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  The prospects for her survival weren’t any better with that scenario.

  I was so distracted that I bit clear through the cookie into my tongue. Swore loud enough to earn glares from two old ladies at the next table.

  Back to Ben Waterson. Kirby came to the mall the other day and argued with him—not about getting hold of Adrian’s back pay, as they both claimed, because Waterson had lied about Sue Hanford leaving him in charge at Left Coast Casuals. And right after the argument, Kirby stormed out of the mall and drove off burning rubber. Waterson took off around that time, too. And tonight Waterson left again, after a phone call around six—about the time the kids, Del preceding them, left All Souls. Did Del or another of them warn him that everything was about to unravel? Is Waterson running, or did he leave for purposes of what Sue Hanford calls damage control?

  Damage control. I suppose you could call Kirby’s murder damage control…

  I got up, threw my trash in the bin, and began walking the mall—burning off excess energy, trying to work it out. If only I knew what Kirby and Waterson had argued about. And where they’d each gone Wednesday afternoon. And why Kirby had asked me to meet him at the Naples Street house. Had Waterson found out about the meeting, gotten there early? Killed Kirby before he could talk with me? And what about Adrian? If she was dead, where was her body? And if she was alive—

  And then I saw something. It wasn’t related to my case at all, was just one of those little nudges you get when you have all the information you need and are primed for something to come along and help you put it all together. I’m sure I’d have figured it out eventually, even if it hadn’t been for the poster that made the land look so parched and windswept and basically unpleasant that you wondered why they thought it would sell tours. But as it was, it happened then, and I was damned glad of it.

  VIII

  The Wreck and I sped through the night, under a black sky that quickly started leaking rain, then just plain let go in a deluge. The windshield wipers scraped and screeched, smearing the glass instead of clearing it. Dammit, I thought, why can’t I get it together to buy a new car—or at least some new wiper blades? No, a whole car’s in order, because this defroster isn’t worth the powder to blow it to hell, and I’m so sick of being at the mercy of third-rate transportation.

  Then I started wondering about the tread on the Wreck’s tires. When was the last time I’d checked it? It had looked bad, whenever, and I’d promised myself new tires in a few hundred more miles, but that had to be several thousand ago. What if I got a flat, was stranded, and didn’t reach Adrian in time? She was probably safe; I didn’t know for sure what Waterson had figured it out. Hell, I’d barely done that. Could anybody manage, without knowing Adrian the way I did from her therapy wall?

  The rain whacked down harder and the wind blew the Wreck all over the road. My shoulders got tense, and my hands actually hurt from clinging to the wheel. Lights ahead now—the little town of Olema where this road met the shoreline highway. Right turn, slow a little, then put the accelerator to the floor on the home stretch to Aunt June’s.

  She lied to me—that much was obvious at the time—but I hadn’t suspected it was such a big lie. How could I guess that Adrian was with her—right there on the premises, probably in June’s studio—and had been with her since shortly after her disappearance? Maybe I should have picked up on the fact that June didn’t seem all that worried about her niece, but otherwise I’d had no clues. Not then.

  Now I did, though. The Golden Gate Transit schedule in Adrian’s backpack, for one. Golden Gate was the one bus line that ran from the city to Marin County, and she would only have needed it if she planned a trip north. There had been no one with a Marin address other than June Simoom on the list of people who were close to Adrian that the police had checked out. And then there was the graphic evidence on the therapy wall—the soaring bird so like the symbol June’s place. Wingspread, next to one broken gold chain and the word FREEDOM. But most of all it was Adrian’s own words that had finally tipped me: “somebody to protect me, somebody strong and fierce.” That was June’s way of describing herself, and Adrian had probably heard it enough to believe it. After all, her aunt had taken the name of a fierce, relentless African wind; she had called her home Wingspread, a place of refuge.

  But there was another side to June—the possessive, controlling side that Donna Conway had described. Frying pan to fire, that’s where Adrian had gone. From one controlling person to another—and in this case, a control freak who probably delighted in keeping the niece from the hated sister-in-law. June hadn’t called Donna after my visit to make peace; she’d probably been fishing to find out if I’d relayed any suspicions to her.

  Slowed to a crawl, peering through the smears on the windshield and the rain soaked blackness for the mailbox with the soaring bird. That stand of eucalyptus looked about right, and the deeper shadows behind it must hide Tomales Bay. Hadn’t the road curved like this just before the turnoff to the rutted driveway? Wasn’t it right about here…?

  Yes! I wrenched the wheel to the left, and the Wreck skidded onto the gravel shoulder.

  What I could see of the driveway looked impassable. Deep tire gouges cut into the ground but they were filling with muck and water. Better not chance it. I turned off the engine—it coughed and heaved several times, not a good sign, Willie had recently told me—and then I got out and started for the cottage on foot.

  The wind blew even stronger now, whipping the branches of the trees and sending big curls of brittle bark spiraling through the air. The rain pelted me, stinging as it hit my face, and the hood of my slicker blew off my head. I grabbed at it, but I couldn’t make it stay up, and soon my hair was a sodden mess plastered to my skull.

  Adrian, I thought, you’d better be worth all this.

  I couldn’t see any lights in the cottage, although there was a truck pulled in under the trees. That didn’t mean anything—the other night June had relied on the fire for both heat and light, and there was no reason she would have turned on the porch lamp unless she was expecting company. But what kind of a life was this for Adrian, spending her entire evenings in darkness in that crumbling shack? And what about her days—how could she fill the long hours when she should have been in school or working or doing things with her friends? If her mother hadn’t hired me and I hadn’t figured out where she was, how long would she have hidden here until reality set in and she began to want to have a life again?

  My slicker was an ancient one, left over from my college days, and its waterproofing must have given out, because I was soaked to my skin now. Freezing too. Please have a fire going, June, because I’m already very annoyed with you, and the lack of a fire will make me truly pissed off—

  Movement up ahead, the door of the cottage opening. A dark figure coming out, big and barrel-shaped, bigger than June and certainly bigger than Adrian…Ben Waterson.

  He came down the steps, hesitated, then angled off toward the left, through the tress. Going where? To the studio or the other outbuilding?

  I began creeping closer to the cottage, testing the ground ahead of me before I took each step. Foot-grabber of a hole there, ankle-turner of a tree root here. At least the wind’s shrieking like a scalded cat so he can’t possibly hear me.

  The cottage loomed ahead. I tripped on the bottom step, went up the rest of them on my hands and knees, and pushed the door open. Keeping low, I slithered inside on a splintery plank floor. There was some light at the far end of the room, but not much; the fire was burning low, just embers mainly.

  What’s that smell?

  A gun had been fired in there, and not too long ago. I opened my mouth, tried to call to June, but a croak came out instead. The room was quiet, the wind howling outside. I crept toward the glowing embers…

  There June was, reclining on her pile of pillows, glass of wine beside her on the raised hearth. So like the other night, but something was wrong here, something to do with the way she was lying, as if sh
e’d been thrown there, and why was the fireplace poker in her hand—Oh God June no!

  I reeled around, smashing my fist into the wall beside me. My eyes were shut but I could still see her crumpled there on the gaudy silk pillows, velvet robes disarrayed, hand clutching the poker. Why was she still holding it? Something to do with going into spasm at the moment of death.

  Disconnected sounds roared in my ears, blocking the wind. Then I heard my voice saying bitterly to Sharon, “Until the next time,” meaning until the next death. And Sharon saying to me, “If there is one.”

  Well, Shar, this is the next time, and I wish you were here to tell me what to do because what I’m about to do is go to pieces and there’s a killer somewhere outside and a helpless young woman who I promised to bring back to her mother—

  Go to the phone, Rae, and call the sheriff.

  It wasn’t Sharon’s voice, of course, but my own—a cool, professional voice that I’d never known I had. It interrupted the hysterical thoughts that were whirling and tumbling in my brain, calmed me and restored my balance. I dredged up memories of the other night, pictured an old-fashioned rotary-dial phone sitting on the kitchen counter. I felt my way until I touched it, and picked up the receiver. No dial tone.

  Maybe the storm, maybe something Waterson had done. Whatever, there wasn’t going to be any car full of Marin County Sheriff’s deputies riding to my rescue.

  You’ll just have to save yourself—and Adrian.

  With what? He’s armed. I don’t even have a flashlight.

  Kitchen drawer. I felt along the edge of the warped linoleum counter, then down to a knob. Pulled on it. Nothing in there but cloth, dishtowels, maybe. Another knob, another drawer. Knives. I took one out, tested its sharpness. Another drawer, and there was a flashlight, plus some long, pointed barbecue skewer. I stuck them and the knife in the slash pocket of my slicker.

  And then I went outside to face a man with a gun.

  The wind was really whipping around now, and it tore the cottage’s door from my grip and slammed it back against the wall. I yanked it closed, went down the slick, rickety steps, and made for the eucalyptus trees. As I ran I felt the flashlight fall from my slash pocket, but I didn’t stop to find it. Silly to have taken it, anyway—if I turned it on, I’d be a target for Waterson.

  Under the trees I stopped and leaned against a ragged trunk, panting and feeling in my pocket for the knife and the skewers. They were still there—not that they were much of a match against a gun. But there was no point in stewing over the odds now. I had to pinpoint those outbuildings. If I remembered correctly, they were closer to the shore and to the left of this grove.

  I slipped through the trees, peering into the surrounding blackness. Now I could make out the shoreline, the water wind-tossed and frothy, and then I picked out the shapes of the buildings—two of them, the larger one probably the studio. Roofs as swaybacked as the cottage’s, no lights in either. Windows? I couldn’t tell. They sat across a clearing from me, a bad way to approach if there were windows and if Waterson was inside and looking out. A bad way if he was outside and looking in this direction.

  How else to get over to them, then? Along the shore? Maybe. June had said something about a beach…

  I went back through the trees, their branches swaying overhead, ran for the cottage again, then slipped along its side and ducked under a half-collapsed deck. The ground took a sudden slope, and I went down on my butt and slid toward the water, waves sloshed over my tennis shoes—icy waves.

  Dammit! I thought. What the hell am I doing out here risking pneumonia—to say nothing of my life—for a thieving teenager I’ve never even set eyes on?

  I pulled myself up on one of the rotten deck supports—nearly pulling it down on my head—and started moving again. Then I stopped, realizing there was no beach here now, just jumbled and jagged rocks before the spot where the sand should begin. The beach was completely submerged by the high storm-tide.

  Stupid, Rae. Very stupid. You should have realized it would be this way and not wasted precious time. You should have gotten back into the Wreck as soon as soon as you found June’s body and driven to the nearest phone, called the sheriff’s department and let them handle it.

  No time for recriminations now. Besides, the nearest phone was miles away, and even if I had driven there immediately, the deputies wouldn’t have gotten here fast enough to save Adrian. I wasn’t sure I’d gotten here fast enough to save her.

  I crawled back up the incline and looked around, trying to measure the distance I’d have to run exposed to get to the shelter of the outbuildings. From here it was twenty, maybe twenty-five yards. Not that far—I’d go for it.

  I hunched over, made myself as small as I could, and started running—not much of a run, but still the longest, scariest of my life. I kept expecting the whine of a bullet—that’s what you hear, Sharon’s told me, before you hear the actual report, and she ought to know. You hear the whine, that is if the bullet doesn’t kill you first.

  But all I heard was the howl of the wind and the banging of a door someplace and the roaring of my own blood in my ears. Then I was at the first outbuilding, crouching against its rough wood wall and panting hard.

  The banging was louder here. When my breathing had calmed, I crept around the building’s corner and looked. Door, half off its hinges, and no sound or light coming from inside. I crept a little closer. Empty shed, falling down, certainly not June’s studio.

  I moved along until I could see the larger building the space between the two was narrow, dark. I ran again, to a windowless wall and flattened against it, putting my ear to the boards and trying to hear if anyone was inside.

  A banging noise, then a crash—something breaking. Then an angry voice—male, Waterson’s. “Where the hell is it?”

  Sobbing now, and a young woman saying, “I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where’s Aunt June? I want—”

  “Shut up!” It sounded like he hit her. She screamed, and my hand went into my pocket, grasping the knife.

  More sobbing. Waterson said, “I want those pictures and the negatives, Adrian.”

  “What pictures? What negatives? I don’t know anything about them!”

  “Don’t give me that. Kirby said you were holding them for him. Just tell me where they are and I’ll let you go.”

  Sure he would. He’d shoot her just like he had June, and hope that this would go down as a couple of those random killings that happen a lot in remote rural areas where weirdos break into what look like empty houses for stuff to steal and sell for drug money.

  “I wouldn’t hold anything for Kirby!” Adrian said through her sobs. “I’m scared of him!”

  “Then why did he come out here yesterday after he tried to hit me up for money? Coming to get his evidence to prove to me that I’d better pay up, that’s why. And don’t lie to about it—I followed him.”

  “No! I didn’t even see him! He figured out where I was and wanted to talk me into going back to the city. I hid from him, and Aunt June ran him off.”

  So this was where Kirby had gone when I’d lost him. I remembered the eucalyptus leaves in his hair, the sand on his shoes when I’d talked to him at his parents’ house—probably picked up while he was skulking around outside here, looking for Adrian after June had told him he couldn’t see her. Waterson had not only followed Kirby here, but later to the Naples Street house, where he’d killed him.

  There was a silence inside the studio, then Adrian screamed and cried some more. He’d hit her again, I guessed. Then he said, “I’m not going to ask you again, Adrian. Where’re the pictures?”

  “There aren’t any! Look, Kirby’s always bullshitting, he had me fooled. I was going to go to you about what he was doing at the plaza, until I saw you at the house with him, making a deal with that fence.”

  That was what had made her run out of the Naples Street place so fast she’d left her backpack—made her run straight to Aunt June, the only person
she’d told about the trouble she was in, the person who’d offered to take her side and shelter her. Well, June had tried. Now it was up to me.

  I started moving around the building, duck-walking like my high-school phys ed teacher had made us do when we goofed off in gym. Inside, I heard Waterson say, “You never knew about a hidden camera at that place in the Outer Mission?”

  “No.”

  “Kirby never asked you to take pictures of me doing deals the fences?”

  “Neither of us took any pictures. This story is just more of Kirby’s bullshit.”

  Waterson laughed—an ugly sound. “Well,” he said, “it was Kirby’s last shovelful of bullshit. He’s dead.”

  “What…?” Adrian’s question rose up into a shriek.

  I stopped listening, concentrated on getting to the corner of the building. Then I peeked around it. On this side—the one facing the water—there was a window and a door. I duckwalked on, thanking god that I still had some muscles left in my thighs. At the window I poked my head up a little, but all saw were shadows—a big barrel-shaped one that had to be Waterson, and some warped, twisted ones that were downright weird the light shivered and flickered—probably from a candle or oil lamp.

  The door was closed, but the wind was rattling it in its frame. It made me think of how the wind had torn the cottage door from my grasp. I stopped, pressed against the wall, and studied this door. From the placement of its hinges, I could tell it opened out. I scuttled around to the hinged side, paused and listened. Adrian was screaming and sobbing again. Christ, what was he doing to her?

  Well, the sound would hide what I was about to do.

  I stood, pressed flat as could be against the wall, then reached across the door to its knob and gave it a quick twist. The door opened, then slammed shut again.

  “What the hell?” Waterson said.