The Incumbent (35 page)

Peter had not shared with me the true goings-on during the fishing trips. Perhaps he didn’t know how. And after his . . . what did Paul call it? Decision? Yes, his “decision.” I’m sure he would have shared everything after returning from Los Angeles. That was the kind of relationship we had. We communicated well without suffocating each other. Peter never came back from LA. The conversation never happened. And now it was too late.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if the act would purge the smoky emotions. It didn’t.

I turned my chair and looked toward the closet. It was long and covered by mirrored doors. I hate mirrored closet doors in general, but I hated them even more at that moment. Staring back at me was the worn, wearied, confused woman I had become. Beyond the doors was the box.

This was a waste of time. I hadn’t been able to open the silly thing in eight years; I certainly didn’t have enough courage to do it in the wee hours. Not much thinking happened over the next few moments. Somewhere between the time when I told myself the box was going to stay right where I put it almost a decade ago and the instant when I became conscious that I was seated on the floor with the cardboard container in front of me, I had crossed the room, opened the closet, and pulled out the fearful thing.

There was dust on the lid. It felt grimy to touch, and indescribable images of horror bobbed around in my brain. Eight years those things had sat in the black of the box. I realized my hands were shaking. I felt silly. I was a grown woman. There was nothing to fear. I was only doing what I should have done the moment the box crossed my threshold.

Tears began to run. The items in the box were just inanimate objects. That’s all. The only connection to my husband was that he had owned them. People are not defined by what they own, I told myself. My logical mind was working overtime, but like a car on ice, it was spinning its wheels and going somewhere I didn’t want it to go.

“This is stupid,” I whispered and resolved to rise from my place on the floor and put the box back. It was late. I should be asleep. I had big issues to address tomorrow and needed my rest. That was the sensible thing to do.

I opened the box.

My breathing stopped. My heart hesitated.

The only light in the room came from my desk lamp. I had to tilt the box to see inside. I reached in and removed a set of keys. A leather tag with the BMW logo on it hung from the ring. I smiled. I had once accused Peter of loving the car more than me. I asked if it were true. He told me he’d think about it and let me know. Then he laughed and said I had better “wheels” than the car. I set the keys to the side.

Reaching in again, I removed his electronic Palm Pilot 5000. Again I had to smile. He had just bought the PDA and had spent two evenings inputting his address book. It was one of Palm’s first products, antiquated by today’s standards. In eight years it had become a museum piece. Peter thought it was the greatest invention ever. I wish he could see the handheld computer I carry today. I ran my hand along the black case, reminding myself that my husband had once held this. Like the keys, it was clean of any blood. For that I was thankful.

There were other things. A tie rested neatly in one corner. It bore dark stains that made me feel sick. I dropped it to the floor by the keys and Palm Pilot. There was the fountain pen I had given him the Christmas before. I found his checkbook, untouched since the day the police removed it from his body. I also found a Bible.

Slowly I removed the volume. I was surprised. For some reason I was expecting a black, leather-bound book, but this was a hardback. I held it up to the light. The cover called it a “Study Bible.” There were rust-colored stains on it. I fought off a shudder.

My back and hips ached. I was getting too old to sit on the floor for very long, especially after the day I had. I rose, crossed to my desk, and set the Bible down. I reseated myself and looked at the cover, staring at the stains for long minutes. No thoughts occurred to me. I was numb. “You’ve come this far,” I said to myself. “Don’t quit now.”

I opened the book to the middle. It seemed like a good place to start. The title read, “Psalms.” I knew what the Psalms were. They were songs, poetry. I turned the page, then another. A few moments later I began to flip through the pages, moving forward. I remembered that Paul had said he marked his Bibles, then gave them away. I was looking for the marks. Soon I was in the New Testament. Sure enough, passages were underlined and notes filled the margins.

I paused in the first chapter of the gospel of John. The words “All things came into being through Him, and apart from Him nothing came into being that has come into being” were underscored, and there was a handwritten comment in the margin: “Jesus the agent of Creation, Col. 1:16.” I assumed that the reference related to another Bible passage. I flipped through the Bible until I came to a dog-eared page. “Romans 10” was printed at the top. Again a passage had been marked off: “But what does it say? ‘The Word is near you, in your mouth and in your heart’—that is, the word of faith which we are preaching, that if you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved; for with the heart a person believes, resulting in righteousness, and with the mouth he confesses, resulting in salvation.” And again Paul had etched another note: “The bottom line of faith.”
Paul takes his belief seriously.

Then I noticed another note, different in ink and hand: “I believe this.” The words were in a slant used by left-handers. Peter was left-handed. It was also written in a script I was familiar with, one made by a fountain pen. I was sure it was the very pen I had given Peter for Christmas, the pen that was resting on the floor behind me, next to the box I had avoided so long.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the comment. I couldn’t turn any more pages. Those three words marked a huge decision by Peter. My eyes fell out of focus.

I had opened them again, ready to tackle the meaning of Peter’s note and to see if I could find more, when a sound caught my attention. At first it was indistinct—something just outside the boundaries of recognition.

A voice.

Two voices.

In the house.

Was someone else having trouble sleeping? An unsettled feeling welled up. I turned off my desk light and moved through the dark room and opened the door an inch. I put my ear by the opening. I was right; I had heard voices. The first was easy to recognize. It was Randi. The second voice was male. Dad? He was the only male in the house. I started to exit the office, then drew up short. There was intensity in the voices.

“. . . this is as stupid as it gets,” Randi said in hot but hushed tones. “You’ll ruin everything.”

“Everything has already been ruined. It can’t get worse.”

“Yes, it can, you moron. You’re making it worse right now. Give it time.”

“Time? I don’t think you understand how truly deep the trouble is.”

The voice was familiar but one I hadn’t heard for some time. I strained to pull the name out of the air—Dayton! Allen Dayton was in my living room talking to Randi. No, not talking, arguing. I opened the door wider and slipped from the office. I approached the stairs but didn’t descend.

“I can’t go home,” Dayton said. “Not the way things are. You said you had all this figured out.”

“I did. How was I to anticipate her death?”

I peeked over the rail. Randi was standing on one foot, leaning on her crutches. The only light in the room came from the streetlights as their illumination pressed through the sheer drapes. Dayton stood to one side.

What was he doing here? Had he escaped? That was wonderful news. Maybe Lisa had as well. I wanted to bolt down the stairs, but something wasn’t right. Randi’s voice and words were not welcoming.

“How does this help?” she demanded. “Coming here was the worst idea ever. Do you know what happens if you get caught?”

“What? I go to jail? I’m jail-bound as it is—for murder. So are you.”

“Not if no one finds out—and keep your voice down. What did you do to the guard?”

“He’s unconscious. I came up the beach side of the property and watched him circle the house. The guy is as regular as clockwork. When he came back around the corner, I hit him with this.” He held up a handgun.

Randi lowered her head. “I don’t believe this. You don’t know how to use a gun.”

“I used it well enough to put your plan into motion.”

“Against two unsuspecting women,” Randi shot back, her voice still a whisper. “You’re lucky the guard didn’t pound you to pâté.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Really? That’s a laugh. I must have been insane to hook up with you. Are you sure you didn’t kill the guy? You’ve got one murder on you already.”

“He was breathing when I bound and gagged him. I haven’t murdered anyone. You’re as much to blame as me.”

“I didn’t strap her body to the pier.”

“We had to do something. We had to throw the police off our trail.”

“You watch too much television,” Randi said. “That just made things worse. Tell me Lisa is still alive and well.”

“She’s alive but I don’t know how well. She refuses to eat. She’s looking bad.”

“You’ve got to get away from here. This is crazy. I’ll figure something out.”

“You’ve said that before. You haven’t called. I think you’re about to turn me in.”

“Nonsense. I’d just be implicating myself.”

My mind was racing.
I must be dreaming. The stress, the
codeine have combined to give me the worst dream possible.
But although I desperately wanted to believe in the nightmare theory, my heart sank. My mind began to shut down. This was truth I didn’t want to hear. The image of the bound guard, his head bleeding from a blow, tore at my soul.

Other realizations came pouring into my mind like floodwaters from a broken dam. My parents were in the house, and Celeste. Dayton sounded desperate enough to do anything.

“You’re the one with the gun,” Randi said. “What’s your grand idea?”

“Only you can link me to all this. You’re the only one who knows what happened. If you’re gone, if Lisa Truccoli is gone, then I will be the only abducted person left. I can spin a story about escaping and going for help. They’d believe me. I’m a respectable member of society, a businessman, not a crook.”

“It won’t work, Allen,” Randi said.

Keep him talking.
I needed to do something. The alarm system had a panic button on it. I could push that and alert the police, and the noise might drive Dayton away.
The alarm system.
It was set before I went to bed. How did Dayton disarm it? It hit me like a bus. More than once I had forgotten something at home and sent Randi to retrieve it. She had to have the code to keep the alarm from sounding when she entered the house. She must have disarmed the system to let Dayton in. Still, the panic button would work, but it might send Dayton into a frightened frenzy. He already sounded fragile.

I slipped back into my office and made a call to 911. I told the emergency operator that there was a man in the house with a gun. She tried to keep me on the line. That is their training but it was out of the question. I was firm but quiet. “I’m hanging up now. Make sure Detective West knows . . . and do not ring the phone. If you do, you’ll set the man off and someone may die.” The operator protested but I rang off and left the office again. I hoped the operator had enough sense to take me seriously.

This time I didn’t wait at the top of the stairs. I took a deep breath, screwed up my courage, and started down. “Mr. Dayton,” I said as casually as I could muster. “I see that you are well. We’ve been worried.”

He spun and aimed the gun at me. I don’t know guns but it looked big and bad. His hand was shaking. Not a good sign.

“What are you doing here?”

I smiled. “I live here, remember?”

“I mean, what are you . . . Come down here and be quiet.”

“That’s bad manners, Dayton.” My nerves fired a thousand impulses. “I’ll speak in whatever tone I choose. It is my home.” That caught him off guard.

“Maddy!” Randi said. “Go upstairs—”

“No!” Dayton barked, then lowered his voice. “I’m calling the shots now. Get down here or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

The words sounded ludicrous, coming from this middle-aged executive who had probably never fired a gun in his life. Nonetheless, he was desperate. I finished my descent, then looked at Randi. She seemed to melt under my gaze.

“How long—”

“Long enough, Randi.” My words were soft. I wanted to be furious but I was too hurt, too betrayed to react. That would come later—if there was a later. I turned back to Dayton. Behind him I could see that the glass doors off the dining room were open. Randi must have let him in through those doors. A few yards beyond the deck lay a moonlit ocean. Normally it would have been a beautiful sight. “Why, Allen?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re in my house with a gun pointed at me. You’ve threatened my life and apparently you’ve set yourself to destroy my career. I think I have a right to ask a few questions.” My fear melted like candle wax, which surprised me.

“Ruin your career?” Dayton said with astonishment. “We were trying to save it, trying to make sure you made it to Washington.”

“You call this helping me?” The void left by fear was filled with anger. “You kidnap two of my friends and pretend to be abducted yourself, you kill Lizzy, and you consider this good politics?”

“It wasn’t meant to be that way. No one was supposed to be hurt.” His voice cracked. “It got out of hand. It was supposed to last only a couple of days; then everyone would be found and your name would be in the papers for a week. A few months later you would announce your intention to run for higher office. The papers would naturally speak of the brave mayor who stood by her post despite the threat on her health and life.”

Unbelievable!
“This is how your firm works these days? What happened to polls, direct mail, and phone banks?”

“The competition is too tough,” Dayton said. “We did preliminary polls. Your name ID is abysmal. Less than a third of the people in Santa Rita could call you by name or select your name out of a list of ten. Robert Till was in the eighty percentile, and even Tess Lawrence was double your numbers. You’re not controversial enough to get people’s attention. You’re a great mayor but you need more if you want to move up.”