William Bayer: Blind Side

"Find a phone. Call an ambulance."

I shook my head.

"Please," she begged. She was trembling and her eyes were clouding up with pain.

"Going to watch me die, that what you want to do?" She looked over at Darling's attache case, then smiled knowingly.

"The money. You did it for the money. Sure."

"I never gave a shit about the money, Kim."

She tried to laugh at that, but she was too weak and could only smile. "You really were going to kill me after we made love," I said.

She nodded.

"You got me first. Didn't think you had the balls for a move like that." She swallowed hard. I could hear the blood gurgling in her throat.

"I always underestimated you."

She looked at me curiously then, as if she were seeing me for the first time. Then another wave of pain swept across her face.

"Finish me off. Please, Geoffrey."

"No more bullets," I lied.

"My gun. In my purse in the car." I didn't move, just watched her.

"Please, Geof. Please. It hurts so bad."

I knew it hurt, but I wasn't going to shoot her again. Instead I let my gun-camera drop, picked up my working Leica and focused in on her eyes. She didn't turn away, stared straight at my lens. She looked truly evil then, like a dying reptile. Maybe this time, I thought, I'll get her right. I took her picture. Afterwards I picked up Darling's attached case.

"Please," she whimpered, "stay with me. Don't leave me alone."

I didn't stay with her. When I left she was still alive. the sun was sinking, and there wasn't anything I could do for her, no purpose I could serve. Walking to the car, I saw a pair of vultures, black forms circling slowly against the darkening sky. When I reached the car, I turned for a final look. The sun was gone. I couldn't see Kim; she was lost in the shadows cast by the set.

I looked up. Four more vultures were perched on the roof line of the movie-set facade. That old rattlesnake will finish her off, I thought. And then those ugly birds will have their dinner. She and Darling will be white bones in a couple of weeks.

The night I killed Kim, I drove down to Mai's house in Galisteo, then phoned my room at the motel. Grace picked up. I told her I'd executed Kim, was going to give the money to Mai, and that if she ever bothered me or Frank's family again, I'd kill her too. Then I ordered her out of Santa Fe. There was a pause after I said all that, as if she was thinking out a reply. But she didn't say anything, just breathed into the phone for a while. Then she hung up. Which was just as well, I thought.

The following morning Frank's body was found. The police speculated he'd been shot by a robber. There were no fingerprints or clues of any kind. Anyone with information was urged to contact the authorities.

Two days later there was an article in the Santa Fe Register, a small item near the bottom of the second page. The well-known New York architect Arnold Darling had checked into the Rancho Encantado several days before. His luggage and clothes were still in his casita, but he had disappeared. Again: anyone with knowledge, etc.

Darling's disappearance was worth a mention, but things like that had happened before. It seemed that people often choose New Mexico as a jumping-off point when they decide to disappear or change their lives.

After Frank's burial, I stayed on with Mai for several weeks. She was a strong woman even in her mourning. Every day she went out to her studio behind the house, put on her welder's mask and worked on her sculpture.

Jude and the girls took Frank's death hard, so I spent a t of time with them.

Two weeks after the killings I bought a sturdy shovel and a pair of rubber gloves. Then I drove back out to that rotting movie set.

Kim's and Darling's faces had been pretty much pecked away, but the bodies lay just where I had left them. I put on the gloves, tied on a bandanna to cover my nose, then stripped the clothes and jewelry off them both. I dug a pit and buried them together. Then I burned their clothes, and scrubbed out the rental car just in case any of Darling's blood had gotten on the seats.

When I thought it was about time to go back to New York, I had Mai drive me out there again to pick up the Volvo. I followed her back, and, when we got to the house, I presented her with Darling's money.

I had counted it, of course, and was surprised to find there was only a hundred thousand dollars in the attache case. Evidently Darling had thought he could bargain us down to 10 percent. He had no idea of the kind of vipers he was dealing with.

At first, when I told Mai it was Frank's share of our venture, she was hesitant about accepting it. She still refused when I told her it was "reparations," but she finally accepted when I persuaded her that she had to ensure the children's educations.

A week after I got back to New York, Sal Scotto came by my loft. We talked for a while. He told me he and Ramos were about to give up on the Cheryl Devereux case.

"Funny thing," he said, "this Mrs. Z you sent us to-evening of the day we talked to her, her place caught fire with her inside. Fire investigators think it was arson. My guess is it was self-immolation. She had some kind of weird cult thing going down there. Must have been what the killings were about."

"What about the Duquaynes?" I asked.

"Did you ever talk to them?"

"Tried, but they wouldn't talk. Had these fancy lawyers warn us off. If we'd had something on them we would have hauled them in. But all we had was your hearsay."

So-all the killings explained themselves, and none appeared to be connected. Rakoubian "jumped" and Mrs. Z "self-immolated," and Darling "disappeared" in New Mexico. Frank Cordero was killed by "a party unknown," and as for an obscure actress named "Kimberly Yates," no one missed her, because no one knew who she really was.

"I'll tell you something," Scotto said to me.

"The first time we met I told Dave Ramos afterwards: 'This guy's in over his head." I think I was right. Except you got out clean." He looked hard at me.

"Least you say you did. . ., . "

He asked me if I'd be willing to swear out an affidavit stating everything I knew about the case. I told him I didn't much feel like swearing out anything, at least not until I consulted with a lawyer.

"Figures." He nodded. "I always knew you knew more than you told me. Wanna know my opinion, I think you were up to your ears in it. Maybe even a member of the cult. But like I said, you seem to have got out clean." He looked hard at me. "Funny. You're different now. Can't quite put my finger on how. Like you're more clearheaded. Focused, directed. Like you know what you want out of life. You were pretty weird before."

"Hey, Sal-I told you everything."

"Forget it, Geoffrey. Nobody gives a shit. Cheryl Devereux, a.k.a. Shadow, victim of a torture slaying-little splash in the media that's all that was. I can't even find anyone who's heard of this Sonya you told me about. Girls like that, they disappear all the time. Which doesn't mean I'm giving up. Figure they'll pull Dave off in a couple of weeks. But not me. I'll ask to stay on it for a while. I need the free time. Some personal stuff I've been wanting to do. Being a lone detective on a dead-end case like that-you can spend your time pretty much the way you want."

So Sal and I made an agreement-I wouldn't tell anyone he was goofing off, and he'd keep his suspicions of me to himself. It worked out pretty well for both of us.

Gave me the peace of mind I needed to get back into the game.

I sold my view cameras to Aaron Greene. Once I was nd of them I felt relieved. I decided to give up fine-art holography and go back to photojournalism. p I phoned Jim Lynch to give him the news.

"Hey! Great, Geof! Now how about Beirut?"