Jonathan Nasaw - The Boys from Santa Cruz

“Any parent would have done the same,” the professor replied. “We tried caring for him at home, but…” He glanced over at his wife, who shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Let’s just say it didn’t work out. And if you’ve ever seen the facilities the state of California provides, Agent Pender, you’d understand why we made the choices we did.” Choices, he went on to explain, that included heavily mortgaging their home, then renting it out, furnished, to help pay the bills from Meadows Road.

“But you must understand, we don’t regret any of the sacrifices we made for Charlie,” Helwidge added, in a barely audible voice. “In a way, it’s a comfort, knowing that we did everything we could for him. And now that Charlie is finally at peace…” Overcome with emotion, she slumped sideways against her husband, took his hand, and pressed it movingly against her cheek.

“What Helwidge was going to say is, she and I will be moving back into our house on the first of June,” Gerald concluded brusquely. “And now it’s getting rather late, so if you don’t mind, can we please get this over with as quickly as possible?”

“Of course,” said Pender, setting down his cup and saucer. “Could I speak to you alone?”

“I don’t think-”

“Please.”

Gerald took his wife’s cup and saucer from her and returned them to the tray along with his own. He patted her knee and started to rise, but she seized his hand again and would not relinquish it. “No, I want to hear,” she told Pender. “Whatever you have to say to my husband, you can say in front of me.”

Pender leaned forward. “There is every reason to believe that your son was not killed at Meadows Road,” he said gently. “We have some very convincing evidence that he escaped with another inmate after the fire. We believe he’s still at large, but highly delusional, and I’m sorry to say, very dangerous.” He gave it a moment to sink in before adding, “So if Charles should happen to show up here, I beg you, for your own safety as well as his and everybody else’s, please call 911.”

Helwidge turned to her husband. “What does he mean, Gerry? Is he saying that Charlie’s…alive? He’s alive?”

Judging by the strained, distracted smile Gerald gave his wife, the irony of their situation had not escaped him. “Apparently,” he said, patting his wife’s hand.

“I’m so…happy,” Helwidge managed to say, the color blanching from her cheeks. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she toppled sideways off the sofa onto the shag-carpeted floor before her husband could catch her.

It had never occurred to Asmador that there were libraries with telephone directories in almost every town in America. The library in Marshall City was the one he’d used before, so regardless of the danger, that’s where he’d headed after checking out of the trailer court early Saturday morning.

Asmador had reached the library at 3:45P.M., just before closing time, and headed immediately for the shelves of yellow-and-black telephone books in the back of the main room. After striking out in the Humboldt County directory, the last known address of his next intended victim, he’d been in the process of going through the directories in alphabetical order when the reference librarian called to him from her nearby desk. “Excuse me, sir?”

He’d turned, remembering at the last second to smile at the lady. Humans respond well to smiles, he was learning. “Who, me?”

Yeah, him. She couldn’t help noticing…wondered whether he was aware…internet…happy to be of assistance…

“If it’s not too much trouble.” He’d graced her with another smile, and given her the name of the old friend he was trying to locate. She’d tapped a few keys…waited…waited…waited… and there it was. She’d jotted down the number on an index card and handed it across the desk.

“Great, thanks,” he’d said, as the overhead lights winked off and on twice, signaling five minutes to closing. “Do you know where that area code is?”

“No, but I can…” Her fingers had played lightly across the keys again. “That’s Mendocino County.”

“Far out.” Asmador had thanked her again, with all the warmth he could summon, then added sincerely, “I sure wish I’d’ve known about this Internet thing earlier-imagine all the time and trouble I could have saved.”

When he’d returned to the car, though, Sammael had been waiting for him in the backseat, and the Poison Angel had not been a happy councilor. “What do you think’s going to happen when you finish carrying out your mission and that librarian sees your victim’s name in the newspaper? You think she’s not going to remember you, and give the cops your description? Then the next thing you know, there’s one of those, what do they call them, composite sketches of your ugly puss on the front page of every newspaper and the wall of every police station in the country.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do.”

“I will.”

“You’d better.” With a wink, Sammael had vanished again.

Asmador had sighed. Just try and get the last word in with a demon, he’d told himself, opening the glove compartment and taking out the pistol he’d been using to eliminate ancillary problems on the order of caddies and housemaids. A few minutes later, the reference librarian, a wide-hipped female in a frilly-bosomed white blouse, a taut gray skirt, and sensible heels, had emerged from the library, accompanied by an older, bespectacled female librarian pushing a book cart. Asmador had slouched down behind the wheel as the women opened the back of the book drop at the curb, transferred the books to the cart, and wrestled it back inside.

After double-checking to make sure he had a round chambered, Asmador had dropped the pistol into the left inside pocket of his stiff new denim jacket. Leaving the car unlocked in case he needed to make a quick getaway, he’d strolled back to the library entrance and rapped on the automatic glass door, now locked. A few seconds later, he’d seen the reference librarian crossing the darkened room toward the door, shading her eyes to peer through the glass.

“Hi, it’s me,” Asmador had called, waving cheerfully.

Coming closer, she’d recognized him, and smiled apologetically. “We’re closed.”

He’d cupped a hand to his ear to indicate he couldn’t hear, then silently mouthed, “I think I left something” and pointed to the back of the library.

The ruse had worked. Convinced the door was preventing them from hearing each other, the woman had opened it. “What is it, I’ll get it for you.”

“That’s okay, I’ll get it.” Asmador had brushed past her into the dark quiet room. The older woman had been behind the desk, using what looked like a laser gun to check in the books from the outside bin. Asmador had drawn his gun and pointed it at the first librarian. “Is there anybody else here?”

Her eyes had widened, going all soft and round with fear. “No. I mean, yes, there’s-”

He’d put a bullet through the center of her chest, but for some reason it hadn’t dropped her right away. She’d just stood there for a few seconds with a red stain blossoming across the white bosom of her blouse. When she’d finally crumpled, Asmador had strolled over to the checkout desk and leaned across the counter. The other librarian had been on her hands and knees, scuttling toward the telephone at the other end of the desk. Her long gray hair, he’d noticed, was done up in a thick braid coiled into a bun at the back of her head, which had made a tempting bull’s-eye.

But the library was, after all, in the middle of a small city, so instead of risking a second shot, Asmador had vaulted over the counter, grabbed her by the ankles, and yanked her away from the telephone.