T. Parker - Summer Of Fear

"Holding up, and proud to be yours. Do you hurt?"

"My head doesn't. Just my throat, where the tube was, and my wrist, where the IV is."

"Do you realize what you're doing?"

She smiled slowly, a smile limited by swelling and drugs. "I'm talking without stuttering. Dr. Nesson is proud of me."

"You've made him look good."

"I'm already lobbying heavily to go home. He said tomorrow maybe, or the next day."

"Baby, that would be great."

The room was a dreary affair with a view of Interstate 5, Anaheim Stadium, and a six-plex movie dome. But it was ours, and it was private. The nurses arranged Izzy, took vitals, got the IV pump working right, gave her a dinner menu to order from, and were gone.

"Isabella, I'm so happy to see you."

"I'm so glad you're here. How was your night?"

"Interesting."

She gazed at me from beneath the gauze turban, with eyes that I am sure-for a moment at least-were assessing the impact of her gift, offered through Amber Mae Wilson.

"I hope it was interesting in a good way, love."

"The nights I look forward to are ones with you."

"I'm so lucky."

"No, you're not. But I am."

"You look tired, Russ. Everyone here is talking about the Midnight Eye. The nurses are scared to go home, so they're w-w-working overtime."

"They're getting closer to him, Izzy. I think they'll have him soon. The whole county seems paralyzed."

I told her a little about the last two days, but what could I really say that wouldn't depress and frighten her even more? I avoided the essentials of Grace, Martin, and Wald and told her instead about the manhunt for the Midnight Eye, and as much as I thought she wanted to hear about our plan to bait him with the article. The article itself, I read in the afternoon edition of the Journal while the nurses helped Izzy to the bathroom. Beside it was the computer-aided picture of beardless Billy.

Already, I could see Izzy's concentration waning, the deep exhaustion showing forth from her lovely eyes.

She smiled dreamily, closed her eyes, and squeezed my hand. "Nap time."

As I released her hand and set it on her chest, I saw the blue bruising that the IV needle made, the tape that kept it the little loop of clear tubing that would fill with blood if directional flow was interrupted. How vicious and factual, way the steel of the needle disappeared into her living flesh-pure insult, pure affront, pure invasion.

Soon she was snoring, her face retreating into the turban, her chubby cheeks relaxed and pink, her mouth just slightly open, revealing the whiteness of her teeth.

I closed my eyes and felt my heart beating in my chest. Remain, I thought: Isabella, remain. My head dipped, righted itself. I got up from my chair, shut the door to her room, then removed the seizure pads and lowered the railing on the left side of her bed.

I climbed in and worked my way up next to her. She did not stir. I reached back and raised the railing to give me something to rest against-hospital beds are made for only one. I placed my head beside hers, my nose up close to the clinical gauze. I worked my hand under her hand, not disturbing tubing and needle. I slept.

Later, from the lobby, I made three phone calls. The first was to Wald, who confirmed that Parish would be at Amber's sometime after eleven. The second was to Amber, who confirmed her willingness to participate in this trap. The anger in her voice was palpable. Last, I called Martin Parish-my second to him since the disastrous meeting.

"You were right," he said. "He's been working at the phone company under the name of Stuart Bland. Mr. Bland apparently did not show up for work after his break. The son of a bitch saw us. And I'll swear on my mother's grave that Wald told me he'd covered them."

"I believe you. Now it's your turn to believe me."

"What I'll believe, Monroe, is the truth," he said. "You need to deliver."

"I'll do that."

I hung up, then I drove down to Mission San Juan Capistrano, where Isabella and I were married those few short years ago. I yearned for the proximity of the old adobe, the talismanic power of the crucifix and candles, the ancient whiff of miracle. I yearned for a joyful memory.

But the mission was closed for repair. I stood outside the tall adobe wall and read the sign. I walked around to the north end of the grounds and sat against that wall in the shade of a pepper tree. The noise I heard coming from the other side could have been Father Serra's Juanenos building the original structure, if not for the occasional buzz of an electric saw. As I sat there, I tried to imagine what might happen at Amber's house in just a few hours, if Martin stayed true to his own nature, and Wald to his. I felt possessed of a certain clarity of intention, however. I felt possessed, too, of a certain violence.

Grace was not at home when I arrived, as I suspected she would not be. She had left a note saying she was going to visit a friend tonight and would be back late. Some friend, I thought, and saw again in my mind's eye her image on the TV monitor in the home of Erik Wald.

At eight that night, the Midnight Eye called. "You've made a terrible mistake," he said. "I am not William Fredrick Ing."

"Then there's no problem."

"Oh, there will be quite a problem, R-r-russell. And it will belong to you and those pigs at the department."

I said nothing.

"The flatfoots finally caught up with me. Brilliant, don't you think, to be creating my own phone lines?"

"It was brilliant. Where are you now?"

"Sh-sh-sh-sh. Out of a job, obviously. But I'm not worried. I have savings. I'm prepared. It was funny, watching Parish and his men pour into the phone company building at break time. I was outside eating a sandwich. Maybe I'll have my last paycheck mailed to me. You lied, Russell, about the intercept. I truly thought I could trust you."

"I was overridden."

"By Winters and Parish, right? They're the law-and-order types. You and Wald held out for the more… subtle idea keeping me talking longer."

"We're talking now."

"Well, time is short. Just know that the next time you hear from me, you can take full responsibility for the lives that have been crushed out. To call me an overweight epileptic something you will regret. I am not Ing. I am the Midnight Eye.”

He hung up abruptly. I dialed the intercept number at department and got Carfax. "It was an L.A. County number-the airport. Winters is pleading our case right now."

Los Angeles International Airport, I thought. Had we run him off?

Just before I left to pick up Amber, I went into my study and opened the right-bottom drawer of my desk to get the Gold Cup Colt. 45, I consider my finest sidearm. It was gone.

After a moment's surprise, I realized why, and smile myself.

I packed the Smith instead, a. 357 with a four-inch barrel, which I fitted into a regulation shoulder holster. It was heavy, bulky, and obvious, but I didn't care. Then I slipped a speed loader into the pocket of my coat and the videotape I'd taken from Wald's bedroom in the other. Armed with a gun and a snippet of the truth, I turned on the porch lights, locked the door behind me, and got into my car.

At nine o'clock, I picked up Amber at a posh hotel on the Laguna coast. She was wearing a white cotton dress, with a wide red belt and red pumps. She looked like the sacrificial lamb that we intended her to play. In the lobby, she took my arm and we proceeded across the marble floor like lovers going out for a night on the town. All eyes followed us-or rather, Amber-and even under so strained a circumstance, I could feel emanating from her the enjoyment, the sense of entitlement, that she derived from the position she had earned at center stage.

"You look nice," I said, content with understatement.