The Listening Walls (19 page)

“How can you be sure?”

“He would never have said the things he did if any­one else had been there. Especially Amy.”

So the bastard made love to her, some degree of love.
Dodd found himself wondering, too hard, what degree of love. “Thank you, Miss Burton. I realize how difficult it was for you to tell . . .”

“Don't thank me. Just please leave me alone.”

“Are you going home?”

“Yes.”

“I'll drive you. My car's just down the street.”

“No. No thanks. There's a bus due in five minutes.”

So she even knows the bus schedule,
Dodd thought.
That means she's made a lot of trips to these parts, too many.
“Well, at least let me walk you to the corner.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

“All right. Go by yourself. Good night.”

Neither of them moved.

He said brusquely, “Hurry up or you'll miss your bus.”

“I wish I knew what side, whose side, you were on in this business.”

“I was hired to find Amy. Kellogg's various extracur­ricular activities, like murder, theft, adultery, don't interest me except to the extent that they might lead me to Amy. Dead or alive. So you might say I'm on nobody's side. I could be on yours, but you don't want to play it that way.”

“No.”

“That suits me. I work better as a free agent anyway.” He turned to leave. “Good night.”

“Wait. Just a minute. Mr. Dodd, you can't—you can't really believe Rupert did all those things.”

“I can. I'm only sorry you can't.”

“I have—
faith
in him.”

“Yeah. Well. That's that, isn't it?”

He wondered how long her faith would last after she'd had a talk with the police.

They were waiting for him at Kellogg's house, a ser­geant whom he didn't recognize, and Inspector Ravick whom he did. Only a few hours before, the place had been, except for the dead man in the kitchen, very or­derly and well-kept. Now it was a shambles; the furni­ture had been disarranged, cigarette butts and used flash bulbs were scattered on the floors, rugs were caked with mud, and everything in the kitchen, walls and woodwork, stove, refrigerator, sink, taps, chairs, bore the black smudges of fingerprint powder.

“I see you've been making yourself at home, Inspec­tor,” Dodd said. “Is this your version of gracious living?”

A scowl crossed Ravick's broad, pock-marked face. “O.K., Weisenheim, where the hell have you been?”

“The name's Dodd. Only my best friends call me Weis­enheim.”

“I asked you a question.”

“Well, I'm thinking of an answer.”

“Make it good. Start talking.”

Dodd started talking. He had a lot to say.

18.

For fifty miles
the road had been winding tortuously along the cliffs above the sea. In places the cliffs were so high that the sea was invisible and unheard. In other places they were low enough for Rupert to see the foam of the breakers in the light of the quarter-moon.

The little dog had begun to whimper in the back seat. Rupert spoke to him soothingly and quietly. He said nothing to his companion. They had not spoken since Carmel, and they were now passing through the Big Sur, where the redwoods stood in massive silence, dis­owning the wild wind and the reckless sea.

She was not asleep, although her eyes were closed and her head rested against the door. He thought, not for the first time,
what if the door should fly open on a curve, what if she fell out? That would be the end of it all. I could drive on by myself. .
. . But he knew it wouldn't be the end, the end wasn't even in sight. He reached across her suddenly and locked the door she was leaning against.

She shrank back as if he'd aimed a blow at her head. “Why did you do that?”

“So you won't fall out.”
So I won't be tempted to push you out.

“Is it much farther?”

“We're not even halfway.”

She muttered some words that he didn't understand; they might have been a prayer or a curse. Then, “I feel sick.”

“Take a pill.”

“All these curves, they make my stomach feel bad. There must be another road, one that is straight and smooth.”

“The better roads have more cars on them. You'd feel a hell of a lot sicker if you heard a siren behind you.”

“The police are not watching for this car. They don't know Joe had a car. Maybe they even don't know who he is. I took his wallet out of his pocket. That will make it harder for them.” But she didn't sound very sure of it, and after a time she added, “What will we do when we get there?”

“Leave that to me.”

“You promised to look after me.”

“I'll look after you.”

“I don't like the way you say that. Why can't we make plans, right now, right here? There is nothing else to do.”

“Watch the scenery.”

“We could start deciding what . . .”

“The deciding's done. The plans are made. You're go­ing back.”

“Back? Not—all the way back?”

“You'll take up exactly where you left off. Tell every­one you've been away on a little vacation and now you want to resume your ordinary manner of living. Act nat­ural and don't talk too much. And remember, this isn't advice I'm giving you, it's an order.”

“I am not forced to obey. I have money. I can disap­pear, I can get lost in the city.”

“Nothing would please me more, but it won't work.”

“You mean you will not let it work,” she said bitterly. “You will tell.”

“I'll tell. Everything I know. That's a promise.”

“You don't care what happens to me, do you?”

“Not a hoot in hell. If you went up in smoke I'd just open the windows and air the car out.”

“You are—you are a very changed man.”

“Murder changes people.”

Even above the noise of the engine he could hear the sharp intake of her breath. He turned to look at her, wishing it were for the last time. She was tugging at the red silk scarf she wore on her head as if it constricted her, prevented her from getting enough air.

He said, “Leave it on.”

“Why?”

“Your hair's rather noticeable. To say the least. Keep it hidden until you can get to a beauty parlor and have it changed.”

“I don't want it changed. I like it this way. I have al­ways wanted to be . . .”

“Keep the scarf on.”

She retied the scarf under her chin, muttering to her­self and shaking her head. He thought,
she's frightened enough to take orders. That's one good sign, the only good one, she's frightened.

For half an hour they had not met or passed another car, or seen a dwelling or any sign of human occupancy. It was as if the last people to have passed that way were the builders of the road, and that had been, Rupert judged from its condition, a long time ago. Parts of it had melted in the rain as if the concrete had been mixed with sugar.
Sugar road,
he thought grimly.
If I have a future, if I live to come this way again, that will always be its name.

At the next bend a faint glow was visible between the massive trees, like a light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. He knew she had seen it too. She began again to com­plain of her stomach and her head.

“I feel sick. I want a glass of water.”

“We haven't any.”

“There's a light up ahead. Perhaps it is a store. You could buy some aspirin for my head and get some water.”

“It would be dangerous to stop.”

“I tell you, I can't go on. I feel so sick, I feel like dy­ing.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Oh, you are a monster, a fiend...” The rest of the epithets were lost in a series of deep, dry retches.

He said, “Stop play acting.”

She kept on retching, her body bent double, her hands against her mouth.

The glow between the trees became a neon sign iden­tifying a group of log cabins and a dilapidated coffee shop at the Twin Trees Lodge,
reas. rates, vacancy
.

Rupert pulled off the road and braked the car. Most of the cabins were dark but lights were on in the coffee shop and a man was sitting behind the counter reading a paperback book. Either he hadn't heard the car or he was at an interesting part of the book, because he didn't look up.

In the back seat the little dog began to yelp with ex­citement at the forest smells and the sound of a creek running behind the cabins. Rupert told the dog to be quiet and the woman to get out of the car. Neither of them obeyed.

“You wanted to stop,” he said. “All right, we stopped. Now hurry up and buy a cup of coffee or whatever you want, and we'll be on our way.”

He reached across her and opened the door and she half fell out of the car, at the same time making a sud­den grab for her purse. The quick, cool gesture was a tip-off that her retching hadn't been genuine. It was part of an act, though he still didn't understand its purpose. For nearly a month now she had been acting a role, speaking lines not her own, in a voice and idiom not her own. She seemed almost to have forgotten who and what she was. On only one occasion had she stepped out of the role back into herself and that was when she stood in the kitchen talking to O'Donnell.
“I'm going away”
O'Donnell had said.
“No hard feelings, eh? Don't worry, I won't talk, I don't want trouble. Just give me the money to get home again. . . .”

Money. The key word. He watched her as she crossed the parking lot to the coffee shop clutching her purse to her breast like a little golden monster of a baby.

He waited until she sat down at the counter before he got out of the car and closed the door as quietly as pos­sible behind him. South of the coffee shop were the rest rooms and a public telephone booth. He headed for the booth, taking the long way around to stay out of the light of the neon sign. He knew that if he had been the one who had insisted on stopping she would have been sus­picious and not let him out of her sight or hearing. As it was, she had forced the issue and so she was suspicious of nothing. She sat drinking her coffee and munching a doughnut, with the purse on the counter in front of her, where she could see it and touch it at all times.

He entered the telephone booth, put a coin in the slot and dialed long distance. It was getting late and the rush hours were over. The call went through immediately.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Dodd?”

“Speaking.”

“You don't know me personally, Mr. Dodd, but I have a proposition you might be interested in.”

“Clean?”

“Clean enough. I know you're looking for Amy Kel­logg.”

“So?”

“I can tell you where she is. In return for certain serv­ices.”

The man behind the counter had reheated the coffee on a little butane burner. “A bit of a warm-up, ma'am?”

She looked blank. “I beg your pardon?”

“That's my way of saying, how would you like another cup of coffee without paying for it?”

“Thank you.”

He poured more coffee for her and some for himself. “Going far?”

“We are just traveling around seeing the country.”

“Gypsying, eh? I like gypsying myself.”

The word stung her ears. It meant wandering, home­less, poverty-stricken people who would steal anything. She said sharply, one hand on her purse, “We are not gypsies. Do I look like a gypsy?”

“Heck, no, I didn't mean that. I meant, like for in­stance you pick up and leave and you don't know where you're going.”

“I know where I'm going.”

“Sure. All right. Just making conversation anyway. Business is slow, not many folks around to talk to.”

She realized she had made a mistake being sharp to him, he would remember her more vividly. She tried to make amends by smiling at him pleasantly. “What is the next city?”

“Highway 1 ain't long on cities. It's for scenery, finest scenery in the world. Lemme see, San Luis Obispo I guess you'd say is the next real city. When you get there you're on 101, that's the main highway.”

“Is it far?”

“A good piece. If it was me, now, I'd cut across to Paso Robles from Cambria, you get to 101 faster that way.”

“Is there a bus that goes by here?”

“Not often.”

“But there
is
one?”

“Sure. I've been trying to arrange with the company to use my place as a lunch stop, only they say it ain't big enough and the service ain't quick enough. There's just me and the wife to handle everything.”

“How many doughnuts do you have left?”

“Six, seven.”

“I'll take them all.”

“Sure. That'll be fifty-two cents all together with the coffee.”

She opened her purse under the counter so that he couldn't see how much money she had. She wasn't sure herself, but it looked like a great deal, enough to make her free of Rupert.
If I could get away from him, if I could hide in the woods . . . I'm not afraid of the dark, only of the dark with him in it. . . .

Him.
It was a curse, an epithet, a dirty word.

He was sitting behind the wheel of the car when she came out of the coffee shop. She had changed to flat-heeled shoes for comfort during the trip, and she moved with leisurely grace, not the way she moved in the city, wobbling and lurching along like a little girl wearing her mother's high heels for the first time.

Instead of coming toward the car she turned right. He thought she was going to the rest room and he settled down to wait. The clock on the dashboard clicked away the minutes as if they were merry ones. Five. Seven. Ten. At eleven, he cranked down the window of the car and called her name, as loudly as he could without attract­ing the attention of the man behind the counter. There was no answer.

The little dog began whimpering again, as if he real­ized, before Rupert did, what was happening and how to deal with it. Rupert opened the car door and the dog leaped across the back of the seat and out into the night. He circled the parking lot, nose to the ground, lifting his head at intervals to yelp in Rupert's direction. Then he turned suddenly and streaked off toward the rear of the cabins where the creek splashed down the hill to the sea.

Both the dog and the object of his chase were covered by darkness. Rupert didn't call out to either of them. He simply began following the sound of the dog's now fran­tic barking, walking silently among the vast trees, the noise of his footsteps muffled by layers of dense, damp redwood needles. He didn't hurry, he needed time for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and he knew the dog wouldn't stop chasing her as long as she kept running. If he had had a free choice, he would have whistled the dog to heel, put him in the car, and driven on, leaving her to wander in the woods by herself until she dropped of exhaustion. But he had no choice. She was his hope as well as his despair.

She had reached the creek and was about to cross when he caught up with her. The dog was running up and down in front of her, just out of reach of the kicks she was aiming at his head. His tail was wagging and his barking sounded more mischievous than angry, as if he thought this was a new game she was playing, throwing her foot at him instead of a tennis ball.

As Rupert approached, she began to scream strange curses at him: he was a pig, his mother was a sow, his father had horns, the little dog belonged to the devil.