Falwell came over, stared for a moment, looked away.
‘What do you think?’ Gratelli asked.
Earl said nothing.
‘C’mon, Earl. Answer me. What do you think?’
‘What are you showing me that for?’ Earl blushed. Deeply.
‘I want you to see them. Familiar faces?’
‘No.’
‘You the artist?’
‘No.’
Gratelli picked up one photo. ‘What is it carved on this girl’s thigh?’
‘How do I know?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’ Falwell wasn’t looking at it.
‘Guess,’ Gratelli continued, still holding the photo up to the boy’s face. ‘Turn around, look at it. I said look at it.’
Falwell turned slowly. ‘A flower.’
‘What kind of flower, Earl?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I said I don’t know.’
‘A common flower, isn’t it?’ Gratelli said. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘I don’t know.’ Anger was building. ‘I guess it could be a fuckin’ tulip, couldn’t it?’
‘A tulip?’ Gratelli was stunned. Could be a tulip. Christ, Gratelli thought. He looked at each one of the pictures. Where had he gotten the idea it was a rose? ‘I have some other photos to show you, Earl. I don’t want you to get upset.’
‘I don’t get upset,’ Earl said, still excited. He was breathing heavy.
‘Yeah, and I have a date with Rita Hayworth.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Gratelli pulled color copies of the Polaroids. ‘Got another celebrity for you to look at.’
‘What?’ Earl grabbed the sheets of paper from the inspector. ‘Where in the hell . . . you were here . . .’
Gratelli looked at the uniform cop, hoping he was staying alert. He was.
Earl was still sputtering.
‘Calm down. I don’t give a shit what you do. It isn’t a crime. Just some questions.’
It appeared that Earl was doing all he could to keep from exploding in anger or tears.
‘Sorry, Earl,’ Gratelli said. ‘We’ll give ’em back.’
‘You stole . . .’
‘This is the warrant,’ Gratelli said, pulling folded papers from his pocket. ‘A few more hours on it, Earl. You want to see it?’
Earl shook his head. ‘What difference would it make? A guy like me doesn’t have any rights.’
‘I do have a question though. Why do you shave your body?’
Earl no longer had the pink color of embarrassment, but the paleness of anger. He wasn’t answering.
‘I’m gonna go look in your bathroom,’ Gratelli said. ‘Stay here with the nice officer and cool down. Be thinking of an answer.’
It took awhile for the whir of thoughts to slow enough for his brain to think anything remotely rational. Earl brought himself back from the verge of cracking – of lashing out like he did at that guy in the Honda and that guy at the dock. It was close. He had caught himself just in time.
Now he felt defeated. Wounded. Near dead. What else could someone know about him that would bring him so much shame? He couldn’t talk to them. They wouldn’t understand. He didn’t expect to be let off, but they wouldn’t understand. They would never see how beautiful those girls were after he had brought them peace. They would never believe him. Hell, he didn’t believe himself in the light of day. Which was right? Night or day? Which one was he, the killer when it was dark? Or the asshole sissy-ass during the day? No, if he was one thing, he was a monster. A fucking monster. Life was shit. He was worthless. What was the point of going on? What difference did it make for him to be on the inside or outside? It was all the same. Inside, it was easier, wasn’t it? Didn’t have to decide things. Didn’t have to worry if someone was going to catch you, put you away. You were already away and only death could catch you and it didn’t matter because death could catch you anywhere.
It wasn’t so fuckin’ bad in jail. First few weeks or so would be hell. After that he’d adapt. It would be the same, only easier. He wouldn’t have to pay rent, fix food. Easier.
Maybe he should just tell them. Get it over with. That was what was intended for him, wasn’t it? He wasn’t smart enough to do anything good anyway. Couldn’t be a success. Yeah, he was smarter than people thought. But he’d never amount to anything and nobody fuckin’ cared.
Except Grandma O. She cared. She believed him. Loved him. Understood him. Yeah, Earl thought, he’d give in, give it all up after she was gone. He couldn’t just go off to prison or death without seeing her first anyway. He’d have to tough it out. Christ, the effort was almost too much.
He looked at the uniformed cop. Didn’t say a word. Neither did the cop. Just stood there and stared, probably laughing his ass off thinking about those pictures of Earl without any pubes, posing naked like that, oiled up and excited. Cop is thinking Earl is a retard, a perv.
‘I’m a pervert,’ Earl said to the cop. ‘So?’
Cop didn’t blink.
It was a game, Earl thought. Otherwise they’d arrest him. Now they’re harassing him. Trying to get him to break. Damned if he didn’t almost just let it all out. The tulip thing.
He’d have to hold on. He’d have to pretend real hard that he didn’t care. Even so, he felt small. Real small.
Gratelli checked the bathroom for anything that would yield a fragrance – something buttery or leathery. He sniffed at the baby oil for fragrances, replaced its cap. There was a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil. There was a plastic container of Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion. Gratelli had the same size and brand of lotion in his bathroom. The difference was that a bit of lotion had congealed at the spout of his own bottle. Falwell’s half-empty container was spotlessly clean.
‘What are you doing?’ Earl asked Gratelli when he came back in the room and checked the floor of the closet.
‘I’m taking these with me,’ he said, carrying bottles of oils and a bar of soap.
‘How am I supposed to get clean?’
‘Confess,’ Gratelli said, checking the floor of the closet.
‘Now what are you doing?’
‘Just browsing,’ came the reply.
Gratelli noticed one pair of leather sandals. Open, just one broad strap over the ankle and another over the toe. Falwell was wearing an identical pair at the moment.
Was it possible that the combination of leather and butter came from some mix of oil and the sandals? Was Julia picking up on a scent that was an accidental combination?
Gratelli looked at the bottom of the sandals. Flat. Smooth. Didn’t make that much difference. Nowhere did the attacker leave footprints.
‘I’m taking the sandals too. Keep the ones you’ve got.’ Gratelli noticed that Earl looked worried. ‘You have something to tell me, Earl?’ Gratelli said while he was still down on his knees, face in the closet. There was no answer. Gratelli stood, went to Falwell, who seemed to have himself under control. Maybe Gratelli should have pushed when the kid was upset. McClellan would have.
‘Earl. We’re closing in on the killer.’
‘Good,’ Earl said. ‘Find the bastard. Then you’ll leave me the hell alone.’
‘You sure, Earl?’
‘String him up by the balls.’
Now it was Gratelli who was confused. Earl had said it like he meant it.
‘You want that, huh?’
‘You better believe it. I want him dead and buried. Probably more than you.’
Gratelli gathered up the photos from the bed, again noticing how the scar tissue engravings looked more like rosebuds than tulips. But the fact remained, none had thorns except for the artwork left on Julia Bateman.
Tulips? Roses? Maybe it made no difference at all.
TWENTY-SIX
‘
C
an’t you stay out of trouble?’ asked the now familiar voice on the telephone.
‘How did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘The cops were here.’
‘They were there? Just now?’
‘Yes. You knew that. You knew just when to call,’ Earl’s voice was full of accusation.
‘The truth is I wanted to hear the words “thank you” from your very own lips.’
Earl recognized the sarcasm in the voice. It was how a lot of people talked to him – amusing themselves at his expense.
‘You got me out?’
‘Yes. You don’t believe me, but I’ve been looking out after you. I’m the only friend you have.’ Earl thought of Grandma O. Didn’t say anything. ‘Now, there’s something I need you to do and it will help both of us,’ the voice continued.
‘What?’
‘The witness.’
‘You want me to . . .’
‘That’s right. The way you did the others.’
‘I don’t . . .’
‘Listen Earl, you said yourself the cops were there. They’re closing in. We don’t have much time. I can’t keep calling. The next step is for them to bug your phone. Then if the witness makes a positive I.D. of you and your car . . . Earl . . . that’s the end. That’s the end of you. You can’t help me. I can’t help you.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Earl? She’s a pretty woman. Alone. In a cabin, out in the woods at night. Earl, what are you waiting for?’
‘I don’t do that.’ There was silence on the other end. ‘I don’t do that,’ Earl repeated.
‘I know,’ the voice said. ‘I’m sorry. You’d have rather not have killed them, I know. That was the only way.’
‘Yes.’
‘Earl?’
‘What?
‘This is the only way. They will put you away. There will be a horrible trial and you will be humiliated. And people will make fun of you. You’ll be sitting right there in the middle of it all. The people who don’t hate you will laugh at you. No one understands you. I do. But who else? You can do it.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. It has to be. Earl, are you with me?’
The caller’s logic and Earl’s distrust argued for dominance in Earl’s brain. He still felt the humiliation of the Polaroids. What a freak they must think he is. Nobody’d understand.
‘Earl. Are you with me?’
No answer.
‘Take a deep breath,’ the caller said. ‘Please. Take a deep breath and relax. You’re in control. You know what you’re doing. Look how long you’ve fooled them. The best in the business. San Francisco’s finest. Hell, the FBI. Psychiatrists. Criminologists. You’ve done it. You know what to do. There’s just this one little slip. The witness. And you can take care of her. They don’t know you know about her.’
‘It’s a trick,’ Earl said finally. ‘Everything. Getting me out on bail. Cops showing up, leaving. You calling. It’s a trick. Like I said before I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’
Highway One. Beyond Mill Valley, and then up the winding road. Julia Bateman’s cobalt blue Miata caught flashes of sun and flashed them back in her eyes. The ocean on her left crashed against the rocks, but she could not hear the surf above the wind and the drone of the engine. However, the smell of the salt water was ominously familiar. Point Reyes. Tamales Point. Past Bodega Bay. Inland toward Monte Rio.
Escaping the sea. Rolling hills. Then the pines and the eucalyptus. New scents and intensified memories.
She would not turn back.
Perhaps she was foolish. But it was the only way she could face life with some modicum of control.
She made the cabin before dusk. Even so, it was dark and stale inside. The windows were closed. The heavy draperies she rarely ever closed were pulled tightly, even over the broad window beside the front door. The skylight had been boarded up. That was all that had been done since that night. But aside from the staleness of the air, the place was relatively clean and neat.
She checked the refrigerator and cabinets. She would have to get in some things. Julia was eager to leave while the breeze swept through the place. She would go into Gurneville to pick up some coffee, some fruit and yogurt.
While she was there, she added a bottle of dry sherry to the list.
It was dark by the time she got back. She was nervous again. She found the .32 in the desk drawer. Julia carried it with her as she checked the rooms, the closets, under the bed. Nothing had been disturbed.
She laughed. She sat still, bidding her mind to be still. She took a deep breath. The quiet she first sensed wasn’t quiet at all. Night sounds. Bugs. Crickets mostly. The more she listened, the more it seemed they were turning up the volume.
She closed the sliding door to the back balcony, locked it. Pitch black now. She looked out of the floor length window beside the front door. Pitch black outside.
She poured a half glass of sherry.
All she really had to do was get through the night.
‘Hello,’ Earl said into the phone. He was out of breath from doing sit-ups. He knew who it was. He wouldn’t admit it to the caller, but he welcomed the call.
‘Earl?’
‘Who else?’
‘Earl, this is the only chance you’ve got. It’s now or never.’ There was silence. Earl didn’t know what he should do. He wasn’t going to hang up. Not right away. ‘I can tell you how to get there. I can tell you how to get in. I can tell you where she’ll be.’ Another long pause. ‘Earl?’
‘What?’
‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yeah,’ Earl said. He looked down at his body. Appraising it.
‘Listen, let me tell you. If you hang up, I’ll not call you again. And you can fry. You’ll be a piece of bacon in a skillet.’
That wasn’t the way they killed people in California, Earl thought, but he understood.
‘Tell me.’
‘Tell you what, Earl?’
‘How to get there.’
‘You going to do it?’
‘I don’t know. I gotta think some more. But if you don’t tell me before I hang up, then I can’t, can I?’
Gratelli had called the police up north, asked them to patrol in the winding roads around Julia’s cabin.
Gratelli was sure Julia Bateman was not in any danger from the likes of Earl Falwell. Though not disqualified as the murderer in the other cases, Gratelli was not convinced he was the one to assault Julia, to beat her until she hung on the precipice of death.