T. Parker - Summer Of Fear

He shrugged. "Whatever Grace told you is from the mouth of one crazy babe. I've done what I can to protect her. I've done what I can do to help. Yes, I've made love to her, and she me. I admit my pure unadulterated desire for her and proudly cop to the fact that I was screwing her while you, Amber, we trying to make me grovel at your royal feet. Boy, did that feel good. I'll also admit that I taught her to be the most sensual tender woman in the world. But I give up. If she wants me take the rap for this one, then all I can say is, it's time to get good lawyer."

He stood. I took the gun. "You're saying we'll see you court, Erik?"

"Last place I plan to end up. You know, that would ruin my whole career. You can't live down a scandal like this, even when the DA throws up his hands and realizes he doesn’t have a case. But Parish and Haight? An unbeatable combination with regard to nailing your butt, Russ. You'll be in court long before my sorry ass gets there. That bastard Parish gets hold of something, he's tougher to shake than a pit bull, and he's got hold of you. He's a moron, but he's a determined one. You're holding the bag, Russell. You're the one who buried Alice Fultz in your own backyard. By the time you get Martin fangs off your balls, you'll forget what it even felt like to have a pair."

He smiled and looked at Amber. "You? Look at yourself. The world's prettiest cunt."

Amber stepped forward, then slapped Wald across the face.

He leaned with the blow, refusing to surrender his smile. "You people are below me. You can't touch me. A money-grubbing whore and a dumb ex-cop who thinks he can write. It's a wonder anything as… beautiful as Grace could have come out of you."

Amber's voice shook as she spoke. For once in my life, I sensed not one bit of acting in her. "You won't get away with any of this, Erik. For what you did to Grace. And what you did to Alice."

"You dumb bitch-I've already gotten away with it. My only real regret is that I never quite had the pleasure of smearing your brains over this carpet."

With this, Martin Parish stepped from one of the two walk-in closets that house Amber's considerable wardrobe. In one hand, he held the tape recorder, its red light still blinking, and in the other his monstrosity of a revolver, the. 44 Magnum.

"Woof, woof," he said.

Wald looked at him, then at Amber, then at me. "We all know that tape's inadmissible. That's the last thing I'll say without my lawyers. Well, second to the last. The last is, fuck all you dullards. I'm just plain better than you and I proved it. I'll marry your daughter while you rot in jail, Monroe. Parish-don't even think you can touch me. I'll grind you up like the dog meat you are. Stick with your case against Russell here. You and I can go on fighting crime together."

Parish shook his head. "Sure, Erik. We know. Until you manage all that, though, put out your hands so I can cuff you. You're about to be questioned in the death of Alice Fultz and the statutory rape of Grace Wilson. We'll make that call to your lawyer from the county building."

"Don't forget possession of stolen goods," I said.

"Namely, my automatic. If all had gone according to Erik's new plan, some beat cops would be discovering a murder-suicide here in this room, sometime tomorrow morning."

When Parish had locked Wald's hands behind his back he turned Erik around to face him and slugged him in the stomach so hard, I could hear the wind whistle from Wald's throat. Wald staggered but somehow remained erect, his martial-art training no doubt putting him in good stead. So Parish hit him again, and Erik, gasping for air, went down like a dynamited building.

"What a beautiful sight," said Amber. "Not that I could ever recall it happening."

Parish called Dispatch, summoned the two units that were waiting down the street, and gave the go-ahead for the arrest of Grace Wilson, who, as we had predicted, was waiting in Wald’s home for his triumphant return. Parish reported that the Eye had not been apprehended at LAX, in spite of massive, if somewhat belated, efforts on the part of the Sheriff's Department and Airport Authority.

Five minutes later, four large deputies took Erik away. The three of us-Amber, Parish, and I-then stood there in Amber's bedroom, where all this madness had begun. I cannot vouch for what the others were thinking, but for myself, I felt as if I was on one side of a shaky and dangerous pyramid had nearly toppled over and killed us all. And there was still little stability to it, because what remained as fact were Marty’s and my twin obsessions with this woman, our partaking in her past, our invasion of her present, and a terrible truth about Grace that we had finally begun to understand. Of lesser importance but still very much in my thoughts, was the fact that Martin and I had been so completely convinced of the other's guilt, so subtly pitted against each other by Wald. I felt that I had betrayed an honest man who was once a friend. The puzzled and uncomfortable expression that hung upon Martin's face suggested he felt the same.

About my daughter, I could only feel sickness, guilt, and remorse.

Later that night, as I lay alone in my bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, my thoughts began to drift toward Isabella, sleeping alone in her contraption-heavy bed at the hospital. I began to make a mental list of all I could do to prepare the house for her arrival. I was thankful that we had had the wheelchair lift installed when we did-loud and obnoxious as it was-because she would be needing it all the more in the coming days. I resolved to get fresh flowers for every room in the house and to wash all the windows inside and out, because sunlight was a constant delight to Isabella Monroe.

When the phone rang at 3:00 a.m., I was sure of the caller.

"You made it," I said.

"I boarded three minutes after talking to you. I was sorry to have missed all the activity. But maybe the good Los Angeles police found another nigger to beat up and the night wasn't a total waste for them."

"Where are you?"

"Sh-sh-sh-sh. Your intercept will tell you that. In a land far away. I'm done in Orange County for now. Tell your r-r- readers that. Then tell them I'll come back whenever I'm ready. It was a terrible thing you did, making them believe I am William Ing. And to have forced that pathetic Mary Ing to identify m-m- my voice. If the people had understood my mission, they would have supported me."

"I doubt it."

"You underestimate the intelligence and power of the white man and woman."

There was static on the line and a background sound suggesting hollowness and human activity. I wondered whether he was calling from an airport.

"We know who you really are," I said.

"You don't even know what I used to be," he said. "You are like street sweepers. You find the garbage only when it fall:

"What do you want?"

"How is Isabella?"

"We don't talk about Isabella. Parish took down Wald and Grace for Alice Fultz."

After a moment of silence, the Eye laughed again, that serpentine escape of breath. "I'll miss Orange County. In your article about our farewell conversation, tell all our friends and readers that the Midnight Eye will return when he is most needed. The cleansing will continue."

"I've got a message for you, too. I'm not writing any more about you. You want to talk, call someone else. You're not news here anymore, Ing. Have a nice life, and die soon."

With this, I hung up. I called Carfax.

"New York City," he said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "JFK airport."

I brought Isabella home two days later, on Monday, the twelfth of July. Through a home-health-care network, I arranged-at an affordable rate-for a live-in nurse to be with us for one week. Her name was Dee. She was a very tall, big-boned woman with the round, smooth face of an infant and huge, gentle hands. It was difficult to tell how old she was, and I did not ask. Her hair was straight and honey-colored and she wore it back in a ponytail. She must have weighed well over 180 pounds.