40

Saturday, October 7, 1989

I didn’t sleep well. I found myself turning this way and that, thinking some as-yet-undiscovered position would be sufficiently comfortable to invite unconsciousness. Instead, with one eye on the digital clock, I watched the minutes flick by. If I slept at all, it was in brief increments, at least until the wee hours when I fell into a deep pit of dreams. I woke at nine, feeling groggy, startled that the time had gotten away from me. It was Saturday and it was light out, so in theory I could have gotten in a run, but I didn’t want to. I was anxious about Celeste’s arrival, uneasy about the fact that Ned had dropped out of sight again. I didn’t see how he could interfere with the plan, but Ned had the built-in cunning of a psychopath and he’d show up when least expected.

I showered. I dressed. I ate my bowl of cereal. I drank two cups of coffee, which woke me up as I’d hoped, but also fed my apprehension. I felt heavy and full of dread, little flickers of fear like heat lightning dancing along my spine. Celeste’s plane got in at 1:15. Just to be on the safe side, I’d leave for the airport at 12:30, which meant I had roughly three hours to kill. I went next door to Henry’s, where the back door was open and the screen unhooked. I could smell freshly baked cinnamon rolls. I tapped and he told me to come on in. Anna was sitting at his kitchen table, which was taken up with two sheet pans onto which she was dolloping cookie dough with a small ice cream scoop. Now that I knew she was pregnant, she seemed Madonna-like, bathed in serenity. It had been two weeks since her condition was made known and already she seemed rounded and ripe, her skin aglow.

Henry sliced the crusts from a loaf of white bread and he had a bowl of egg salad at the ready. He’d already prepared small homemade buns with butter and country ham, small leaves of baby endive with a dab of blue cheese at the tip of each. There were six trays of finger sandwiches covered in Saran wrap. Peering closely, I could identify anchovy butter and radishes, thinly sliced cucumber with cream cheese, sharp cheddar and chutney—all specialties of his. He’d arranged cupcakes, petit fours, and tiny cream puffs on three silver platters, again protected from the drying air with clear plastic wrap.

“I’m catering a tea party for Moza Lowenstein,” he said in answer to my unspoken question.

Anna said, “I’m invited because I live there. Now that I have a little peanut on board, I’m ravenous. I eat everything, all the time. I can’t stop myself. You want to see a picture?”

“Sure.”

She took a 4-by-6 black-and-white photo out of her pocket. The image was fuzzy and looked like somebody had been making snow angels in the background. In the center of this colorless world, there was a creature that might have been left behind by an alien spacecraft: big head, body curved in a soft C, thin limbs, transparent skin, tethered in place by a gray rope.

“You’ve decided to keep the little tyke,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve decided to see this through and hope for the best.”

I said, “I’m operating on the same plan. Are we screwed or what?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Just as well. May I have a cinnamon roll?”

“Help yourself,” Henry said. “There’s still coffee if you’d like.”

“Why not? I’m a nervous wreck anyway.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s over with.” I crossed to the coffeepot, took a mug down, and filled it. “What time’s the tea party?”

“Four. If I know Moza, she’ll bring out the cooking sherry and the ladies will go on until the wee hours.”

“No husbands to feed?”

“These are widows. They all have little dogs that they bring in their purses, with tiny cans of dog food. One has trained her pup to do its business on indoor potty pads with fake grass so she doesn’t even have to take him outdoors. She just folds up the mat, seals it in a gallon-sized plastic bag, and she’s good.”

“These can go in,” Anna said.

Henry opened the oven door, reached over, picked up the two trays of raw cookie dough, and slid them in. He set a timer and went back to his finger sandwiches.

I said, “I’m surprised Pearl’s not here.”

“One of her homies thought he saw Ned Lowe and they’ve gone off on the hunt.”

“Well, I hope she uses good sense. She has no clue how dangerous he is.” I finished my coffee and put the mug in the dishwasher. “You need help?”

“We’re covered here, but thanks.”

“I’m going to try to find something useful to do.”

I let myself out and returned to the studio. I made a trip to the supermarket, where I stocked up on life’s essentials, toilet paper being primary. Home again, I unloaded my bags and put everything away. I’d used up forty-two minutes, during which I’d gone from being worried to being bored. I lay down on the couch with a paperback mystery and read until I fell asleep two paragraphs later. I woke at 12:25, which I took as a good omen since it allowed me just enough time to brush my teeth, avail myself of the facilities, and head out to Colgate.

The Santa Teresa Municipal Airport was built in the 1940s and most nearly resembles a modest hacienda, complete with stucco exterior, red-tile roof, and magenta bougainvillea. The baggage claim area looks like a carport affixed to one end. There’s a coffee shop on the second floor, and a grassy courtyard below surrounded by a glass-topped wall so that you can watch planes take off and land. I positioned myself twenty feet from the main entrance, in full view of five of the six gates.

Within minutes, I saw a little commuter plane wobbling toward earth in the final moments of its descent. I knew from previous flights that the landing would have a rocky start, with the ups and downs of a roller coaster, passengers fingering their rosaries and trying not to scream. The wheels touching down would chirp like sneakers on hardwood flooring.

Passengers began to trickle into the terminal, some with rolling suitcases trailing behind, some on their way to baggage claim. Celeste was one of the last to emerge. I’d assured her that I’d recognize her, but I hadn’t been entirely certain. I’d met her once six months before and most of the image I retained consisted of an oval face, pale hair, and dark eyes. Also, the demeanor of a prisoner of war recently released from captivity. Life with Ned Lowe had deadened her. At the time I encountered her, she’d reduced her personality to a shadow as flat as a photo mounted on a piece of cardboard. Anything more animated would attract Ned’s attention and, shortly after that, his ire.

Celeste spotted me and raised a hand in greeting. She looked like she’d been rehydrated, her exterior plumped up by confidence. Hers wasn’t a type A personality, so she’d never be a firebrand, but she moved as though a spark had fanned to life in her. She wore a lightweight brown tweed coat. She carried a briefcase and had a purse hooked over one shoulder with a leather strap.

“Hey, how are you?” I asked, holding out my hand for her to shake. I’d avoided the use of her name, still censoring myself lest Ned picked up a faint whiff of her presence in town. “You have luggage?”

“Just this,” she said, indicating the briefcase.

“Have you had lunch?”

“Maybe afterward. I’m nervous.”

“Me, too.”

As we proceeded to my car in the short-term parking lot, both of us scanned the area for signs of Ned.

“I really don’t think he can get to us,” I said.

“Are you armed, by any chance?”

I shook my head. “My H&K is locked away at home. If I’d thought about it, I’d have carried it. Last contact I had with him, I fired off three rounds. If my line of sight had been better, I’d have crippled him for life.”

“You shot him?”

“Nicked is more like it. His hip or his thigh, but whichever it was, it made him howl. Later, he used the keys he’d stolen from Phyllis to let himself back into her condominium. He applied first aid, leaving behind bandages that suggested a festering wound.”

“Love it. I am so proud of you,” she said.

The drive into town was without incident. I was careful not to ask any personal questions on the theory that the less I knew, the better. When we reached the police station, I parked on the nearest side street and walked with her to the front steps. Both of our heads swiveled from side to side.

Once in the lobby, I relaxed. Ladies and gents in uniform, decked out with deadly weapons, create a sense of safety I treasure. The desk officer called Cheney in the Detective Bureau and he appeared shortly thereafter and accompanied us to his desk. I watched Celeste hand over the envelope containing Ned’s trinkets and then I excused myself and went back to the lobby to wait while she told him what she knew. The gasoline receipts Ned had saved would serve as a road map of his travels and might yield as-yet-undiscovered victims.

The meeting went on longer than I’d anticipated and I became more antsy as the minutes rolled by. Celeste hadn’t given me her departure time and I had to trust she’d keep an eye on the clock. Finally, at 4:10, Cheney appeared and I crossed the lobby to the desk.

“Where’s Celeste?”

“Visiting the ladies’ room. She says you’re taking her straight to the airport and she wanted to be prepared in case time was short.”

“What time’s her flight?”

“Five fifteen.”

I checked my watch again. “That’s cutting it close.”

“Trust Providence,” he said.

Behind him, Celeste appeared. “Are we okay here?”

I said, “Fine. But we have to hustle. It’s twenty minute to the airport as long as we don’t run into traffic.”

Cheney and Celeste shook hands. The “thanks and appreciation” exchange was hurried along by my shifting from foot to foot. I’m a stickler about arriving an hour before flight time and we’d already cut that in half. Celeste was apparently one of those people who don’t mind showing up after the airplane door is closed and requires a lot of banging to gain admittance. Many airlines won’t oblige the tardy passenger once the door is shut. If she missed her flight, it would mean hours of chitchat while we hung out, waiting for a seat to open on the next available flight.

We trotted back to my car. I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of my parking spot before she had a chance to fasten her seatbelt. I clicked mine into place when we reached the next intersection. I headed down Fig to Chapel Street, where I turned right and drove the six blocks to Arroyo, which I knew had a freeway on-ramp. We were third in line to merge and the stream of cars had slowed to a stop. It’s pathetic to see a grown woman weep over traffic, so I was forced to control myself.

Celeste murmured, “Sorry. I should have wound up my meeting a bit quicker.”

If she was seeking absolution, I wasn’t going to give it to her.

Five minutes later, we eased into the northbound lane. The vehicles in the two lanes to my left had turn signals on, telegraphing an intention to ram right into other motorists if they didn’t make way. I saw drivers casting about desperately, trying to find recourse as the poacher came ever closer to sideswiping the car with the right-of-way. We were all going to be out of our cars exchanging insurance information if we didn’t play nice. I thought the traffic jam must be the result of an accident ahead, but there was no sign of a fire truck, an ambulance, or a patrol car with flashing lights.

Eventually, the car in front of us moved forward as the car in front of that car opened the gap by a car’s length. Suddenly the bottleneck yielded and we were on our way. I kept to the speed limit, not willing to risk a moving violation. One off-ramp went by. Two. Three. Two miles further on, I left the 101 and crossed back over the freeway at the top of the ramp. Smooth sailing at that point, which didn’t relieve my tension. I checked my watch. It was 4:35 and we had two miles to go. The distance didn’t bother me so much as thinking ahead to parking, locking the car, and the walk to the terminal, where she’d have to stand in line for her boarding pass and then pass through security. These were not always speedily accomplished.

By now, Celeste was as anxious as I was, which at least eliminated small talk as we focused on our progress. I took the off-ramp for Airport Boulevard. When I hit the straightaway, I did a quick search for a traffic cop and seeing none, I poured on the gas. I approached the entrance to short-term parking, snagged a ticket from the machine, and moved forward almost before the arm was fully up. She got out of the car as I was parking and she was already making her way to the terminal entrance when I caught up with her. The tight schedule had at least erased Ned from our consciousness.

We hurried through the front doors and she took her place at the United Airlines ticket counter. The wait was mercifully short, since every passenger with a grain of sense was checked in by now and waiting at the gate. The absence of luggage saved us forty-five seconds, though the desk agent did shoot Celeste a quick look, wondering if she was up to no good. I caught the fellow’s eye, circled a finger at my temple to denote craziness, pointed at her, and mouthed “This is my sister,” as if that made a difference. He slid her boarding pass across the counter and I walked her the fourteen feet to security. Once she was on the other side, she waved, indicating that she felt safe and I was free to go.

I took a minute to survey my surroundings on the off chance that Ned lay in wait and might hurdle over the X-ray machine and seize her by the throat. Again no sign of him, which generated a moment of hope on my part that he was already suffering the fever, difficulty breathing, low blood pressure, fast heart rate, and mental confusion of sepsis. I confess I didn’t wait for her plane to take off. I left the terminal and returned to my car. The traffic pattern at the airport is such that a departing vehicle is made to circle back, passing the terminal entrance a second time before accessing the exit lane.

It was because of this very quirk that I spied a taxi pulling up at the curb. Bayard Montgomery emerged from the backseat on the right and Ellis got out on the left. Bayard wore a black leather jacket and what looked like a black chauffeur’s cap with a shiny patent-leather brim. Ellis was in a white dress shirt with a red sweater across his shoulders, the empty sleeves folded together in front as though holding hands. The driver allowed his taxi to idle while he got out and walked around to the trunk to help remove luggage. He unloaded the large wheeled split duffel and the expandable four-wheeled packing case I’d seen in the foyer at Bayard’s house. After that, he removed the soft-sided carry-on, two medium hard-sided cases, a rolltop backpack, a leather travel tote, three matching pieces of soft-sided luggage in graduating sizes, a garment bag, and an overnight case. This did not look like a weekend in Palm Springs.

Bayard’s travel plans were none of my business and I was close to completing the roundabout and returning to Airport Boulevard when I felt myself squint. I checked the rearview mirror, watching the redcap load the pieces on his cart. I veered into short-term parking a second time and searched for a space. None. Not one. I went around twice, hoping to see taillights that indicated someone was pulling out, but there was no movement. I could be doing this for another twenty minutes while Bayard and Ellis were doing who-knows-what. I found a no-parking lane with diagonal stripes to announce the unsuitability of the space for my purposes. I parked and got out of my car, locking it behind me.

In the terminal, at the American Airlines ticket counter, I saw Bayard take possession of their two boarding passes. He had his soft-sided carry-on and he joined the security line while Ellis went into the gift shop. I watched him buy several fatty snacks, two magazines, and a travel neck roll filled with organic flax. I bent to study something in the window as he walked away with his purchases and headed for security. Bayard had already secured two seats in the waiting area. I glanced at the signage and realized the flight they intended to board was a commuter plane to Phoenix, Arizona. Bayard had mentioned Palm Springs and I could feel my head tilt like a puzzled pup’s at the change in plans.

I had no way to approach them in the area where they were seated since they’d already been through security screening. I was not a ticketed passenger and I wouldn’t be allowed past the first checkpoint. I got as close to them as I could and called Bayard’s name. Seven people turned around to look.

When he lifted his face, I gave him a cheery wave. I gestured for him to join me and he made a comment to Ellis. Thanks to my highly developed lip-reading skills, I saw him saying, “Shit. Go see what she wants.”

Ellis said, “Why me?”

Bayard said, “Never mind. I’ll do it.”

He got up, trying to match my smile with one of his own.

I said, “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here. I was just dropping off a friend.”

“Small world,” he said, offering no encouragement.

“Off on your weekend jaunt?”

“Yep.” He pantomimed a golf swing.

“I thought you said Palm Springs. This flight goes to Phoenix.”

“Last-minute switch,” he said. “Our flight was canceled, so we decided on Phoenix instead.”

“I’m sure the golf is every bit as good,” I said.

“And the hotel rates are better.”

“Everything works out for the best,” I said.

He replied, “Nice seeing you,” and returned to his seat. He sent me a faint smile when he was settled again, lest I think his departure was rude. I waved again and turned on my heel.

Now what was I to do?

As I passed the American Airlines ticket counter, I felt a mental nudge. On the scratchpad in Bayard’s library, I’d seen AA with a circle around it. My first association with AA was Alcoholics Anonymous, but American Airlines was probably closer to the truth. I slid a hand in my pocket, congratulating myself on my habit of wearing the same jeans four days in a row. I pulled out the note I’d made: 8760RAK. Maybe not a license plate. The American Airlines check-in line had picked up a host of travelers, so I moved to the United desk.

When the ticket agent looked up as though to check me in, I put my finger on the RAK. “Do you recognize this?”

He glanced down. “It’s an airport code.”

“What airport?”

“Marrakech-Menara Airport. Morocco.”

I nearly laughed. “Really? You can fly from Santa Teresa all the way to Marrakech?”

As though to a simpleton, he said, “Uh, yes. That’s possible in this postmodern era of international travel. All you need is thirty-four hours’ flying time and three to four thousand dollars for the seat.”

“And 8760 is the flight number?”

“You’d have to check with American on that.”

“What’s the routing?”

“Ask them,” he said, not about to extend warm public relations to a rival company.

I walked back to the American Airlines counter and took my place in line. There were three people ahead of me, and as is true of lines in your local bank, these were all customers with “issues” that required long discussions with the ticket agent, frequent references to the computer, head shakes, and more discussion. I checked the departures monitor on the wall behind me and saw that the Phoenix flight was leaving in twenty-six minutes. This is just about the same amount allotted for early boarding, passengers with children, the feeble, and infirm. I leaned sideways and stared at the ticket agent and when he looked up, I pointed to my watch. He was singularly unimpressed with the urgency I hoped to convey. Two minutes later, that passenger left the desk and the next woman in line took his place. I heard the preboarding announcement for the Phoenix flight and shifted restlessly from foot to foot. The woman left and the ticket agent made quick work of the two passengers in front of me.

When I reached the head of the line, he moved a small metal sign to the middle of his station. Next window please.

“Oh no, no, no. Please. I just have a quick question . . .”

“Union rules,” he said primly.

“Fine. I honor that. I appreciate everything the union does for you. All I need to know is the routing from Santa Teresa to Marrakech.”

He blinked and began to rattle off the information. “Phoenix, Philadelphia, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, Philadelphia, Chicago, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, Detroit, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, London, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, London, Casablanca, Marrakech. Phoenix, Chicago, JFK, Madrid, Marrakech. Regardless of the route you choose, you’ll be flying into Madrid or Casablanca. I don’t know about the latter, but from Madrid, there’s only one flight to Marrakech and that’s 8760.”

“Thank you.”

I did a 180 turn, looking for a public phone. I saw one next to the door to the ladies’ room. It was currently in use. A woman in heels, wearing a chinchilla coat, was deep in conversation. I crossed to the phone and stood behind her, hoping she’d pick up on the hint. She was heavily perfumed, I noticed now that I was in range of her. She didn’t even look around at me. I stepped to one side and stared at her. She noticed me then and turned protectively, placing a hand over the mouthpiece so I couldn’t hear what she said. I checked my watch pointedly. I tapped my foot. I moved into her line of sight again and did the rolling-hand gesture that means hurry the fuck up. No dice.

I took out my wallet and removed two bills. I leaned close to her ear. “Lady, I will pay you twenty-five dollars to get off the phone right this minute.”

Startled, she looked at me and then at the twenty and the five I held in one hand. She snatched the bills and said to the party on the other end, “I’ll call you back.”

I said, “Oh, wait. Excuse me. Do you have a quarter?”

She sighed heavily, but found one in her coat pocket and placed it in my open palm.

And with that, she was gone.

I dialed Cheney’s number at the police department, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t pick up. Four rings later, he snatched up the handset, saying, “Phillips.”

“Thank god. I’m so happy to hear your voice.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you—”

I said, “Wait, wait. Me first—”

Cheney was so enamored of his news that he charged right on. “Remember, I mentioned the white powder Fritz picked up on his clothing? The ME identified it as quicklime, so we went out to the crime scene and took another look at the septic tank. Know what we found? Under the fill dirt and construction debris where Fritz was dumped, there was a second victim. Somebody had covered the body with about eight pounds of quicklime and probably half a dozen containers of drain cleaner. The common perception is that the two in combination will dissolve a body over a period of time, but the truth is just the opposite—”

I said, “Cheney! Enough.”

This went unheeded as he continued his forensics revelation. “Quicklime slaked with water will cause a small degree of superficial burning, but the heat from the chemical reaction will mummify the body. Slaked lime absorbs moisture from tissue and the surrounding soil, and prevents putrefaction. You’ll never guess who it is.”

Someone on the public-address system was saying, “Will the owner of a dark blue four-door Honda report to the short-term parking and claim your vehicle?”

I said, “It’s Austin Brown.”

Dead silence. “How did you know that?”

“Bayard Montgomery killed him because he threatened to call Bayard’s father and tell him that Bayard was gay. Tigg was wildly homophobic and would have cut him off without a cent.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Don’t worry about that. Bayard and his boyfriend, Ellis, are out here at the airport about to board a flight to Phoenix. Their final destination is Morocco, which I bet money has no extradition treaty with the US.”

Another brief silence. “You’re right.”

“Will the owner of a dark blue four-door Honda please return to short-term parking or your vehicle will be towed.”

I said, “Shit, my car’s being towed.”

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and looked over at the departure gate as the gate agent picked up her microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, American Airlines Flight 5981 to Phoenix, Arizona, is now ready for boarding. We’d like to invite passengers with small children, those with disabilities, or any others who might require additional time to proceed to gate four.”

I watched Bayard and Ellis rise from their seats and gather their belongings. Bayard picked up the black leather carry-on I’d seen in his guest room. Ellis crossed to a trash receptacle and tossed in some candy wrappers, then returned to his seat and picked up the plastic bag containing articles he’d purchased in the airport gift shop. He found his tote and hefted it. He patted his pocket for his boarding pass and then remembered it was in the outside pocket of his tote. He retrieved it and checked his seat number. Passengers were already forming an orderly line, with first-class ticket holders at the head. Bayard had saved Ellis a place about three passengers back and the two chatted while they waited.

“Cheney, they’re boarding. It’s American 5981 to Phoenix.”

“Got it. I’ll take care of it. Just stay where you are. I’m putting a call through to airport security.”

I dropped the handset in place and crossed to the gate. The gate agent invited first-class passengers to board. The first gentleman in line handed his boarding pass to the gate agent. She ran it through her machine, smiled at him, and handed it back. He moved through the gate and through the exterior door to the tarmac beyond.

I was standing there thinking, What if the security phone line is busy? How long is it going to take for Cheney to convey the urgency of the situation? I spotted the airport security officer who stood by the X-ray machine, chatting with another airline employee.

At the gate, the second gentleman reached the head of the line and handed over his boarding pass, which was screened and returned. Bayard and Ellis shuffled forward a couple of steps.

I took a quick look at the entrance. Naturally there was no sign of a police presence outside the terminal. Apparently no messages were being conveyed to the hefty security officer, who’d now folded his arms while he settled in for a comfortable chat with his pal.

Bayard handed his boarding pass to the gate agent. Carry-on in hand, he moved through the gate and then waited for Ellis to clear the barrier.

I crossed to the officer and said, “Excuse me.”

He didn’t seem to hear me and didn’t interrupt his conversation.

“Excuse me, sir, but someone just stole my carry-on.”

Now that I had his attention, I pointed at Bayard. “See that fellow in the black leather jacket with the chauffeur’s cap? His companion’s in the red sweater. I put my carry-on down in the gift shop, and when I turned around it was gone.”

“You have a way to identify it?”

“Yes, sir. I do. The bag has a leather tag with my monogram. BAM. My name is Barbara Ann Mendelson. If you’ll check the contents, you’ll find my blue cashmere sweater along with a headset and my Sony Walkman.”

He looked at me and then looked back at the gate. “Which gentleman is this?”

“Right there, just going out on the tarmac. Black leather jacket and black chauffeur’s cap with a black patent-leather rim. The fellow with him has on a red sweater and he’s got a shopping bag from the gift shop.”

He said something into the radio affixed to his shoulder. He listened and then made his way into the waiting area, moving very quickly for a guy who carried that much weight. He made a statement to the gate agent, who stepped aside to let him pass. Even from inside the terminal, I could hear him say, “Sir. Can I have a word with you?”

Other passengers moving toward the plane divided to form a stream passing on either side of them.

At first, Bayard didn’t seem to realize he was being addressed. A man nearby touched his arm and pointed at the officer, who was already repeating his request. Bayard stopped. Ellis was ahead of him, approaching the exterior rolling stairs leading up to the aircraft, when he realized Bayard wasn’t close behind. He spotted the security officer, frowned, and returned to Bayard’s side. There was a three-way conversation, the officer making it clear there was a problem in the works. Bayard made a response, but didn’t persuade the officer of his need to board the plane. Ellis started to kick up a fuss but Bayard waved him down, probably thinking a show of cooperation would speed them along. The officer repeated his request and the three of them walked back to the boarding gate.

I decided to make myself scarce just in case the security officer intended to ask for a full accounting of the theft from Barbara Ann Mendelson. I went through the front entrance and intercepted the tow truck before the driver could position himself for the removal of my vehicle. I don’t know how I persuaded him of my innocence, but with frequent reference to Lieutenant Phillips, and by citing the ongoing investigation of Fritz’s death, I somehow extracted my car before it was hauled off to the impound lot.

I slid behind the steering wheel and took a moment to collect myself.

•   •   •

Traffic was still slow and I made the drive home reconciled to the time it would take. Once in my neighborhood, I found a parking spot, got out of my car, and locked it. I let myself through the gate, rounding the corner of the studio as I moved into the backyard, slowing my pace. I’d been greeted by so many unexpected sights recently that I leaned forward for a quick look before committing myself. Ned’s attack came from behind. I felt his fist in my hair. He yanked hard. I raised my hands and clung to his wrist to prevent his scalping me. He dragged me sideways and my feet flipped out from under me. He maintained an iron control by the simple expedient of his grip on my head. I was scrabbling backward as swiftly as I could in the face of his forward motion, which kept me off balance until he’d towed me out of range of the street. I couldn’t avoid a sharp intake of breath, which was part surprise and part pain. I managed a brief moment of equilibrium, which he offset by hooking a foot behind my leg. I dropped, but only until he hauled me around so we were face-to-face. His complexion was gray and the strand of hair that fell across his face was oily, suggesting weeks without a shower. His breath on my face was hot and moist and stinking. He was jabbering at me, words and phrases that scarcely made sense, not that clarification was necessary. He’d come back to finish the job of killing me, which I sincerely hoped to prevent. I heard a quick noise that I knew was a switchblade triggered into play.

Belatedly, I registered Killer’s presence. He reclined between the open tent flaps, happily licking a 3-by-6-inch Styrofoam tray. He’d torn a piece of plastic wrap to shreds and gnawed off bites of Styrofoam that were now strewn on the dirt around him. His preoccupation was puzzling except for the certainty he wasn’t going to help. My immediate salvation came in the form of Pearl White, who’d rounded the corner of the studio on her crutches.

She was saying, “Bad news about Ned. He got away again—”

At that point she spotted me and stopped in her tracks. Ned had forced my head back around until I faced her, my mouth open, no sound coming out. He had the blade against the base of my throat, where one swipe would do the trick.

“Well, son of a bitch. I guess we know where he’s at,” she said. And then shouted, “Killer!”

The dog rose to his feet, his Happy Meal forgotten, though a chunk of Styrofoam still dangled from his mouth. He had enough latent mastiff and Rottweiler in him that a deep vein of canine ferocity had leaped to the fore. The ridge of hair went up along his back and the low rumble emanated from his chest. Over countless generations, his breeding had rewarded assault as a survival strategy. Unfortunately, domestication held equal sway and he was stricken with what was clearly a moment of doggie consternation. Which was stronger, the drive to protect his mistress, fighting to the death, or his enthusiasm for the amuse-bouche? Pearl and I exchanged a quick look, both of us counting on his baser instincts.

I heard a squeak from his throat and looked over in time to see him surrender to a gargantuan yawn. He lowered his head, which I hoped was the prelude to an unprecedented display of viciousness. Instead, his upper body continued sinking until his legs buckled under him. Killer rolled gently onto his side and slept. Ned had apparently laced a pound of hamburger with a sedative and Killer had obliged the man by wolfing it down. The sight of the dog was absurd and Ned laughed. It was in that moment of inattention that Pearl made her move.

She crossed the distance between us with remarkable speed for someone of her massive proportions with a broken hip contributing to her physical condition. He was unprepared for the aggression he’d unleashed. She swung one crutch and delivered a blow to the side of his head. He wasn’t stunned so much as surprised. She brought the same crutch down on his wrist. His grip on the knife loosened and it flew off to his right. Pearl stepped forward and aimed the tip of the crutch at his Adam’s apple. Ned made a sound like a cat coughing up a hairball. She tossed the crutch aside temporarily and embraced Ned and me in a bear hug of such magnitude that the three of us toppled sideways into the pup tent, which collapsed under our combined weight.

Ned popped up first, fueled by outrage and fury. Pearl had trouble getting to her feet. He snatched a heavy fold of canvas and tightened it over her face. While I worked to free myself from the voluminous tenting, he straddled her and bore down, cutting off her air. She flailed. Without traction or leverage, she had a hard time bucking him off, but she finally succeeded. Her hip must have been giving her excruciating pain because I heard a quick cry of distress as she lumbered to her feet. Ned had turned his attention to me and we grappled without much effect. The quiet was punctuated with quick gasps and inarticulate grunts. Some of the sounds mimicked sobs, but none of us wept. I pulled myself upright, shoved him back, and kicked him on his injured side. He toppled, howling with agony.

Pearl struggled to hold herself upright while racked with pain. For a moment, none of us moved. In this orgy of violence, this was the moment when we might have paused for a postcoital smoke.

The interval was short-lived. Ned scrambled forward and tackled her around the knees. She fell on one side and he sat astride her, his weight sufficient to immobilize her. Desperate for a weapon, I grabbed the chain used to tether Killer to the tent stake. I whipped the chain over his head and around his throat, crossing one hand over the other to tighten the noose. He thrashed and then jerked forward abruptly, which flipped me over his body and onto the ground.

Pearl snatched up one of the fallen crutches and delivered a sharp thrust to his solar plexus, then plowed into him before he could regain his balance. She whacked him twice in the side of the head with the support end of the crutch. He dropped to his knees and groped the dirt around him, searching blindly for the knife. His fingers made contact and he swung his arm in an arc, prepared to plunge the weapon into any portion of her he could reach. She caught his hand midair and they arm-wrestled for control. She sank to her knees, bringing her face to a point level with his. The two strained. Her arm was shaking from the effort. In this, the two were equally matched, his upper-body strength pitted against her bulk. There were a solid twenty seconds of stasis. Then Pearl growled low in her throat and prevailed, forcing his hand down, pinning it to the ground.

I crossed the yard, closing the distance between me and the garage. I jerked Henry’s shovel free from its designated location and swung it like a baseball bat, blade parallel to the ground and traveling at a speed that made the air sing. If I’d caught him in the neck, I might have severed his head. As it was, he raised an arm and deflected the blow. The sharpened edge sliced his shirt and cut deep. Blood welled in a fast-spreading blossom of bright red.

I was charting the progression of pain that threatened to overwhelm me. What our self-defense instructor hadn’t spelled out was how focused such a fight could be and how debilitating. Pearl dragged herself to her feet again. Her face was a hot red, and sweat was pouring down her cheeks. He scuttled to a point a few feet away from her, creating a neutral zone in which he could rally his forces. He stood up again, calling on reserves of strength that surprised me. His right arm was of little use to him now. He was sweating heavily and his renewed blows lacked conviction. When he paused to assess the situation, Pearl gathered herself and drove at him, her fist back. When she connected, there was a sound like a waterlogged bag of cement dropped from a height. He went down like a board, as stiff as a 2-by-10. She landed in the middle of his back. I was on my feet by then and I put my hands on my knees, winded and panting from the effort.

My lungs burned. My energy was depleted. I noticed bodily injuries, but couldn’t remember how or when they occurred. I glanced at Pearl’s face, which was a mask of bruises. One eye was black, one tooth was missing, and a cut at the corner of her mouth oozed blood. She’d positioned herself in the middle of Ned’s back, and gravity was sufficient to hinder the rise and fall of his chest.

She said, “Shit. I think I broke my hip again, but right now I’m numb and it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

She bounced a couple of times and I heard an oof of air escape Ned’s lungs. She bounced again, though she winced as she did so. “What’s this here? What I’m doing. You’re a smart girl. I bet you know.”

“As a matter of fact I do. It’s called ‘compressive asphyxia,’ which is mechanically limiting expansion of the lungs by compressing the torso, hence interfering with breathing.”

“Hence. I like that. I’m setting here bouncing on Ned, hence making it impossible for him to draw breath. That’s what he did to them little girls, isn’t it?”

“That was his method of choice,” I said. “He also pinched their noses and mouths shut, which probably speeded the process, a flourish referred to as ‘burking.’”

“How long does it take?”

“Pearl, sweetie, before we go on, let’s just get one thing straight. You do know you’re killing him.”

“I get that,” she said.

“Well, I’m not sure it’s smart. Suppose one of the neighbors heard the ruckus and dialed 9-1-1? Barring that, Henry will be home shortly and he’ll call them himself. If the police find you like this, your actions won’t look good.”

“You let me worry about that.”

“You don’t think your actions are extreme?”

“Are you seriously going to set there and argue mercy for this guy?”

“No.”

“Then shut your pie hole and let me get on with it.”

She looked down at Ned, her expression almost affectionate. “You know what I love best about my queen-size self, Ned? Turns out I can squash you like a bug.”

She rapped her knuckles on the top of his head. “You still with us? You don’t have to say nothing, but if you could move one finger, then I’ll know you’re still on board.”

She studied his right hand first and then checked his left. “There you go. Good boy. He moved his pinkie,” she remarked in an aside to me. Then to him, she said, “I want to make sure you’re awake for this because I have one final word of advice. You don’t never want to mess with women, son. They will take you down.”