A wasteland of strangers (32 page)

Another thing I have to do, before very long, is dump Ramona. If I have to live with her, sleep with her, listen to her goddamn screeching and squawking for the duration, I might as well throw in the towel; I'd never get out of the trap. California's a no-fault state, so I don't need grounds to file for divorce. Just go ahead and do it. She'd demand support, but in turn I'd demand half of what her Indian Head Bay land brought when it finally sold. Even if I came out on the short end financially, I'd manage to recoup somehow; and in every other way I'd come out on the long end. I'd be able to breathe again.

She was home; the lights were on in the house. As soon as I pulled the Buick into the driveway and saw her waiting in the kitchen doorway, I felt another letdown. Her coming out to meet me, making a pass at kissing my cheek as if she were glad I was back, made it even worse. I pushed her away. "Don't, Ramona. I'm exhausted and I need a drink."

'The real-estate deal—?"

"Another dud. I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm sorry but my God what's happened around here while you were gone I can hardly believe it." All in one breath. "You must have heard about it in Santa Rosa?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"Oh, well, then you're in for—"

"Not now," I said, "for Christ's sake, not now."

I brushed past her, went through the kitchen and into the living room to the wet bar. Wonder of wonders, the screeching parrot didn't fly in after me. The first scotch went down quick and hot, like swallowing fire. I coughed and poured another and sank into my chair to drink it more slowly. The glass was half empty when I heard Ramona moving around in the kitchen, then bumping through the door into the living room.

"George."

The way she said my name made me look up. And all the skin on my back, my neck, my scalp seemed to curl upward. The glass fell out of my hand, splashing scotch over my lap; I barely noticed as I lurched to my feet.

"I opened the trunk of your car," she said in a voice I'd never heard her use before. "I thought I'd be nice and bring in your bag."

She was standing there with one of the new suitcases in her left hand. In her right were two of the banded packets of $100 bills.

Richard Novak

WHEN MY PAGER went off I was waiting with Thayer and Verne Erickson at the hospital, the sheriff standing off by himself and being pissed at me again because I'd asked Verne to ride with us on the transfer. Thayer and I were like gasoline and fire; Verne's presence would keep us from setting each other off. What we'd been waiting for the past fifteen minutes was for Faith to finish his phone call. He was inside the resident physician's office, visible to us through a glass partition, facing away and holding the receiver tight to his ear.

I left Verne to keep watch on him and called the station from the head nurse's desk. Delia Feldman had relieved Lou Files. She said, "What's keeping you, Chief?"

"Faith. He demanded his one call as soon as Verne and I walked in. Changed his mind all of a sudden, Christ knows why. He's still not talking to us."

"Lawyer?"

"What else. One of the doctors gave him the name of a criminal attorney in Santa Rosa. He didn't want anybody from Pomo County."

"Can you hurry him up?"

"Why?"

"Big crowd outside already and getting bigger by the minute."

"How big?"

"Must be a couple of dozen reporters, photographers, camera people. You'd think you were bringing in the Unabomber's brother. Lot of citizens out there, too. Lining the street and congregating over in the park."

"Any trouble?"

"Not so far. But a lot of them are young and restless. I keep remembering how the crowds Friday night almost got out of hand."

"How many people so far? Rough estimate."

"Counting the media, over a hundred."

"You send anybody out to keep order?"

"Sherm and Jake. Nobody else here right now but me."

"Who's out on patrol?"

"Mary Jo and Jack."

"Call them in. If you need anybody else, go down the off-duty roster."

"Right."

"I'll have Thayer put some of his deputies on standby alert. And Delia, make sure our people keep everything low-key, same as Friday night. The last thing we need is somebody provoking trouble."

Trisha Marx

I SNUCK OUT and walked down to Municipal Park because I had to see John one more time, even if it'd be from a distance and he'd be in handcuffs on his way to jail. I knew I'd cry when I saw him, and it was what I wanted—to feel even worse than I already did. Sometimes you just have to wallow in your own misery, you know?

I thought maybe Anthony'd be there, too. More reason to feel crappy, seeing him, even if I did feel kind of sorry for him. He must've been blown away to find out what a scumbag Mateo really was. Give him a little sympathy, show him I was a better person than he was. Show him I was more miserable than he was. I guess it's true what they say: Misery loves company.

But Anthony wasn't there. Home with his people, or else out somewhere getting high. That's always been his answer to anything wrong or lame—get high, feel good so you didn't have to think about feeling bad.

Some of the other kids were over by the bandstand, but I didn't see Selena so I didn't go over and hang with them. She was about the only one I could've stood to hang with tonight. I took a spot by myself under one of the trees near the street, where I could see the front of the police station. All the lights over there were blurry from the mist that was rising off the lake, blowing in in curls and long, ragged streamers. It made the people look sort of blurry, too, like will-o'-the-wisps. Newspaper and TV reporters waiting for John, not because they cared about him but because they thought he was a murderer and murderers are hot news. It was sick and freaky, in a way. If they knew he was innocent and a good person besides, they wouldn't want anything to do with him, he could drop dead in the street and they wouldn't even look at him twice. The guilty ones like Mateo, they'd fall all over themselves to get close and stick a microphone in his face and call him Mr. Munoz and feel sorry for him if he said he was a kidnapper and a rapist on account of he'd had a shitty childhood—

"Hello, Trisha."

Ms. Sixkiller. She'd come right up beside me and I hadn't even noticed her. Right away I was nervous and wary. But she didn't start in about John or her boat or anything; she just stood there hunched inside her coat, her arms folded and her breath making puffs in the cold night air.

I could've moved away and maybe she wouldn't've followed, but I didn't. Pretty soon I said, "I, um, heard about what happened last night. I'm real sorry it was you Mateo picked on."

"So am I. But it's over now."

"He's a pig. Anthony's not like him at all." Now, what did I want to defend Anthony for?

"I know he's not."

"We broke up. Anthony and me."

"Because of Mateo?"

"No, it was before that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Um, no."

"All right. But we do need to talk about John Faith."

"... Why would I want to talk about him?"

"He's why you're here, isn't he?"

"He's why everybody's here. You too, right?"

"Right. You know he saved me from being raped?"

I nodded. "So maybe you don't think he's the lowlife everybody else does."

"That's right, I don't."

"He didn't kill Mrs. Carey. I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

"Maybe Mateo did it. Did anybody think of that?"

"Yes. If he did, it'll come out when he's caught."

"If he's ever caught."

"He will be. Trisha, about John Faith."

"What about him?"

"I know you helped him. All you did and how you did it."

Oh, God. I didn't say anything.

"He tried to convince me otherwise, to protect you. He asked me not to give you away to the police."

Right. That was the way John was. "So?"

"So I'm not going to. I don't believe in making trouble for people I like. And I think I understand your reasons."

'Then you have to believe he's innocent, too."

"I do. I also believe it'll be proven eventually."

"Not soon enough to keep him out of jail."

"Life and justice aren't always fair, Trisha."

'Tell me about it. I figured that out a long time ago."

We stood there for a while. Then I said, "I owe you an apology, Ms. Sixkiller," and saying it was easier than I'd thought it would be. "About your bathroom window and your boat and everything. I feel . . . you know, wrong about messing with stuff the way I did."

"Can I count on you to use better judgment in the future?"

"Yeah. I won't do anything like that again."

"Then your apology is accepted."

"I'll pay for the window and fixing the damage—"

"I don't want your money," she said. 'Tell you what I would like from you, though."

"What's that?"

'Three or four hours of your time next summer. You obviously know how to drive a powerboat, but you can use some lessons in how to dock one. Lessons in general boat safety, too."

I didn't laugh or smile and neither did she. We stood quiet again, and when the wind gusted and I shivered she put her arm around my shoulders and kind of hugged me. I didn't pull away. I guess maybe we both needed somebody to lean on, right then.

Zenna Wilson

WHEN HELEN CARTER and I arrived at Park Street, quite a crowd had already gathered. There must have been more than a hundred people standing and milling around. No wonder we hadn't been able to find a parking space any closer than three blocks away. I saw four television vans, and there were reflector lamps and handheld spotlights that turned the mist swirling in off the lake white and shiny, like crystallized smoke, and half a dozen men and women carrying portable microphones and those bulky cameras with lights jutting from their tops—Minicams, I think they're called. I recognized a roving reporter from Channel 5 in San Francisco, too. Everybody was talking in keyed-up voices, but other than that, the crowd was really very well behaved. I'd been concerned about that, the presence of rowdies looking to start trouble, and there was a noisy group of teenagers by the park bandstand, but uniformed policemen and sheriffs deputies, bless them, seemed to have everything under control.

Still, it was exciting. That was the word for it. You could actually feel the excitement in the air, like electricity. If it hadn't been the end of a terrible tragedy, I think I might even have been thrilled.

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," I told Helen as we made our way to the parking lot on the near side of the station. She agreed. And if Howard doesn't like it, I thought but didn't say, well, that's just too bad. I'd asked him to come along, but he wouldn't even consider it. He'd been in such a strange and irksome mood lately—critical, even cruel at times. When I first heard that that evil man Faith was still alive and had been arrested, I took the news straight to Howard and he said nastily, "You must be really disappointed he's not burning in hell." I was, yes, as any good Christian would be to find out that one of Satan's own is still among us, but I didn't appreciate having it flung at me in a tone that made it sound like an accusation. Well, he could sit home and sulk or whatever. Helen was much more pleasant company. Much more agreeable, too. She's a member of my church and her worldview is a lot closer to mine than Howard's.

There was hardly room for one person, much less two, up close to where most of the media people were congregated. But we were determined and we made room. One of the men I accidentally jostled turned and gave me a piercing look. I was about to answer him in kind when I recognized him. Douglas Kent.

I altered my expression to a smile and said to him, 'Tou remember me, don't you, Mr. Kent? Zenna Wilson."

He leaned closer, squinting. I drew back. His breath . . . well, he simply reeked of liquor. He wasn't very steady on his feet, either. Really quite intoxicated, to the point where he hadn't bothered to shave today,

or, for that matter, to bathe. I find public drunkenness disgusting; un-cleanliness, too. There is no excuse for either one. Even so, I decided that Christian charity was called for in Mr. Kent's case. Everyone knew the poor man had a drinking problem. And after all, he had written that inspiring editorial based on what I'd told him about the stranger in our midst.

"Ah, Mrs. Wilson," he said. "Of course I remember you."

"We've spoken several times, but only met in person two or—"

"In tongues, eh?"

"Excuse me?"

"Spoken in viper tongues."

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"Not to worry, dear lady. What's your opinion of all this?"

"Well, it's very exciting, isn't it?"

"Exciting. Oh, yes. But it will be a good deal more exciting once the gladiators arrive."

"Do you really think so?"

"I know so. Absolutely positive of it. The Romans had the right idea, by cracky."

"Romans?"

"Death struggles on the floor of the coliseum. All thumbs down. Blood spilled while the hungry legions roar."

I glanced at Helen. She had no more idea of what he was talking about than I did.

Richard Novak

THE RIDE FROM Pomo General to the police station takes a little less than fifteen minutes. I talked Thayer into riding up front with Verne, and I sat in back with the prisoner. I kept watching Faith, but for his part, I wasn't even there. He sat with that ramrod posture, his big, shackled hands between his thighs, and stared straight ahead in stony silence. None of us had anything to say. The quiet in the cruiser had an odd, stagnant quality, like a pocket of dead air just before heat lightning.

When we neared the center of town the media lights were visible from a distance, a wash of brightness against the restless banks of tule fog. I could tell from the cars packing Main and the side streets that the waiting crowd had grown even larger. I tensed as Verne turned down Water Street, toward the municipal pier. The crowd seemed orderly enough, but that didn't mean it would stay that way.