Wildest Dreams (9 page)

A television and a remote. I picked up the latter and turned on the former. It was the top of the hour, so I was lucky. I found a news anchor who didn’t annoy me, and I stuck with him for nearly twelve minutes.

In that time, many of my questions were answered. Number one was the identity of the flayed corpse I’d mistaken for Circe Whistler. The murdered woman was Lethe, Circe’s sister. The network had dug up some footage of her—home video shot at some club in San Francisco, along with a music video she’d made with some abysmal goth band (she was the nun in fishnet stockings). Apart from a pair of blue eyes and several hauntingly familiar tattoos, she didn’t look much like Circe.

Who was said to be in seclusion in San Francisco. This factoid was seemingly verified by a clip of an old Victorian in the Haight. A limo pulled up, and a woman in a black crushed velvet cape got out. The cape had a hood, and the woman was wearing sunglasses, and she had enough bodyguards to handle a visiting head of state.

Circe’s doppelgänger disappeared into the old house. A scab-colored door slammed closed behind her. Flash to a nightclub in the Mission District called the Make-Out Room, where a reporter was interviewing one of the owners. Sure he knew Circe Whistler. He knew her well. She’d spent the previous night at his place. They’d heard about Lethe’s murder over breakfast, while listening to the radio in a neighborhood cafe.

I remembered Circe’s comment about her father’s use of doubles back in the sixties. I wondered what the going rate was for a doppelgänger these days, especially one that would have to spend a good amount of time under a tattoo artist’s needle.

Whatever the rate, it probably wasn’t as lucrative as the check Circe’s scriptwriter was pulling down. I figured she had to have one of those, too, because the scenario for Circe’s power play was brilliant. Not only had she found a way to eliminate her father and her sister, she was also creating sympathy for her church in the bargain.

She had fashioned a bogeyman—faceless, unseen, scary to anyone with a brain. The suspected killer was a member of the Christian right. Several media outlets had received communiqués from a man who claimed responsibility for the executions of Diabolos Whistler and his youngest daughter. He proclaimed his membership in a group called Jehovah’s Hammer, and he said he wouldn’t stop killing until Circe Whistler and her followers were dead in the ground.

This revelation was followed by a background piece featuring old footage of a debate between Circe and Ralph Reed of the Christian Coalition. That was yesterday’s news, so I started channel surfing. The story was everywhere. CNBC was deep into wall-to-wall coverage, concentrating on the murder-mystery game. The tabloid shows were getting up-close-and-personal, fighting over Lethe Whistler’s ex-lovers—several aspiring musicians, a writer of paperback horror novels, and a cross-dressing basketball player who had dated her during a brief stint with the Golden State Warriors. PBS was there, too, taking the high road. A bunch of talking heads were kicking around the New Hedonism on
The News Hour
.

That was a little much, so I switched over to Larry King.

He was interviewing an expert on serial murderers.

A man with a terminally pinched expression.

Right off, I recognized my old buddy Clifford Rakes. His voice was calm and considered. Anyone who hadn’t heard him whining to his editor about waterbeds and dust-jacket photos might have been convinced that Clifford possessed a shred of intelligence.

“To deconstruct a killer’s behavior, we must see things through his eyes,” Rakes began. “The
how’s
of a case like this are obvious—the killer has left ample evidence at each murder. It’s the
why’s
we need to concentrate on. Perspective is the key to motivation, and motivation is the key to capture.”

I laughed. If Clifford wanted motivation, he could have looked at my bank account. I should have switched channels, but for some reason I wanted to hear him out.

He launched into his profile. I tried to rein in my anger as Rakes pontificated on my probable childhood propensity for bed-wetting, animal mutilation, and arson. My chest tightened when he talked about the sexual implications of a male killer who uses a knife…
and
takes trophies, namely a male victim’s head.

I held my breath as Rakes made passing references to Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez. But then he zeroed in for the kill, the infobite he’d obviously been saving for last. “Our killer is a religious avenger, a prophet who sets himself above others. He’s part of a cult himself—Jehovah’s Hammer—perhaps even its leader. Who knows how many innocents have fallen under his sway. He believes more will come to him as a result of the Whistler slayings. In the history of serial murder, I can think of only one killer who bears the weight of comparison.”

Blood pounded in my head.

Rakes pursed his lips and continued: “The madman I’m speaking of also headed a cult and saw himself as a prophet. He was responsible for the destruction of a great many lives.”

I aimed the remote at Rakes’s head, wishing it were a gun.

“His name was Charles Manson.”

I pressed a button. The screen went helter-skelter. And Clifford Rakes was gone.

* * *

I threw the television against a wall, grabbed Whistler’s head, and left Spider Ripley’s bedroom.

I’d learned all I could from the one-eyed box. After all, network anchors don’t believe in ghosts. They weren’t about to run a bio piece on a dead little girl who lived by a bridge. They weren’t going to tell me who she was, or what had happened to her, or if it was likely that I’d ever see her again.

But I knew someone who might be able to give me that information, if I could get to her. There were a few things I needed if I was going to manage that.

I found a stack of bills in a little office downstairs. I filed through the envelopes until I found one from the phone company. Just as I’d hoped, Spider Ripley had a cell phone.

I picked up the phone on the desk and punched in the number.

An electronic chirping sounded in an adjoining room.

I was in luck. In a minute I found the cell phone. I needed a few other things, and I found them, too. I stashed the stuff in a bag and walked to the Toyota.

Then I drove back to Spider’s pyramid. There was one other thing I needed, but I didn’t want to be spotted carrying it down the road.

Diabolos Whistler’s head.

Diabolos was waiting for me. Still sneering, still in on the joke.

Some people claimed that Diabolos Whistler was the real power behind Charles Manson. The rumors had drifted around for years. That Whistler had fingered Sharon Tate for murder. That he’d funneled money to Manson, and pulled his strings, and made him do the things he did through supernatural means.

There was one other rumor worth noting. It went like this—when Whistler was reborn as Satan, demons would unlock the prison gates, and Charles Manson and his followers would reap their unholy rewards at Whistler’s side.

Thinking about it gave me a chill.

Not because I believed it.

But because others did.

Because their belief gave them hope.

4

The rain settled into a steady rhythm, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I returned to the vacant lot, wrapped the iron box in a plastic drop cloth I’d taken from Spider Ripley’s pyramid, and stashed Diabolos Whistler’s head beneath an umbrella of lush ferns.

The head would be dry for the time being. Not that it mattered. As far as I could tell, Whistler’s all-too-mortal remains were already rotting. It didn’t look like the old boy was going to make a comeback anytime soon, no matter what Spider Ripley or Charles Manson believed. As for me, I didn’t care what kind of shape the head was in. Maggots could nest in Whistler’s mouth, and the head would still be a valuable tool.

I climbed into the truck. Silver needles of rain beat against the windshield, washing away bugs splattered from Los Cabos to Tijuana, San Diego to Bakersfield, Fiddler to Cliffside. I notched the wipers from low to high and the dead things were taken by the storm as I drove toward Hangman’s Point Drive.

I skipped the turnoff and took another road about a quarter mile down the highway. It ran at an angle, back toward Hangman’s Point, though the two roads didn’t intersect.

There was a trailhead at the end of the road, though no one was hiking in this weather. I parked the truck, got out, and trudged along the cliff trail that followed the coastline back to the hanging tree.

The storm was gaining strength. A brutal wind pushed me along, cutting through my clothes. Driving gusts of rain sliced me to the bone. I was soaked through in less than a minute. Another minute, and my guts felt like they were frosted with ice.

But there was nothing I could do about it now. I was wearing the coat I’d stolen from the deputy at Circe’s mansion, and it wasn’t much more than a windbreaker. For a second I wished I’d taken something more substantial from Spider Ripley’s place. But Spider and I weren’t the same size—he was seven feet tall and I was a couple inches under six—and I never much liked black latex, anyway.

Fuck fashion. I would have worn a dead German Shepherd for a coat and a roadkilled Chihuahua for a hat, as long as they’d kept me warm. By the time I reached the tree, I felt like I’d taken a swim in the Arctic Ocean.

One look at the ghostly witches swinging in the gallows tree told me that things could have been a whole lot worse. I did my best to ignore them. Ducking low, I headed for the deadfall piled near the historical marker. I crouched behind the twisted heap of fallen branches, slicked rainwater across my brow with one hand, and watched Janice Ravenwood’s house.

Janice’s Ford Explorer sat in the driveway, along with two other cars—a black Rolls Royce and a Toyota Rav 4.

The storeroom where I’d had my little tussle with Spider Ripley was on the other side of the house, so I hadn’t seen either car when I made my escape. Still, it was a sure bet that the Rolls belonged to Circe. I wasn’t sure about the Rav 4. Maybe it belonged to Spider Ripley.

Or maybe the owner was the man who stood on Janice Ravenwood’s porch, nice and dry, watching the road like a good little soldier. A little red flare ignited near his mouth as he sucked on a cigarette, and at that moment I would have jammed the butt against my palm just to feel some heat.

But it wasn’t the cigarette I wanted. Not really. What I wanted was the man’s coat. Nice and thick and warm, and from the looks of him, just about my size.

I dug into the windbreaker’s left pocket and found Spider Ripley’s cell phone. It was soaked. So was Janice Ravenwood’s business card. But I could still read the number and I punched it in.

Dull ringing shivered against my ear. The cell phone worked fine. Now it was up to me. My teeth started chattering and I clamped my jaw tight, thinking warm thoughts, telling myself I was by a well-stoked fire with a cup of hot soup between my hands —

“Hello?” Janice’s voice was still a little shaky.

I didn’t say anything for a second. I drew my K-bar, studying the gleaming edge that had sliced Janice’s fingers. One touch from those long, slim fingers and she’d told me everything about my knife. Gifted fingers, or cursed…I wondered if our encounter had changed her perspective.

I said, “How’s the hand?”

She gasped.

“Sorry about cutting you. Really. And I’m sorry about your kitchen, too. Some Plastic Wood and plaster, no one will ever know you had a gunfight in your home.”

“Y-you bastard.”

“Yeah, but you knew that yesterday. Or you should have, if you would have had the guts to shake my hand. Anyway, that’s old news. Get Ripley on the line.”

I heard crosstalk in the background as Janice handed over the phone. It sounded like Circe wanted in on the conversation. I didn’t want that. Not yet.

I wanted Spider Ripley, and I got him.

“You’re dead, Saunders,” he said. “I’m gonna carve a map of hell on your face, and I’m gonna do it with your own fuckin’ knife.”

“You just might get your chance, Gilbert.”

“Huh? How did you know my name was—”

“Good Saint Gilbert. That’s what I should call you. Nice place you’ve got here. I especially like the copulating gnomes in the garden, and the sarcophagus bathtub shows a certain panache, but all that late period Egyptian stuff is a little out of step with the Sunday school you’ve got on the third floor.”

“You’re at my fucking
house
?”

“I’m at your fucking
pyramid
,
Gilbert. I came for something that belongs to me, and I found it.”

“Don’t be stupid, Saunders. You don’t know what you’re messing with. You’d better leave Whistler’s head alone.”

“Leave it alone? Shit, Gilbert, I already let it out of the box. In fact, Diabolos is dying to talk to you. Here, let me get him on the line

Ripley swore some more. I sighed. The big guy was getting excited. Yelling. In the background, Circe was getting excited, too. Asking questions, trying to figure out what the hell her bodyguard was so worked up about.

A quick glance at Janice’s porch told me that the guard was distracted by the uproar. He stared through the cottage window, trying to see if there was something going on inside the house that should worry him.

I could only take so much. “Take a Midol, Gilbert,” I said finally. “And hand the phone to your boss.”

Circe came on the line. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it isn’t going to work.”

“Oh, I think it’s working just fine. I don’t know about your daddy, though. When he wakes up, I’ll ask him.”

“That head is a hunk of dead meat. It doesn’t mean a thing to me. Spider was supposed to get rid of it.” The next part seemed more for Gilbert’s ears than mine. “If he’d followed orders and fed the damn thing to the Dobermans like he was supposed to—”

“Like you told me—good help is hard to find. Spider didn’t do what he was told. Your guard dogs had to stick to Puppy Chow. So now we’re back to square one.”

She sighed. “I have a feeling we’re going to talk about money again.”

“You’re right,” I said, even though I didn’t give a damn about the money anymore.

But I couldn’t let Circe know that, so I said the things she expected me to say. “I have your father’s head, and it’s for sale. If you pay up, I’m willing to forget the way you tried to screw me. I’ll be on my way, and no one will be the wiser.”

“There’s no reason for me to pay you one fucking dime.”

“Then maybe I should call someone else. Say a few reporters. I’m sure they’d be real interested to discover that you aren’t holed up in a mansion in San Francisco. I’m sure they’d be just as interested to find your father’s head in a pyramid owned by a guy you’re fucking. I’m sure they’d hustle right over here to Spider’s place. Even that crew from CNN.”

“Do your worst. I can cover anything if I have to.”

“Maybe you can, but you don’t want to. I know that, and so do you. So don’t treat me like Gilbert Fucking Ripley. He may be fool enough to think you won’t sell him out, but I’m not that stupid. Neither are you. You nearly dug my grave. I can return the favor. You don’t want to play that kind of game with me.”

She didn’t say a word.

“Good,” I said. “I think you’re wising up. Now listen to me, and listen very closely. I want you and Gilbert to go to your estate. I want you to do that right now. I’ll call you in an hour with my price, and with instructions for paying it. As long as you don’t do anything stupid—like call the cops—we’ll make our trade and get on with our lives.”

“Cops are overrated. Yesterday I learned that the hard way, and I don’t believe in second chances. This time, it’s just me and you.”

“Now you’re being smart. You do what you’re told, and we’ll both get clear of this. You don’t, and I’ll haunt you like a fucking ghost.”

I cut her off before she could say another word.

The whole thing was a smokescreen, of course.

For the first time in my life, money was useless to me.

The dead don’t spend dollars.

I couldn’t ransom a little girl’s ghost.

* * *

Shivering, I watched the cottage.

A minute passed. Another, and another. Just as I was starting to worry, the front door banged open. Circe and Spider hurried to the Rolls. Janice hollered after them, but they ignored her.

Car doors slammed. The Rolls roared alive and fishtailed onto Hangman’s Point Drive.

Janice was understandably upset. She obviously needed to vent. She screamed at the bodyguard, nice and warm in his big coat, but he only shrugged and flicked his cigarette butt into the rain.

Janice stomped into the house and slammed the door behind her.

My teeth started chattering again. The bodyguard lit another cigarette. The crimson end flared like a target.

* * *

A few minutes later, I hit the redial button on Spider’s cell phone.

Janice’s phone rang for quite a while. I let it ring. Janice probably didn’t much like telephones anymore. I figured she needed to work up her courage before she answered, the same way you work up your courage before you stick your hand into a lion’s mouth.

I watched the house. I tried to be patient.

Finally, a familiar click.

A handset wrestled from its cradle.

A hand entering a lion’s mouth.

Janice said, “H-hello?”

“They left you all alone, didn’t they?”

“N-no. I’m not alone. I’ve got protection—”

I chuckled. “You mean the guard on the porch?”

“How do you know…how do you know where he is?”

I tossed the dead guard through the window.

“I know where he is.” I stepped over the sill and over the corpse. “Now we both know where he is.”

Janice stared down at the corpse’s broken nose. It was tilted at a piggish slant, with the bone rammed into his brainpan.

Janice didn’t move. She couldn’t move.

Until I told her to.

I pointed the K-Bar at the dead man. “Strip him,” I said. “Give me his clothes. Especially that coat.”

She did, and it didn’t take her long. It wasn’t the kind of work you wanted to linger over if you were Janice Ravenwood, if every scrap of clothing you touched coughed up a dark panorama of psychic impressions.

I changed quickly. The guy was a little bigger than me, but the fit was close enough. Apart from a little blood on the shirt, the clothes were dry. That was what mattered most.

I didn’t care about a little blood. As far as I was concerned they were my clothes now. The dead man didn’t need them. Neither did his ghost—a dark, thin shadow that cowered outside, howling in the rain.

I ignored the dead man’s screams.

The coat felt good, and warm.

“How do I look?” I asked.

“F-fine,” Janice said.

“Great. Now get a coat for yourself, or rain gear if you’ve got it. I don’t want you to get wet.”

“Where are we going?”

“Across the River Styx,” I said. “Just the two of us.”