T. Parker: Summer Of Fear

Isabella slept most of the time. Our conversations were short; the trauma of what had happened overtook her often and without warning. We sat on the deck and looked at the canyon. Isabella was happy to see Our Lady-the formation of the supine woman with the lights of the city showing up from her middle-and even laughed when Black Death perched on a power pole and turned his unbecoming pink head our way.

Izzy ate heartily the meals prepared by Dee, who turned out to be a very good cook. Dee would never join us at the table, however; she took her meals in the guest room and left Izzy and me all the privacy we needed. But when it was time for Izzy's bath or nap or medication, Dee took over with a quiet proprietary air and dismissed me with a shy smile. It was obvious that Dee was investing more in Isabella than the simple reality of X hours for Y dollars. Isabella was hers, if only for week, and Dee was not about to let one bit of her concern go unapplied.

During the first day following the arrests of Wald and Grace Martin, Parish kept me informed by phone of the status of the questioning. After nearly a full day of separate, high-pressure, relentless interrogation, Martin's entire team of detectives had gotten nothing from Grace or Wald except slightly elaborate versions of what Wald had told me that night at Amber's: that he had followed Grace there and together they had found Alice body. They were both professing innocence and extreme outrage at what was being done to them.

With almost twenty-four hours having passed since the detention, only twenty-four more remained before either charges were brought or Grace and Erik were released. I was astonished to find Parish actually considering that possibility. An unsteadness had crept into his voice as that first day lingered on without results, and by late that night he was openly doubtful that either Grace or Wald would contradict each other, much less confess, I asked him for the tenth time to let me see her.

"No. We need to do more than just place them there he said. "They've rehearsed the story well. No chinks, yet. I ' m trying to pry Grace away, let her believe he's selling her out. No go. They anticipated that. I managed two search warrants for the weapon, but we both know they won't find it. I got the judge to give us the porno stuff and any clothing that will match up with the fibers Chet has in the lab."

"Those fibers could just as well be from our clothes, Martin."

"Yeah. I may have a trump card in that box of evidence I collected myself. Chain of custody is going to be a problem. Winters is uh… fairly furious with some of my… activities. I'll keep you posted."

"Let me see Grace."

"Not while this is going on. It just wouldn't be a good idea."

"She might talk to me."

"For the first time in her life? She's acting more like she'd spit in your face."

"Time is short, Martin."

He considered for a moment. "Tomorrow afternoon, if we haven't made any progress."

"What did the airlines tell you on the Eye?"

"He traveled Continental under the name of Mike Eis. Tall guy, smooth-shaven, scars on his face. Cash only."

"And?"

"The trail went stone-cold at JFK."

By noon the next day, Parish had made no progress at all with Grace and Wald. Peter Haight was feverishly trying to build charges against Wald for statutory rape, and one against Grace for breaking and entering, but these were thin shadows of the actual events that had occurred at their hands, and we all knew that shortly after midnight we would either have to spring them or charge them on shaky evidence. Chet Singer was doing legitimate workups on Martin's bootlegged evidence.

Parish let me into the interrogation room at slightly aft 3:00 p.m. Grace was dressed in her street clothes still, and she was not handcuffed. Parish and two lumpish deputies waited outside the closed door, watching, I knew, through the window that to us inside was nothing more than a mirror.

Grace looked exhausted and offered me little more than expression of tired recognition.

"Russell."

"Hi, Grace."

"Have you come to ask about my last meal?"

"It's not that bad."

She said nothing. She remained seated, hands on her lap and her long legs crossed beneath the table. She looked at the mirror, gave whoever was watching a little wave, then sighing deeply and rested her arms on the table in front of her.

"I'm tired."

"They working you over pretty good?"

She nodded. "It's just the hours. They can sleep and work in shifts. I have to sit here and look at my ex-stepfather's cowlike face. Sorry, Marty," she called toward the mirror. "It's a cute face, too. I mean, I always liked cows. I got some cow napkin holders at home. Somewhere."

"How long were you and Wald together?"

"I was thirteen when he was seeing Mom. It started then. You know, I've told them all about that. I might not have been a consenting adult, but I was consenting. I grew up fast. So what?" She yawned.

"Did it start as a way to get back at Amber?"

Grace nodded.

"Who hatched the idea of getting rid of her?"

"We never had that idea, Russell. That's what I've been saying for a day and a half now."

I sighed myself then, partly out of frustration, partly out knowledge of the pain that I was certainly causing my girl. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Make them let me go."

"They think you killed Alice. They're not going to let you go until you tell them what really went down."

"In that case, Russell, what on earth could you do for me?"

"I've been thinking about that."

"And?"

"Could I just offer some thoughts?"

"Offer away."

"It seems to me that the hatred you felt for your mother was… well founded. There were bad times, lots of misunderstanding, jealousy, competition. Amber admits as much."

"Large of her."

"And what I think happened was that Erik manipulated you with that. Did you know they found the netsuke you and Amber fought over so long, in Erik's house? They also found some phone records that establish communication with the two men who burned your feet. Amber didn't hire them. Wald did. It took him years to feed your fears but only a few months to twist your mind to the point where you were scared enough to commit a murder. He used you, girl."

She looked at me rather blankly then, and I fully realized the despair of her heart and the fatigue of her body. "I actually loved him."

"I understand that. Some things about Erik can be loved."

"You're not so dumb, after all."

"It doesn't take a genius to see a girl can fall in love with a guy. Handsome. Smart. Mommy's castoff."

"Gad," she said quietly. "Love."

"Yeah."

She breathed deeply and leveled her beautiful eyes on me. I wanted only one thing more than to put my arms around her, and that one thing was to hear her acknowledge the truth

"You know, the first time we talked about it… it was kind of a joke. A perfect-crime fantasy. It was fun to… speculate. But then when Mom started getting the men after me and threatening me, it all of a sudden started sounding reasonable. It kind of takes you over. Like, if you talk about something enough, plan it enough, you pretty much have to go through with it some point. It… gets real. And I was so afraid."

Oh, how I understood the insane logic of that statement! Had I passed it down to Grace through my genes, this compulsion to make the imagination real, to act upon thoughts so that thoughts became acts? Was there perhaps in Grace, as myself, some weakness of the faculties dividing impulse from action?

"I know. Can I tell you a true story?"

"Sure, Russ."

"About three weeks after Izzy was diagnosed, I got real drunk and went out to the hillside with my revolver. I wasn’t sure why. I sat down and looked down at the house, the light of the city. I prayed to God that He'd make the nightmare stop, that He'd cradle Isabella in His healing arms. I offered Him my soul instead. Then I emptied all the cartridges but one from the cylinder, closed it and spun it and put it to my head. If He let me live, it was my sign that He was with us. If not, it was simple trading of one life for another. A stupid idea, right? But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made, and the more actual that gun became. I had gone that far, and I had to follow through. At the last second, I lowered the gun, pointed it at the hillside, and pulled the trigger. My hand jerked and the sound blasted into my ears. I had my answer then, at least to my own satisfaction: Go home, get sober, take care of your wife, and don't fuck with the Lord anymore. That's as deep as my faith ever got. I didn't even think another prayer until that night we went out swimming in the ocean."