The Fourth Motive (40 page)

Ray saw his mother, her red hair shining in the sun. She smiled at him, looking young
and beautiful, and beckoned him to wash up for supper. He saw Skipper, running along
Pacific Avenue, his ears back and his tail wagging. He saw his father, squeezing his
bicep and telling Ray he would grow up to be a major leaguer. His father looked tall
and strong and smelled like Aqua Velva.

Ray also saw Sissy, her bright eyes laughing. She was holding a checkerboard and telling
him OK, one more game before bedtime.

Ray reached out to touch Sissy and fell off the couch. He blacked out; he didn’t know
for how long. When he awoke and his vision returned, he found himself lying on the
floor among his magazines and books. He looked up and the ghostly images reappeared.
But these were darker, more sinister apparitions.

He saw his mother again, but this time she was old and drunk and fat, and smelling
of vodka. Her cackling laugh pierced his ears. He saw Skipper under the ground, worms
crawling from his empty eye sockets, his once-sleek coat eaten by insects. He saw
his father, his face contorted, spittle pooled at the corner of his mouth. His aftershave
aroma had vanished, exchanged for the stale odor of cigarettes and whiskey. He stood
bow-legged, his trousers around his ankles, staring down at Sissy.

And Ray saw Sissy under the ground like Skipper. But there were no worms eating her
eyes. Instead, Sissy’s eyes were open and staring out from the blackness of her grave.
Her eyes bored into him and her mouth began to move. She was saying Ray’s name, but
no words came out. Sissy’s face was gray and her lips were black. She was moving,
clawing her way through piles of garbage, struggling to get out…

Another image replaced Sissy. In this one, Ray was in the courtroom, looking up at
the monolith of the judge’s bench. Ray saw himself at eight years old.

He saw himself pull away from his mother and rush up to the bench. He felt his small
fists pound on the wooden wall before him. He saw himself pleading, insisting the
judge was wrong and that his dad couldn’t be a killer. He told the judge his dad built
model airplanes, and could whistle like a sparrow, and was helping him get his merit
badge in woodcraft.

Ray saw the judge nod to the huge bailiff, who came and tried to take him back to
his mother. Ray thrashed in the bailiff’s arms, begging, saying, “You can’t take my
dad away; I love him.”

Raw saw the impassive judge look down at the struggling boy who was him. Ray heard
himself yell in his eight year-old voice, “I’ll get you! I swear I’ll get you!”

Ray sat up screaming, the sound of his own childlike voice echoing in his brain. The
images vanished. Once again, he was alone in his familiar basement. Within a moment,
his head cleared, and he stood up. Epiphany flooded over him.

The revelation struck him like a lightning bolt. Something forgotten had returned
to him. Ray realized the vision wasn’t merely a dream; it was a message. And within
that message was his destiny.

He put on a pair of shorts and went upstairs. His mother was asleep in her chair in
front of the television and didn’t even know he’d come up. In the kitchen, under the
sink, he retrieved several of her empty vodka bottles.

Back downstairs in his basement, he filled the bottles with a mixture of gasoline
and kerosene taken from an old camping stove. Then he tore up several Styrofoam cups
into small chunks and stuffed them into each bottle. He finished by cutting a towel
into strips, soaking them in lighter fluid, and taping one strip along the side of
each bottle. Ensuring the caps were secured tightly, he stuffed the bottles into his
gym bag.

Ray reloaded the magazine to his Glock and several more magazines to the M1 carbine
to replenish the ones he’d been forced to leave in his observation post in Napa. Two
of the thirty-round carbine magazines he connected end to end with electrical tape.
This time, Ray didn’t concern himself with wearing gloves to ensure the bullets were
devoid of his fingerprints.

Next, he dressed, choosing the suit he wore when he disguised himself as an Alameda
police detective. He put on his dented ballistic vest under the dress shirt. Once
dressed, he slung the M1 carbine over his right shoulder and put on a long trench
coat over it. He slung his gym bag across his left shoulder and checked his appearance
in the mirror. Except for his scarred face, he looked like a traveling businessman
on the way to the airport.

Then Ray went upstairs and said goodbye to his mother.

A few minutes later, he came back downstairs, out of breath, and phoned a local cab
company. He sat down again on the sofa to smoke and wait.

Lighting a cigarette in the dark, Ray never felt so calm. He understood now. Everything
had happened for a reason.

What Ray believed were failures were not; they were his destiny. A legacy passed on
from his father. It was fighting against that inevitability that had destroyed his
life. He realized now that all the pain and trauma he had suffered were caused by
his reluctance to honor his true purpose and accept his fate.

A lifetime of bitterness was dispelled. A crushing weight was lifted. His anger and
self-loathing dissipated. Ray had come to know, in the agony of a fever dream, his
final truth.

Ray was overcome with gratitude. If his life had ended that fateful summer, the summer
of Sissy Levine, he would have never known. He would have never appreciated the value
of his childhood. The idyllic bliss of being embraced by the rapture of each splendid
day he would have taken for granted, as all children do.

It was clear now. The ordeal of growing up, his abysmal loneliness, was a gift. Ray’s
failures and defeats and shattered dreams had served a grand design.

Ray had come to a higher understanding. He could release the shame. He didn’t have
to be Raymond Cowell anymore.

He was Ray Pascoe. His father’s son.

A yellow taxi pulled to a stop in front of the house Ray grew up in. A horn honked
twice.

Destiny was calling.

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 49

 

 

By the time Paige and Kearns arrived at her father’s house, the sun hadn’t quite fallen
below the horizon, but the dense fog had rolled in, bringing darkness early. A black-and-white
Alameda police cruiser sat in front of the house, its lone occupant writing a report.
Bob Farrell’s blood-red Oldsmobile was parked across the street.

Farrell opened the door to let them in. He gave Kearns a hearty handshake.

“Good to see you,” Farrell said. “The Judge is waiting. Come on in.”

Paige nodded a silent greeting to Farrell and walked past him into the house. Kearns
lingered.

“What the hell happened to you?” Kearns asked after Paige left, noting the dark bruise
on his partner’s neck and jaw.

“Couple of Alameda cops threw me a blanket party,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it
later. Right now, we’ve got work to do.”

They entered the study and found Paige hugging her father, who was seated in his familiar
high-backed leather chair in the study with a blanket over his lap. He beamed when
he saw his daughter. Deputy Charlie White stood in one corner, an unlit cigar clenched
in his teeth. He was clad in a dress shirt and slacks, and a large revolver was visible
on his hip.

Paige stood when they entered, and the Judge motioned Kearns over. He approached and
shook the older man’s hand.

“Good to see you’re feeling better,” Kearns offered.

“Thank you for keeping my daughter safe,” he said solemnly. “That’s twice you’ve almost
been killed protecting her. I won’t forget it.”

“I wish I could have done more, Your Honor.” He looked at Paige, who blushed slightly.
“She’s worth it.”

The Judge looked from Kearns to his daughter, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.
This didn’t go unnoticed by Farrell.

Judge Callen made introductions. Kearns shook the bailiff’s immense hand.

“With your permission,” Farrell spoke up, “my partner and I have urgent business to
attend to. If you’ll excuse us?”

“Of course. Good hunting and good luck.”

“Where are you going?” Paige asked.

“We have something to run down,” Farrell answered before Kearns could. “We’ll be back
soon.”

Paige escorted them to the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” Kearns told her, “and keep the
doors locked. There’s a uniform outside and Deputy White in here. You’ll be safe until
I get back.”

“Be careful, will you?” Kearns nodded. She leaned up and kissed him lightly on the
lips, aware that Farrell was watching.

“Let’s go, Romeo.” Farrell nudged him, rolling his eyes. Once they walked out, Kearns
waited until he heard the front door locks click before he accompanied Farrell to
his car.

“I underestimated the power of your redneck charm,” Farrell said, unlocking his car’s
doors. “You work fast. When you left for Napa, Paige wouldn’t have pissed on you if
you were on fire; now she’s kissing you goodbye.”

“Give me a break,” Kearns said. “Where we going, anyway?”

Farrell let him change the subject. “House on Pacific Avenue. Ironically, it’s only
a couple of blocks from the police station.” He fired up the Oldsmobile’s engine.

“Who lives there?”

“Arnold R. Pascoe used to,” Farrell said. “Take a look.” He handed Kearns a sheaf
of photocopied newspaper clippings. Kearns flipped on the map light and began to read.
The first one was from the Oakland Tribune and headlined with “Alameda Man Arrested
in Child-Slaying”. It was dated September 1964.

“After you gave me the name, I spent the afternoon at the library. Got some useful
stuff there, but the real dope I got from Deputy Charlie White. That dinosaur is an
encyclopedia of Alameda County criminals dating back before Christ was a corporal.”
Farrell wheeled the car north on Grand Street.

“White knows who Arnold Pascoe is?”

“He does.” Farrell lit a cigarette. “I’ll give you the condensed version because we’re
pressed for time. Arnold Pascoe was convicted of the rape and murder of his son’s
babysitter, here in Alameda, back in 1964.”

Kearns skimmed the articles. “It’s says here Judge Eugene Callen presided over the
trial.”

“Correct. He also sentenced Pascoe to death after he was convicted.”

Kearns continued to read. “So it does. But it doesn’t figure; this Pascoe guy would
be in his late fifties by now. He can’t be our stalker.”

“No, he can’t,” Farrell agreed. “He died in prison in the early Seventies. But his
son is alive. Still lives in the same house to this day. Changed his name from Pascoe
to Cowell.”

“You’re kidding. You think our stalker is Pascoe’s son?”

“Looks that way,” Farrell said. “His driver’s license puts him at about the right
age, and he fits the description.”

“You think revenge is the motive? For his old man being sentenced by Judge Callen
in 1964?”

“Appears so,” Farrell said. “Payback for the man who took his father from him.”

“I don’t get it,” Kearns said. “Why now? Why wait so long? If what you’re telling
me is true, this Pascoe kid could have nailed the Judge anytime.”

“Keep reading,” Farrell prompted. “There’s an article in there that I think answers
your questions. It’s an Alameda Times-Star piece. It contains references to what Pascoe
told the Alameda cops on the night he was arrested.”

“Here it is,” Kearns said. He held the article up to the light. “Says here when Pascoe
was asked why he did it, he told the cops it was because his victim was a ‘whore’
and a ‘slut’.” He looked over at Farrell. “Those are the same two words written on
the wall of Paige’s condominium.”

“Exactly. And the same two words written in the note left on her car, and the names
Paige was called when the suspect phoned her at work. Believe in coincidence? I don’t.”

“Jesus,” Kearns whistled. “But that still doesn’t answer the question of why now?”

“Look at the date of Arnold Pascoe’s arrest,” Farrell told him.

Kearns returned to the original article. “September 14th, 1964,” he said. “So?”

Farrell exhaled smoke. “What was the date of the first attack on Paige? On the beach?”

“It was last Monday.”

“You mean Monday, September 18th?” Farrell said with a smirk.

“Holy shit,” Kearns said. “It’s an anniversary.”

“A silver anniversary,” Farrell noted. “My ex-wife recently reminded me that men don’t
usually appreciate anniversaries.”

“Maybe she should meet Paige’s stalker,” Kearns said.

Farrell turned east on Pacific Avenue. After few blocks, he pulled over and shut off
the engine.

“Address is halfway up the block on the left,” he told Kearns, putting out his smoke
in the ashtray. He opened the glove box and removed a flashlight. Then he drew his
Smith & Wesson revolver, opened the cylinder, and ensured the weapon was fully charged
with five rounds. Kearns followed his lead, press-checking his .45 to verify a loaded
chamber. He had two spare magazines in his back pocket.

“How do you want to play this?” Kearns asked.

“We’ll let ourselves in and make ourselves at home,” Farrell told him, holding up
a small leather case. “My lock picks from my days as a burglary inspector.”

“What if he’s inside? Don’t forget this guy has an M1 carbine and a bulletproof vest,”
Kearns said.

“You got a better plan?”

“We could call the Alameda cops?” he suggested, knowing how Farrell would react.

“To hell with those bush-league assholes,” Farrell said. “They have to play by the
rules; we don’t.”

“Let’s do it,” Kearns said.