Whispers (41 page)

 
 
Goodness shouts.
Evil whispers.

chapter five

Tuesday morning, for the second time in eight days, Los Angeles was rocked by a middle-register earthquake. It hit as high as 4.6 on the Richter Scale as measured at Cal Tech, and it lasted twenty-three seconds.

There was no major damage, and most Angelenos spoke of the tremor only to make jokes. There was the one about the Arabs repossessing part of the country for failure to pay oil debts. And that night, on television, Johnny Carson would say that Dolly Parton had caused the seismic disturbance by getting out of bed too suddenly. To new residents, however, those twenty-three seconds hadn’t been the least bit funny, and they couldn’t believe that they would ever become blasé about the earth moving under their feet. A year later, of course, they would be making their own jokes about other tremors.

Until the really big one.

A never-spoken, deeply subconscious fear of the big one, the quake to end all quakes, was what made Californians joke about the smaller jolts and shocks. If you dwelt upon the possibility of cataclysm, if you thought about the treachery of the earth for too long, you would be paralyzed with fear. Life must go on regardless of the risks. After all, the big one might not come for a hundred years. Perhaps never. More people died in those snowy, sub-zero Eastern winters than in California quakes. It was as dangerous to live in Florida’s hurricane country and on the tornado-stricken plains of the Midwest as it was to build a house on the San Andreas fault. And with every nation on the planet acquiring or seeking to acquire nuclear weapons, the fury of the earth seemed less frightening than the petulant anger of men. To put the quake threat in perspective, Californians made light of it, found humor in the potential disaster, and pretended that living on unstable ground had no effect on them.

But that Tuesday, as on all other days when the earth moved noticeably, more people than usual would exceed the speed limit on the freeways, hurrying to work or to play, hurrying home to families and friends, to lovers; and none of them would be consciously aware that he was living at a somewhat faster pace than he had on Monday. More men would ask their wives for divorces than on a day without a quake. More wives would leave their husbands than had done so the previous day. More people would decide to get married. A greater than usual number of gamblers would make plans to go to Las Vegas for the weekend. Prostitutes would enjoy substantial new business. And there most likely would be a marked increase in sexual activity between husbands and wives, between unwed lovers, and between inexperienced teenagers making their first clumsy experimental moves. Uncontestable proof of this erotic aspect of seismic activity did not exist. But over the years, at several zoos, many sociologists and behavioral psychologists had observed primates—gorillas, chimpanzees, and orangutans—engaging in an abnormal amount of frenzied coupling in the hours following large- and middle-sized earthquakes; and it was reasonable to assume that, at least in the matter of primal reproductive organs, man was not a great deal different from his primitive cousins.

Most Californians smugly believed that they were perfectly adjusted to life in earthquake country; but in ways of which they were not aware, the psychological stress continued to shape and change them. Fear of the impending catastrophe was an everpresent whisper that propagandized the subconscious mind, a very influential whisper that molded people’s attitudes and characters more than they would ever know.

Of course, it was just one whisper among many.

 
Hilary wasn’t surprised by the police response to her story, and she tried not to let it upset her.

Less than five minutes after Tony placed the call from a neighbor’s home, approximately thirty-five minutes before the morning earthquake, two uniformed officers in a black-and-white arrived at Hilary’s house, lights flashing, no siren. With typical, bored, professional dispatch and courtesy, they duly recorded her version of the incident, located the point at which the house had been breached by the intruder (a study window again), made a general listing of the damage in the living room and the dining room, and gathered the other information required for the proper completion of a crime report. Because Hilary had said that the assailant had worn gloves, they decided not to bother calling for a lab man and a fingerprint search.

They were intrigued by her contention that the man who attacked her was the same man she thought she had killed last Thursday. Their interest had nothing to do with a desire to determine if she was correct in her identification of the culprit; they made up their minds about that as soon as they heard her story. So far as they were concerned, there was no chance whatsoever that the assailant could have been Bruno Frye. They asked her to repeat her account of the attack several times, and they frequently interrupted with questions; but they were only trying to determine if she was genuinely mistaken, hysterical and confused, or lying. After a while, they decided that she was slightly mixed up due to shock, and that her confusion was exacerbated by the intruder’s resemblance to Bruno Frye.

“We’ll work from this description you’ve given us,” one of them said.

“But we can’t put an APB on a dead man,” said the other. “I’m sure you understand that.”

“It was Bruno Frye,” Hilary said doggedly.

“Well, there’s just no way we can go with that, Miss Thomas.”

Although Tony supported her story as best he could without having seen the assailant, his arguments and his position with the Los Angeles Police Department made little or no impression on the uniformed officers. They listened politely, nodded a lot, but were not swayed.

Twenty minutes after the morning earthquake, Tony and Hilary stood at the front door and watched the black-and-white police cruiser as it pulled out of the driveway.

Frustrated, she said, “Now what?”

“Now you’ll finish packing that suitcase, and we’ll go to my apartment. I’ll call the office and have a chat with Harry Lubbock.”

“Who’s he?”

“My boss. Captain Lubbock. He knows me pretty damned well, and we respect each other. Harry knows I don’t go out on a limb unless I’ve thoroughly tested it first. I’ll ask him to take another look at Bruno Frye, get some deeper background on the man. And Harry can put more pressure on Sheriff Laurenski than he’s done so far. Don’t worry. One way or another, I’ll get some action.”

But forty-five minutes later, in Tony’s kitchen, when he placed the call, he could not get any satisfaction from Harry Lubbock. The captain listened to everything that Tony had to say, and he didn’t doubt that Hilary
thought
she had seen Bruno Frye, but he couldn’t find any justification for launching an investigation of Frye in conjunction with a crime that had been committed days after the man’s death. He was not prepared to consider the one-in-ten-million chance that the coroner had been wrong and that Frye miraculously had survived massive blood loss, an autopsy, and subsequent refrigeration in the morgue. Harry was sympathetic, soft-spoken, and endlessly patient, but it was clear that he thought Hilary’s observations were unreliable, her perceptions distorted by terror and hysteria.

Tony sat down beside her, on one of the three breakfast bar stools, and told her what Lubbock had said.

“Hysteria!” Hilary said. “God, I’m sick of that word! Everyone thinks I panicked. Everyone’s so damned sure I was reduced to a blubbering mess. Well, of all the women I know, I’m the one least likely to lose my head in a situation like that.”

“I agree with you,” Tony said. “I’m just telling you how Harry sees it.”

“Damn.”

“Exactly.”

“And your support didn’t mean a thing?”

Tony grimaced. “He thinks that, because of what happened to Frank, I’m not entirely myself.”

“So he’s saying
you’re
hysterical.”

“Just upset. A little confused.”

“Is that really what he said?”

“Yeah.”

Remembering that Tony had used those same words to describe her when he’d first heard her story about a walking dead man, she said, “Maybe you deserved that.”

“Maybe I did.”

“What did Lubbock say when you told him about the threats—the stake through the heart, the mouth full of garlic, all of that stuff?”

“He agreed it was a striking coincidence.”

“Just that? Just a coincidence?”

“For the time being,” Tony said, “that’s how he’s going to look at it.”

“Damn.”

“He didn’t say it straight out, but I’m pretty sure he thinks that, last week some time, I told you what was found in Frye’s van.”

“But you didn’t.”

“You know I didn’t, and I know I didn’t. But I suppose that’s the way it’s going to look to everyone else.”

“But I thought you said that you and Lubbock were close, that there was a lot of mutual respect.”

“We are, and there is,” Tony replied. “But like I told you, he thinks I’m not myself right now. He figures I’ll get my head on straight in a few days or a week, when the shock of my partner’s death subsides. He thinks then I’ll change my mind about supporting your story. I’m sure I won’t because I
know
you weren’t aware of the occult books and bric-a-brac in Frye’s van. And I’ve got a hunch, too, a very strong hunch that Frye somehow
has
come back. God knows how. But I need more than a hunch to sway Harry, and I can’t blame him for being skeptical.”

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime, the homicide squad has no interest in the case. It doesn’t come under our jurisdiction. It’ll be handled like any other break-in and attempted assault by a person or persons unknown.”

Hilary frowned. “Which means not much of anything will be done.”

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid that’s true. There’s almost nothing the police
can
do with a complaint like this one. This sort of thing is usually solved, if ever, a long way down the line, when they catch the guy in the act, breaking and entering another house or assaulting another woman, and he confesses to a lot of old, unsolved cases.”

Hilary got up from the stool and began to pace in the small kitchen. “Something strange and frightening is happening here. I can’t wait a week for you to convince Lubbock. Frye said he’d be back. He’s going to keep trying to kill me until one of us is dead—permanently and irrevocably dead. He could pop up anytime, anywhere.”

“You won’t be in danger if you stay here until we can puzzle this out,” Tony said, “or at least until we come up with something that’ll convince Harry Lubbock. You’ll be safe here. Frye—if it is Frye—won’t know where to find you.”

“How can you be sure of that?” she asked.

“He’s not omniscient.”

“Isn’t he?”

Tony scowled. “Wait a minute now. You aren’t going to tell me that he has supernatural powers or second sight or something like that.”

“I’m not going to tell you that, and I’m not going to rule it out either,” she said. “Listen, once you’ve accept the fact that Frye is somehow alive, how can you rule out
anything?
I might even start believing in gnomes and goblins and Santa Claus. But what I meant was—maybe he simply followed us here.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Followed us from your house?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Are you positive?”

“When I arrived at your place, he ran away.”

She stopped pacing, stood in the middle of the kitchen, hugging herself. “Maybe he hung around the neighborhood, just watching, waiting to see what we’d do and where we’d go.”

“Highly unlikely. Even if he did stay nearby after I got there, he sure as hell split when he saw the police cruiser pull up.”

“You can’t assume that,” Hilary said. “At best, we’re dealing with a madman. At worst, we’re confronting the unknown, something so far beyond our understanding that the danger is incalculable. Whichever the case, you can’t expect Frye to reason and behave like an ordinary man. Whatever he may be, he’s most definitely
not
ordinary.”

Tony stared at her for a moment, then wearily wiped one hand across his face. “You’re right.”

“So are you positive we weren’t followed here?”

“Well . . . I didn’t look for a tail,” Tony said. “It never occurred to me.”

“Me either. Until just now. So as far as we know, he might be outside, watching the apartment, right this very minute.”

That idea disturbed Tony. He stood up. “But he’d have to be pretty damned bold to pull a stunt like that.”

“He
is
bold!”

Tony nodded. “Yeah. You’re right again.” He stood for a moment, thinking, then walked out of the kitchen.

She followed him. “Where are you going?”

He crossed the living room toward the front door. “You stay here while I have a look around.”

“Not a chance,” Hilary said firmly. “I’m coming along with you.”

He stopped with his hand on the door. “If Frye is out there, keeping a watch on us, you’ll be a whole lot safer staying here.”

“But what if I wait for you—and then it’s not you who comes back?”

“It’s broad daylight out there,” Tony said. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“Violence isn’t restricted to darkness,” Hilary said. “People get killed in broad daylight all the time. You’re a policeman. You know that.”

“I have my service revolver. I can take care of myself.”

She shook her head. She was adamant. “I’m not going to sit here biting my nails. Let’s go.”

Outside, they stood by the balcony railing and looked down at the vehicles in the apartment complex parking lot. There were not many of them at that time of day. Most people had gone to work more than an hour ago. In addition to the blue Jeep that belonged to Tony, there were seven cars. Bright sunshine sparkled on the chrome and transformed some of the windshields into mirrors.