Out Are the Lights (15 page)

    

    Connie felt desolate. She took a long bath, but that didn't help. Her mind replayed the conversation, went over every minute of her times with Pete, seeking unknown answers.

    She wished she'd asked the woman for proof. A driver's license. Some kind of evidence to back up her awful words.

    But Connie didn't want proof.

    She wanted, so much, to disbelieve the woman. She dinged to the hope that it was a mistake, or a prank, or a vicious lie.

    Maybe Dal put the woman up to it. For vengeance. Or to make her drop Pete.

    But she knew, even as she thought such things, that she was clutching desperately at straws.

    The woman had told the truth.

    Pete's married.

    He'd been lying to her, twisting her emotions, encouraging her to fall in love. Trickery to get her into bed.

    No, she couldn't believe that.

    She didn't know what to believe.

    She fell onto her bed, and stared at the ceiling. Her mind was a helpless tangle.

    She looked at the clock. Nearly seven. Pete should be here by now. Unless he knows. Maybe his wife confronted him today, and he'll never come again.

    She covered her eyes with a pillow, then quickly flung the pillow aside. If her eyes were covered, she wouldn't see the doorbell light.

    It began to flash.

    Her stomach knotted. She felt as if she might vomit.

    
Please, let it be Pete.

    She left the bedroom.

    
Let him tell me it's a lie. Please, make it not be true.

    She opened the door, and it was Pete. He smiled, and stepped toward her. She held out a hand to stop him.

    'Don't,' she said.

    'What's wrong?'

    'You're married.'

    His face turned ashen.

    'Admit it. You're married!'

    'How… How did you find out?'

    

    

    Pete swung his foot into the doorway. The door hit it, stopped against his shoe. With his shoulder, he forced the gap wider. 'Connie, let me in. Let me in, damn it.'

    She said nothing. She made whimpery, grunting sounds as she tried to hold the door shut.

    Then it was open. She stepped back, shaking her head and crying.

    'Listen to me. I love you, Connie. Listen to me.'

    'Oh Pete, how could you? How could you do this to me, to Sandra?'

    'Who's Sandra?'

    'Your wife, for Christsake! She was here today. She knows all about us.'

    'My wife's name is Barbara. She knows nothing about us, and couldn't give a damn what I do.'

    'That's impossible.'

    'It's true.' Pete took hold of Connie's shoulders. 'She left me. We were only married for two years. We lived in the beach house: Barbara and me and her brother. He was a college student. He paid a third of the monthly mortgage, and… the thing is, he and my wife were lovers. Apparently, it had been going on for years. It's still going on, for all I know. The only reason she married me, in the first place, was to make her arrangement with her brother look innocent. I just happened to stumble over them, one day. They thought I was going to kill them, or something, so they both lit out. That's the last I ever saw of my wife.'

    'Oh Pete.' She hugged him tightly, 'I thought… I was so afraid-'

    He stroked her hair, then moved back so she could see his lips. 'I haven't seen or heard from my wife in nearly a year.'

    'Then who…? A woman came here this afternoon, Pete. She said she's your wife, Sandra, and that she's pregnant, and wants me to stop seeing you.'

    'What did she look like?' he asked.

    'She was about my height, blonde, very attractive.'

    Brit Anderson? That hardly seemed likely. Their relationship hadn't been serious enough to warrant such a drastic maneuver. He'd only gone out with her a few times, they'd never had sex, and he hadn't seen her for nearly two weeks. If she were so upset by his neglect, she would've been in touch with him.

    Well, she did make those two calls the day after their last date. Strange calls. She'd sounded upset. He phoned her back, several times, but no one ever answered. After meeting Connie, that Wednesday, he stopped trying to get in touch with her.

    'Did you notice anything unusual about her?'

    'Like scars?' Connie shook her head. 'Nothing I can think of.'

    'Any jewelry?' Brit, he remembered, wore a gold chain necklace with a star.

    'Not that I… oh, a diamond ring. I did notice that. A diamond wedding ring. It looked…' Her face hardened. 'It looked like the ring Dal had for me.'

    'Well, wedding rings all look pretty much alike, don't they?'

    'This had a Marquise diamond. You know, one that's cut so it's kind of long and pointed at both ends. They're not as common as round solitaires.'

    'You think Dal might've put her up to it?'

    'Who else would want to? He must be trying to break us up.'

    'He'll have to do better than that,' Pete said.

    'A lot better,' said Connie. She moved into his arms, and pressed herself close against him. 'A lot better,' she whispered.

    

    

    Pete spent the next day in his van, keeping watch on the employee parking lot of the Masters Hardware warehouse. According to a tip received by the general manager, a guy named Jesse Cook was the culprit. Every worker in the warehouse knew it, apparently, but only one had been willing to blow the whistle - anonymously, at that.

    A simple operation. Cook would walk out, during lunch, and put a case of Schlage locks into his trunk. Or an electric heater, or a food processor, or whatever happened to strike his fancy.

    Pete had been hired to catch Cook in the act. This was his third day on the job. So far. Cook had tried nothing.

    At quitting time, the wiry little guy came out to his Firebird empty-handed, and left.

    Pete reported his lack of progress to the general manager.

    'Let's give it till the end of the week,' the man said. 'If he hasn't tipped his hand by then, we'll try a new tack.'

    Immediately after leaving, Pete drove into Santa Monica. He left his van in a parking structure on Fourth Street, and walked to the old mall.

    Lane Brothers was still open. He entered, and stepped toward the counter. There were half a dozen people in the small, quiet store. Three of the young men looked like sales clerks. One glanced at him, and quickly looked away.

    Had to be Dal.

    Pete ignored him. At the counter, he asked for the manager. An older man was called from a back room, 'I'm Owen Lane. May I help you?'

    'Yes.' Pete handed the man a business card for Ronald Watts, Special Assistant for Attorney General George Deukmajian. 'I'd like to question one of your employees about an investigation we're conducting.'

    Owen Lane blushed. 'Of course. Who do you want to see?'

    'Dal Richards.'

    'Is it… something serious?'

    'May I speak to Mr Richards, please?'

    'Of course.' He turned away. 'Dal?'

    Dal came forward, fastening the center button of his blazer, smiling bravely. His eyes flicked toward Pete, and quickly looked away. 'Yes, Mr Lane?'

    'This gentleman is Mr Watts from the Justice Department.' To Pete, he said. 'Would you prefer to talk in my office?'

    'Thank you.'

    They left Owen Lane outside the door. Pete shut it, and Dal's smile fell away.

    'What do you want?' he snapped.

    'I'm Pete Harvey.'

    'I know.'

    'Yes. I figured you might. I've never met you, though. I decided, since we're both interested in Connie, that we should get acquainted.'

    'Okay, we're acquainted. Good-bye.'

    Pete shook his head.

    'Look, I've got a customer out there-'

    'He can wait.'

    'What do you want?'

    'That was a nasty trick you pulled on Connie.'

    'I don't know what…'

    'Sending my "wife" over.'

    'You're nuts.'

    'If I'm wrong, I'm sure you'll forgive me.'

    'Forgive you for what?'

    'Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.'

    'No you…'

    'Yes I do.' Pete spun him around and slapped a handcuff onto his left wrist.

    'Hey!'

    He grabbed the right hand, and cuffed it.

    'Now we're walking out of here.'

    'Hey, this is…'

    'You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, everyone in the store is going to notice you.'

    'You can't do this!'

    'Oh, I think I can.'

    Pushing Dal ahead of him, he left the office. Owen Lane looked stunned, his face red, his mouth and eyes gaping.

    ' Mr Lane…' Dal started.

    Pete shoved him forward. 'Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Lane.'

    'Is he… under arrest?'

    'I'm afraid so. Good day, sir.'

    Pete steered Dal down the mall. Shoppers stared. Children on skateboards stopped and pointed. A gray-whiskered wino limped close, eyed Dal, and said, 'Trow da book at'm.' When they reached Santa Monica Boulevard, Pete took off the cuffs.

    Dal was crying softly. 'You bastard,' he said, 'I'll get you for this.'

    'Have a nice day,' Pete said, and walked away.

    

    

    

    

    'It won't be long now, my darling,' Schreck says, kneeling beside a bed. 'I have found the perfect specimen. She is so young, so vital. Soon, if the operation succeeds, you shall be heir to her vitality. You shall rise from your bed and walk as you once did, with the buoyancy of youth in your step. Once again, I shall take you into my arms.'

    He lifts her hand. It is brown and withered as if the skin has been stretched over bare bones.

    'Oh my darling Beatrice, we shall dance through the long, joyous hours of the night. Soon. Oh so soon.'

    Leaning forward, he stares down at the face of the corpse. Its mouth is open, its teeth bared in a mirthless grin. He kisses its sunken cheek.

    'Goodnight now, my love.'

    

    

    A young woman lies on an operating table. Her body is covered by a white sheet. Her shoulders are bare.

    Opening her eyes, she lifts her head and looks down at herself. She squirms, but can't raise her arms or legs.

    

    

    The door swings open. Schreck enters, dressed in a green operating smock and cap. As he approaches, he ties a paper mask across his nose and mouth.

    'How are you feeling?' he asks.

    'Confused.'

    'That's quite understandable, Miss Thatcher. Do you recall anything of the accident?'

    'Accident?'

    'The crash.'

    'No, I…' She pauses, frowning. 'I remember El Sombrero. The Happy Hour. I went there after work and… Oh, the pier. A guy was going to take me to the Santa Monica pier. The carousel. You know, the famous carousel there? We were going to… He crashed?'

    'Apparently, he'd been drinking heavily. He hit a telephone pole.'

    She shakes her head, 'I don't feel… Was I hurt?'

    'I'm afraid so, Miss Thatcher.'

    'But…'

    'You've been unconscious since they brought you in.'

    'Wha… what's wrong with me?'

    'Your legs.'

    She strains to raise her head higher.

    'We'll be operating shortly.'

    'No!'

    'We must. Otherwise, you may lose them.'

    He takes a syringe from a tray of implements beside her bed. 'What's that?'

    'It will help you relax.'

    'But I feel fine!'

    He peels back the sheet, uncovering her right arm. It is strapped to the table.

    'No, don't!'

    'This won't hurt at all,' he says, and sinks the needle into her upper arm.

    'You… You can't operate without my permission. I don't give it. You can't have my permission.'

    'I'm afraid you're in no condition to make such a decision,' he says, and removes the empty syringe from her arm. 'Relax now, Miss Thatcher.'

    

    

    She wakes up screaming. Her head strains upward. She is naked on the table. Schreck stands beside her, arm pumping a saw buried deep in her thigh.

    'Hurt?' he asks.

    She keeps on screaming.

    Below the tourniquet, Schreck continues to saw until the bone parts. Then he takes a long-bladed scalpel from the tray, and slices through the remaining muscle and flesh.

    'Ah-ha!' he says.

    He lifts the severed leg off the table, and holds it high. 'Clean as a whistle,' he says.

    The woman passes out.

    

    

    Her eyelids flutter open. She is lying on a bed, no longer in the stark, bare operating room.

    Groaning, she raises an arm.

    She pulls the sheet off her body and gazes down at two bandaged stumps where her legs should be.