that. Did you know they found the netsuke you and Amber fought over so long, in Erik's house? They also found some phone records that establish communication with the two men who burned your feet. Amber didn't hire them. Wald did. It took him years to feed your fears but only a few months to twist your mind to the point where you were scared enough to commit a murder. He used you, girl."
She looked at me rather blankly then, and I fully realized the despair of her heart and the fatigue of her body. "I actually loved him."
"I understand that. Some things about Erik can be loved."
"You're not so dumb, after all."
"It doesn't take a genius to see a girl can fall in love with a guy. Handsome. Smart. Mommy's castoff."
"Gad," she said quietly. "Love."
"Yeah."
She breathed deeply and leveled her beautiful eyes on me. I wanted only one thing more than to put my arms around her, and that one thing was to hear her acknowledge the truth
"You know, the first time we talked about it… it was kind of a joke. A perfect-crime fantasy. It was fun to… speculate. But then when Mom started getting the men after me and threatening me, it all of a sudden started sounding reasonable. It kind of takes you over. Like, if you talk about something enough, plan it enough, you pretty much have to go through with it some point. It… gets real. And I was so afraid."
Oh, how I understood the insane logic of that statement! Had I passed it down to Grace through my genes, this compulsion to make the imagination real, to act upon thoughts so that thoughts became acts? Was there perhaps in Grace, as myself, some weakness of the faculties dividing impulse from action?
"I know. Can I tell you a true story?"
"Sure, Russ."
"About three weeks after Izzy was diagnosed, I got real drunk and went out to the hillside with my revolver. I wasn’t sure why. I sat down and looked down at the house, the light of the city. I prayed to God that He'd make the nightmare stop, that He'd cradle Isabella in His healing arms. I offered Him my soul instead. Then I emptied all the cartridges but one from the cylinder, closed it and spun it and put it to my head. If He let me live, it was my sign that He was with us. If not, it was simple trading of one life for another. A stupid idea, right? But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made, and the more actual that gun became. I had gone that far, and I had to follow through. At the last second, I lowered the gun, pointed it at the hillside, and pulled the trigger. My hand jerked and the sound blasted into my ears. I had my answer then, at least to my own satisfaction: Go home, get sober, take care of your wife, and don't fuck with the Lord anymore. That's as deep as my faith ever got. I didn't even think another prayer until that night we went out swimming in the ocean."
Grace betrayed no emotion to me, but something about her exhaustion seemed to deepen even more. Then, a wry smile came to her lips. "I'm sorry for all that's happened to you and Isabella. I wish there was something I could do to make it better."
"There is."
She waited.
"Tell these men what happened. And understand that Erik will do everything he can to make you take this fall alone."
Grace drew a deep breath.
I could only imagine the silence behind our one-way mirror. Grace eyed the thing, then returned her gaze to me. Her eyes were moist.
"Would you do one more thing?" I asked.
"Why not?"
"Call me Dad, or Pop, or anything but Russell."
She smiled very weakly. "I would accept a hug now, Pops."
That Tuesday evening, I picked up my mail and headed directly into town to do the grocery shopping. In the market parking lot, I fanned through the letters, bills, and catalogs-you might imagine how Izzy, confined to a wheelchair, loved those catalogs- and found to my great dismay a postcard canceled in New York City, July 10. The picture on the front was of the Flatiron building, New York's first "skyscraper," and where my editor works. On the back was the following, in an almost illegible scrawl:
Dear Russell-New York a lovely city with so many… possibilities!
Aren't your publishers in this building? Am flossing regularly and considering minor cleansing action, but it would take an army of crusaders such as myself to dent this cesspool of humanity. Miss OC. Cuddles, ME.
My scalp actually crawling in the heat, I set the card carefully the glove compartment of the car, knowing that the Eye had wiped it clear of fingerprints. But it would never hurt to try. The people in Documents-Handwriting Analysis, to be specific would be more than happy to have it.
As I walked the familiar aisles of our grocery store, a deep, if fragile, sense of contentment began to come over me. I shopped with Isabella in mind, picking out all the things she loved to eat. Few things can soothe a troubled soul like the simple act of loving another person. Every bag of produce, can or jar, I touched with the knowledge that it was for Isabella, and that if I could not stem the sickness in her head, I might at least comfort her body with the fruits of my labor. There were other blessings to be counted: the Journal checks had begun to come in, Nell, my agent, had gotten a modest offer for the Midnight Eye book and I accepted it-while both my publishers and realized that the end of that book was far from being written; I had witnessed the beginnings of surrender in my daughter stopped by the health-food store for some tea that Isabella especially liked.
Then I loaded the groceries into the car and walked down to the beach to watch the sunset. It was an odd hour, because the dry, searing heat of the last week was getting ready to break. Far out over the horizon, a bank of moist dark clouds hovered and as the sun dipped into them, its bottom flattened and the cloud tops seemed to ignite. When the sun had fallen fully behind the bank, it glowed there, softly, like an orange wrapped tissue, and sent angled bars of light down onto the ocean, few minutes later, it emerged beneath the cloud bank and touched the water. As it sank, the clouds caught fire from below and soon the whole western sky was a blanket of black and orange patchwork settling over a flame-touched sea. I took a deep drink from my flask.
I began to see more clearly the tasks that lay ahead. Isabella would require more and more care, and there would be victories as well as defeats. I hoped that what joys we could find together would mitigate the agonies; I prayed that through it all we would keep our love alive; that if it was the desire of the heavens to kill her here on earth, we could still manage a laugh, a smile, a touch. My feelings of just a few weeks ago, of wanting so badly to escape, had diminished. The tug of the whiskey was still there, but it was a tug-not an irresistible yank. I felt slower as I sat there on the boardwalk bench, more able to occupy the moment. Amber had given me something in her desperately sweet surrender: She had broken the bonds of my own making, allowing me to grasp the heart of an obsession and understand that once possessed so fully, an object of desire can no longer hold such a tidal sway. Did I want Amber again? Oh, yes. One cannot eradicate genetic imperatives. But I no longer believed that she, or the secret life that went with her, was an antidote to the actual one I would now begin to live. As I looked out over the darkening water, it occurred to me that the core of a life is not what one will lose but what one will fight to keep.
And I realized one more thing as I sat there, which was this: I would never truly lose Isabella. Because some people never shine, no matter how much they are given and others will shine forever, no matter how much from them is taken away. Isabella was a light. Shine on, my dearest wife!
The car phone rang as I was heading out Laguna Canyon Roe
"Hello, Russell."
I felt my scalp tighten and a cool sweat moving from my palms to the steering wheel.
"I told you not to call."
"That was rude. I just wanted to ask you one more thing. In your article about my departure, will you remark that queers of either sex will not be safe when I come back? I didn't mean to discriminate against them, but I couldn't remember if I'd been specific."
"You can't come back. Everyone knows your face. Everyone knows your name. It's just a matter of time before the New York cops come to your door. Then it's back to California for long trial, a couple of appeals, plenty of prison time, and the gas chamber. Winters offered me a front-row seat for that, I’ll be there." "Sh-sh-sh. You cutups! I wish there was a way for me show you how important this last article is. Just because I've left the county doesn't mean I don't care. I want to be remembered accurately. Remember to be accurate, Russell. You have professional codes to live up to."
With this, he hung up. I dialed the Sheriff's Department immediately and got Carfax.
"It was a Brooklyn number," he said, the excitement clear in his voice. "We've got the address. He's meat."
Back home, arms loaded with grocery bags, I managed to let myself in the front door. I had just kicked it shut behind me when I turned and saw Dee lying on the stairway with a bullet hole in the middle of her back and a streamlet of blood dripping down the steps.
In front of me, through dim light, something moved. A light went on. The Midnight Eye loomed not ten feet from me, bearded, bewigged, wrapped in a rotting green blanket, pointing a small automatic with a large silencer directly at the bags still clutched to my gut.
"Hi, Russ."
My first reflex was to look up the stairway, past Dee's body, to the bedroom where I had last seen my wife alive. The bags dropped to the floor. I leaned in the direction of the stairs, then held myself.
"She's s-s-sleeping," said the Eye. "I looked in on her. Don't worry. Sh-sh-sh. Now, step toward me slowly, with your hands away from your body."
I did so. I stopped to look upstairs again, to perhaps see a shadow cast by her breathing body, perhaps hear some tiny sound that would indicate life. The rage that rang from my stomach, up my backbone, and into my ears nearly deafened me. My breath was short.
"Yes, like that," he said. "Here… sit at your table."
I saw that my typewriter and a fresh stack of paper had been placed on the dining room table. I walked toward it, still straining, even through the dreadful ringing in my ears, for some sound from the bedroom above. "Sit."
"I need to see Izzy," I said.
"I told you, she's sound asleep. Deeply asleep."
"May I see for myself?"
"You may not, you shit-sucking liar! You cheat. You coward. You sit!"
I pulled back the heavy dining room chair and sat before the typewriter.
"I took the seven o'clock out this morning."
"How did you make that last call register in Brooklyn?'
"I have call forwarding in my little cage in Brooklyn. Your CNI intercept tells you that the call originated there. Actually, made it from your study and routed it through New York."
"Clever."
"All of these gadgets and tricks are in the public realm now. It's part of the peace dividend. Most people don't know ^ that. Most people are idiots. All I used was some very basic electronic know-how. Of course, two years at the central phone office in Laguna didn't hurt me."
As I sat there, I got my first truly good look at the Midnight Eye. He was as tall as we suspected-six three perhaps-and heavily, though softly, built. Even from this distance, it was easy to see that the beard and disheveled red-brown hair were false. But aside from his size and the piecemeal manner of his disguise, little about the man himself commanded the kind of dread we had all felt looking at the things he had done. His eyes were very dark brown. They had a brightness to them, a luminosity that was intensified by the ceiling lamp. They were slow eye deliberate and calm. His skin was pale, and I noted that his fingers, wrapped around the handle of the gun, were plum; with longish nails. His legs were heavy and large, and his feet quite big, which gave him a bottom-heavy, weighted appearance. Magnifying this effect was his slight pigeon-toed stance. A flicker of anger charged his eyes when mine met them again.
"It's not polite to stare."
From what I could judge from Mary Ing's earlier picture I was now looking at a disguised version of William Fredrick Ing. Rather, reverse-disguised, to mimic an earlier manifestation of himself. What did he really look like now, beneath the fake hair and beard? Wald and I had been right-the Midnight Eye had been impersonating an "other" all along, playing a part in his own ritual. As we had suspected, Ing had been able to work, move about in public, and continue his murderous nights because in real life, he looked little like the beast he could become. Now I knew why he had been so nonchalant about our presenting his picture to the public, precisely because it was an image that no one would recognize. Except, of course, his own mother.
"You have one m-m-more article to write," he said. "I'll tell you what to say. Put in the paper."
I scrolled in a sheet and threw back the carriage return. Again I trained my ears for some sound of life in the room above. Nothing. Not so much as a rustle of sheets, a breath.
"Now," he said. "The first two sentences should read, The 'Midnight Eye' is not William Ing, as earlier stories have c-c-claimed. I met him personally just last night and he assured me of this."
I typed the sentences.
"Do you like the lead?" he asked.
"I'd change it a little."
"How?"
"I think I'd say… William Fredrick Ing, the notorious Midnight Eye, visited me last night in my home. First, he killed my wife's nurse, then my wife, and by the time you read this, he will have killed me, too."
"No. Don't get ahead of things. You have some of it right, and some of it wrong. You don't have to worry about Isabella. Sh-sh-sh. And I have only one name-the Midnight Eye. Ing is a person who used to be and is no more. You must remain accurate as a reporter, right?"
"That's right."
"Next sentence: He is a tall and powerful man, who commands respect even with a glance of his dark eyes."
I typed it. "He's a tall and powerful man," I said, "who was picked on when he was a kid and didn't have any friend He didn't have much of a family life, either. Very early, he began a secret life of his own."
"No! If you write one word of that, I'll kill you and finish it myself. I can t-t-type!" He extended the gun toward me, dark barrel a condensed version of the black eternity into which he would certainly blow me.
"I'm just saying it," I said. "I didn't write it. I'm saying you were a kid who got torn up by his own dogs on the Fourth July. You walked in on your parents and got slapped for your concern. You were a miserable kid. You weren't always the Midnight Eye. Why not include that?"
"Because it isn't relevant."
"Can you explain?"
"The Midnight Eye was born. He did not develop. He was. chosen. Your next paragraph goes like this: According to the Eye himself, he has had murderous impulses for almost all life. He began by killing animals. As a young man, he saw the rape of the county by foreigners, people who came to Orange County only to make money. The Midnight Eye then realized his calling."
I typed out the graph and waited, staring into his dark bright eyes.
He continued. "And as the Midnight Eye's body grew lean and strong, his urges became tied to a greater good."
"The good of killing people not like him?"
"The good of killing the parasites and leeches. The good of clean sand and skies. Of earth in balance, and all people their places."
"I'd change that."
"How?"
"I'd say, He looked for God and when he didn't find him, he began to think he was God himself."
"Not true. I am merely a servant. Write that! The Midnight Eye claims he is only a servant."
"Of what?"
"Of… history. Of progress toward the future. Of… redreaming our way out of what has gone wrong here."
I wrote this down.
Ing stood for a long moment, apparently lost for words.
"Can I see your face?" I asked.
"Gaze."
"The one under all the stage stuff."
"You see my face as it is meant to be seen."
"You're going to kill me, right?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then let me see your face. Let me see the Midnight Eye that no one else can see. Give me this… exclusive."
Ing seemed to ponder this. He looked at me, then at his gun, then back to me. "When I saw your wife upstairs, I realized she would suffer more if I left her alive. How could you marry a filthy Mexican?"
"I loved her. I still do."
"You would compromise your sperm with her egg?"
"That won't happen for us."
"Good. Good for the place we call home. Now… next sentences: The Eye told me that the county must be cleansed, and cleansed thoroughly. After a brief sabbatical on the East Coast, the Eye returned here yesterday to continue his work. If possible, the Eye is just as impressive in person as he is through his generous and self-effacing acts."
Generous and self-effacing acts, I thought, like the Fernandez couple. Like the Ellisons and Wynns and Steins. Like a the animals. Like Dee, and probably Izzy, and-shortly-myself.
Something then dawned on me. "You hate couples, don’t you? Married people."
"I loathe you."
"Why?"
"The dependence, the way you cling to one another, the way you are… exclusive and out only for material gain."
"You detest our happiness. Is it because you've never had it? Are you jealous?"
"Man was meant to be alone. Marriage is a necessary aberration for continuing the race. Priests are celibate for good reason."
"You ever had a woman?"
Ing's gaze hardened and I could see his hand stiffen the gun. "Next," he said. "The Eye says that any and all minorities are welcome to leave the county, but this must be done soon. No one offering a home for sale will be harmed; no packing to leave will be stopped. All who stay will live in fear of violent death."
I wrote out the paragraph. The terrible ringing in my ears still had not abated. I was having trouble getting my fingertips to the keys of the typewriter.
Ing was behind me. I could see his reflection in the mirrored wall. He was reading, from a distance, over my shoulder. As he leaned forward, I could see the club hanging over his shoulder, exactly where Chet Singer had predicted it would be. The Eye had not cleaned it. It was clotted with hair and blood, a patina of gore now dried and blackened by time. The combined smells of the club and the Midnight Eye were almost overpowering.
"Next, Russell. The Eye stated he had to kill me because I had been dishonest with him. The Eye values honesty above all other traits in human beings. I had been led to believe that the Eye was William Ing, which he is clearly not. But because of that untruth, I must go the way of the others, whose cleansing makes the air of this place clearer and cleaner with each passing day."
I wrote nothing. "Are you going to sign this?" I asked.
"My signature will be left all over this house."
In fact, I thought, it mattered not at all. But I was grasping for time, and for some idea-no matter how desperate-of how to keep him from shooting me in the back.
"A signature would help… dramatize it," I said.
"In your blood?"
"Very good," I said. "And I think you should say something about what people can do to save themselves."
"They can go away."
"Can your offer a time? A kind of grace period while they make arrangements to leave?"
I could see the Eye pondering this. His reflection was clear. He lifted the gun hand to rub the side of his face and came a step closer to my chair.
"Offer them one month," I continued.
"No! Too long!"
"Two weeks?"
"Shut up! Shut up while I th-th-think."
Into the silence that surrounded Ing's thought came a shrill mechanical screech from upstairs, followed by the groan of a motor. The lift!
I watched Ing look up, startled. And in that moment, I used all of the strength I could summon to lock my hands on the typewriter, pivot, and hurl the heavy machine into the chest of the Midnight Eye. Then I was on him. My forward charge caught him low and I drove him clear across the kitchen, slamming him ferociously against the refrigerator. I heard his gun thud against the hardwood floor. I found his throat with my hands, but as I had feared-and as I had experienced as a deputy on the beat-the strength of the furious and insane can be prodigious. His hands closed over mine and pulled them from his throat in one grunting motion that left me spread-armed and looking helplessly into Ing's wide dark eyes. It can only have been luck that allowed me to act first. I brought my knee up hard and felt it penetrate the softness of his groin. He screamed and went momentarily limp as I pulled free one arm and landed a chopping right-hand blow that struck him exactly where I had hoped-on his temple. He shuddered and I felt his body sag. I threw a wide left hook, harnessing all of my momentum from the first blow and aiming for his jaw. What happened next seemed to take place in one second at the most: I saw his right hand reach up and intercept my fist in midair. His body hardens with a fresh fury and his left arm clamped around my neck and drew me-like a combine gathering a shaft of wheat-snugly against his stinking body. I pushed off from the floor with throttled groan and ran us both back against the table, into which we crashed, rolled, and landed on the carpet-both of Ing powerful arms now locked around my neck and my breathing all but choked off. With my fingers, I found his hair, which yanked-only to feel the wig slide off in my hands! Then I found his eyes and dug my thumbs in with what diminishing energy I could find. I could hear his labored piglike breathing just above ^ my head, and I could hear, too, the groaning descent of Isabella wheelchair lift as it landed in its platform on the floor. My thumbs sank in! Ing bellowed with pain, and in the instant he reflexive reached for his face, I broke free of his clench, brought both my hands from his eyes to his throat, and tightened my fingers as if over the last tree branch between me and the abyss.
I turned him over and squeezed harder, trying to bring my inferior weight to bear. But just as the air rushed into my lungs and fresh blood surged into my head, I saw Ing's hand extend and close over the gun. I yelled and called upon my last reserve of muscle to choke the life out of him before that gun could be turned at me. It was not enough. His hand closed over the grip and his finger slipped inside the trigger guard. At that instant, when I would have to release his neck in order to defend myself against the gun, I saw in the far-right side of my vision a figure standing over us. Suddenly, Isabella's quad cane smashed down over the gun, pinning wrist and weapon against the carpet. I could look up at her for only an instant, but I will never forget what I saw there: Isabella in her blue pajamas, her turbaned head and swollen face, her weakened legs unsteady as she did her best to balance her weight over the handle of that thin cane, concentrating with all her considerable might upon the task of remaining upright. She swayed like a cottonwood in a high wind. But, charged by her courage, I drew a new strength and applied myself to nothing at all on earth except wringing the life out of the monster in my hands. I glared into his fierce eyes and bellowed myself, a roar that echoed through the room around us and seemed to settle in William Fredrick Ing's very eyes, which bulged, quivered, then focused on me a look of penetrating hatred that froze in place as I roared again, felt the bones in his throat popping beneath my fingers, and began slamming his lifeless head against the floor, again and again and again. Izzy's cane stood fast! When, breathless and emptied of all power, I rose upon my knees and released the throat, I looked up at Isabella, still wholly focused on maintaining balance on her damaged legs. Her eyes were closed and her gauze-wrapped head lifted as if to heaven. She swayed, righted herself, then swayed again. She began to fall. I caught her, still on my knees, and managed to settle her descending head into my left arm and guide her down gently to the floor. With my other hand, I took Ing's gun and planted the barrel of it against his head, should there be any life at all left in him. And with that gun in my right hand, extended, and Isabella's frail head crooked into the elbow of my left arm, I lay there, crucified to the carpet and unable to do anything but listen to the gasping of my own lungs and to the deeper, slower workings of Isabella's.
Slowly, our breathing became one rhythm. The ceiling lights shone down upon us. Sweat burned my eyes. I tumed and looked at my wife. The wheelchair stood behind her, locked in place. Isabella's eyes were open now and she blinked slowly I could see the quick pulse of cotton where her heart was beat ing. Her legs trembled from their effort.
"Is it over?" she whispered.
"It's over. It's over. It's over."
Martin Parish was the first to arrive. I welcomed him wordlessly, pointed to the body of Dee lying on the stairway, then led him into the living room, where Isabella sat again in her wheelchair and the Midnight Eye lay sprawled between kitchen and dining room.
"Hello, Isabella," he said softly.
"Hi, Marty."
"You okay?"
"I think I am."
Martin stood for a long moment over the body of the Eye. I stood beside Izzy. As I watched, Martin pulled off the false beard and set it down beside the Eye's head. What was revealed to us was quietly shocking: a rather plain but still handsome face marred by the scars of long ago; a straight, intelligent nose; high forehead giving way to thinning brown hair that now stood up in errant wisps, a pair of deep-set, very dark eyes, still open, that seemed more than anything else to be reflective of pain.
Martin shook his head and looked at us.
I stood above Isabella, my hands upon her still-trembling shoulders, and stared down at the lifeless man now occupying my kitchen floor.
Martin walked toward us and pointed at the couch. "Mind?"
"Go ahead," I said.
He sat heavily. "Eleven human lives. And his own miserable excuse for one."
"A cancer," said Isabella.
"We cured it a little late," said Martin.
"B-b-better than never," said Izzy.
After a long silence, through which the whine of distant sirens intensified, Martin cleared his throat and looked at me. "Grace cracked about an hour after you left. She and Wald did Alice and the cover-up-the whole show. We don't have to talk about this now if you don't want."
Isabella gasped quietly.
"Who actually did it?"
"Wald did the clubbing. They were going to get rich and married. She planted the body here, on Wald's instructions. Covered it with the trash bags, so it wouldn't stain her car. According to Grace, the club went off the end of the Aliso Pier, so we'll get our scuba team out at daylight."
"That's good."
"Dan's thinking about firing me for my hillside antics that night. It'll depend on any complaint you might or might not bring. I'm not going to ask any favors at all, but you should know, Russ, I was really convinced you'd done it. All I knew for sure was that I hadn't." I could think of not one appropriate thing to say. "Wald trailed some things past me a couple of times, he continued. "Bits of information, questions about your finances, about your past relationship with Amber. I thought I was making some solid conclusions. If I'd been smarter, I’d have smelled him, not you." "Well, I believed it was you. We all got taken pretty good.” Martin looked down at Ing again.
"Damn. Maybe you two could take a vacation or something. Get away. Get clean.” "We will." "Go after some birds this fall?" "Let's think about that one, Marty." 3