As he stumbled out into the alley, a black retriever regarded him casually. Then it sniffed a garbage bin and lifted a hind leg.
Merton walked swiftly to Walter's car.
"I knew you'd be back," Walter said.
"Give me a hand."
Walter took the shotgun case out of Merton's grip. "Where do you want it?"
"On the couch."
Merton dropped the box of ammunition next to the case and sat down. He put three of the Sierra High School yearbooks next to him. The fourth, he placed on his lap.
It was his latest yearbook, and his last. It covered 1990. He riffled through its pages until he found the individual photos of the senior class.
So many familiar faces. Dumb, slow-smiling faces. Cruel faces. Smirky faces. Bored faces. Faces so lovely they made him ache.
There was Doug Hawkins, the emaciated, red-nosed boy who wrote him notes bleating of unrequited love. Biff Krasner, the class tough guy who hungered for pain. Jerry Miller, who thought he was straight and never let Merton close to him. And that damned Andy Tarver. Andy the Flit. The bitch who wanted it so badly, then panicked and snitched and ended it all.
Well, he'd fixed Andy pretty good. Pretty damned good.
Ripping pages to the center of the yearbook, he found the group photo of the varsity football squad. The players all stood in full uniform, but didn't wear their helmets. Each held his helmet against his side, tucked under one arm like the head of the Headless Horseman.
Merton drew his forefinger across each row, carefully studying the faces.
Wrong year.
He picked up the 1989 Log and turned directly to the football picture.
Fierce eyes scowled out at him from a boy standing next to the coach.
The same eyes glared at him from an individual shot lower on the page. There, a helmet hid his dark crew-cut. The boy was scowling toward the camera, crouched and ready to charge. The print beneath the photo read, "Bass Paxton, Team Captain."
"Get me your phone book," Merton said.
Walter, standing motionless at the end of the couch, nodded and moved away. He returned a few moments later with the directory. Merton took it from him, fingered through its pages, then drew his forefinger slowly down a column of "P" listings.
"Paxton, Bass," he read aloud.
"He's the one?"
"That's him." Merton smiled. "He's gonna die tonight."
Chapter Twelve
The Call
Pac took the call from Birkus. "This is Deputy Hodges," she said. "What've you got for us?"
"We've finished up with Alison Parkington."
"Good. What turned up?"
"I think we picked up a few interesting items. Cause of death was drowning. Her head was severed post-mortem. Also, there's evidence of sexual activity. That also took place post-mortem."
"That's about how we figured it."
"Our boy's a charmer."
"Anything else?"
"He has A-positive blood. He's a secreter. We typed him from semen we picked up with a vaginal swab. We also got some interesting combings from the pubic area. The victim's hair was blond, but we found a few strands of black mixed in. It's possible that they came from our suspect."
"What about her husband?" Pac asked.
"We did a little checking. He has brown hair."
"So our man has black hair and A-positive blood."
"That's how it looks. If you get a suspect, we can pin him down with a DNA analysis."
"Right. Was there anything else?"
"That's about it. We'll send over a written report, of course."
"Thank you very much."
"Pleasure's mine."
Chapter Thirteen
Indian Point
Rusty didn't hurry. He drove at normal speed to the Indian Point turn-off, made the left rum, and took his time steering up the twisty, narrow road. At the top, he drove across the paved parking area toward the low stone parapet in front of the cliff. He passed five parked vehicles: two camper vans, a Jeep, a Toyota and a gray Chevy pick-up truck. The Chevy's license plate was the one he'd seen at the Sweet Meadow roadhead. Trink's mother had been right.
He saw half a dozen people. Three of them, a father and his sons, were taking turns viewing Silver Lake through a pay telescope. A pair of lovers stood facing the lake, arms around each other's shoulders. A lone man sat on the parapet, facing the parking lot as he bit into a sandwich. Trink and Bill were nowhere to be seen.
Rusty parked beside their pick-up and climbed out of his patrol car. He looked into the bed of the truck. No Trink, no Bill, only a couple of filthy, rumpled blankets. He glanced at his wristwatch.
Pac should be getting here pretty soon, but she might not arrive for another five or ten minutes.
"You're Sheriff Hodges," said the man with the sandwich. The wind off the lake blew his white hair forward. He fingered a few strands out of the corner of his mouth and kept on chewing. "Voted for you."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
"Tough but fair, that's how I like 'em. Up here on a case?"
"That's right." He stepped over to the man and shook his hand.
"I'm Voss. Harry Voss."
"Good to meet you, Harry."
"Same here. You like it up here?"
"As long as I don't get too close to that ledge. A mighty long way down to the lake."
"Did you know the Washoes used to fling their chiefs off the cliff here?"
"I hope they were dead first."
"Oh, yes." The old man laughed. "I reckon they were dead, all right. Know how come they'd get the old heave-ho?"
"Not off hand. If I ever heard, I've forgotten."
"Water's a thousand feet deep right off the point here. Over a thousand feet deep. Know how cold it gets down there?"
"Pretty cold, I imagine."
"Awful cold. Down in the thirties. Near freezing. A hundred years, those old chiefs are as fresh as the day they died. That's sure something, huh?"
"Sure is," Rusty said.
"And they stay down there, too. Never come up. Never. Being an officer of the law, you can probably figure out how come that is."
"Right. If they aren't decomposing, there's no gas build-up. No gas in the bodies, they stay down."
"You nailed it right on the button there, Sheriff. Glad I voted for you."
"Now I have a question for you, Harry. If the chiefs never come up to the surface, how are you so sure they've stayed so fresh and nice?"
"Oh, now and again one of 'em washes up. Changes in the current, mostly."
"That hasn't happened recently, has it?"
"Last I recall it happening was some thirty years back. That would've been around sixty-seven, sixty-eight, around that time. Sure had the sheriff going. That was Sheriff Rawls, back then. He thought sure he had a homicide on his hands. You eat yet? I've got another sandwich here." He flicked a finger against the top of a grocery bag resting between his feet. "Turkey, lettuce, and mayo on Wonder Bread."
"Thanks, Harry, but I'll have to turn you down on that. I just finished my lunch."
"Suit yourself. More for me. Can't get enough of that Wonder Bread. Must be the softest bread they've ever made, don't you think so?"
"It's nice and soft," Rusty said.
"Stays that way, too. Stays that way a long time. Nice and fresh, like those chiefs they threw in the lake. Know what I think, Sheriff? When my time comes, I wouldn't mind going off the edge here. Suppose I might get that arranged?"
Rusty thought about the lake's strict pollution controls, but decided not to mention them. "You might check with some of the mortuaries about something like that."
"I might do that, Sheriff. Yes, I just might. Or I might just get some of my buddies to give me the old heave-ho in the middle of the night. I don't suppose anybody'd likely catch them at it. Nobody up here at night except a few sweethearts, and they pretty much got their hands full, if you catch my drift."
"Speaking of which . . . Did you happen to notice the people who belong to that pick-up over there?"
"Nope. It was already here when I showed up."
At the sound of an engine, Rusty looked toward the entrance of the parking area. A patrol car appeared. "Well, that must be my deputy. Good talking to you, Harry."
"Same here, Sheriff. You take care, now."
"You, too." As Rusty turned away from the older man, Pac climbed out of the car. The wind parted her blond hair. She looked into the wind, squinting, and took a deep breath. Then she waved at Rusty. He went to her.
"You find our witnesses?" she asked.
"I found their truck." He pointed at the gray Chevy. "The kids must be down on the trails somewhere. Maybe they hiked down to the lake."
"We going after them?"
"It's either that or stake out the truck. But there's no telling how long we might have to wait."
"I wouldn't mind a little hike."
"Well, go and grab your baton."
While Pac went for her night stick, Rusty opened the hood of the pick-up. He took off the distributor cap, reached down and removed the rotor. With the rotor in his pocket, he shut the hood.
He met Pac on the walkway near the telescope. The man with the kids had gone away. The lovers were walking slowly, holding hands, their heads close together. Harry Voss, still sitting on the low parapet, bit into his second sandwich as he watched a diving gull.
"We found the saw," Pac said as they walked toward the main footpath.
"A hacksaw?"
"That's right. No fingerprints, but lots of blood. O-negative, same as the victim."
"Did the saw look new?"
"Very new. It looks as if it'd never been used before. Jack's ringing up all the hardware stores in the area."
"Fine. What about the autopsy? Did Birkus call in before you left?"
"He called. Mrs. Parkington died by drowning, just like we figured."
"Anything on the killer?"
"Maybe. Either the killer, or whoever last had sex with her. Might not be the same person."
"Might not be, but probably is."
"Well, it looks like a male with black hair. And he's A-positive. They typed him by his semen."
"Anything else from the autopsy?"
"That's about it."
"Anything more from Bass and Faye?"
Pac shook her head. "Nothing new came up in their statements. They didn't get a make on anyone in the mug shots, either."
"Well, maybe my friends Bill and Trink can give us something."
"How'll we find them?" Pac asked.
"Stoned, more than likely."
Grinning, she poked the head of her night stick against Rusty's side.
"No way to treat your boss," he grumbled, smiling. "Or your father-in-law."
The trail, wide and well marked, led downward from the south end of the parking lot at a steep angle with many switchbacks. It never came close to the sheer face of Indian Point. Though the squeals of gulls were a constant reminder of the lake's presence, nothing was visible except pine forest.
Each step touched off an ache in Rusty, but he tried not to let his discomfort show.
"What now?" Pac asked when they reached the trail sign at the bottom.
The trail on the right would take them to the Silver Lake Picnic Grounds, while the trail on the left led to the cove. The picnic grounds were a quarter of a mile away; the cove was a mile.
"Let's try the picnic area first," Rusty suggested.
"You don't want to split up?"
"I don't think so. That Trink's a real mean little bitch." He grinned. "She might hurt you."
"Not like she hurt you."
He grinned at Pac. "You mean it ain't true what they all say about you?"
"What do you think?"
Rusty suddenly found himself blushing. "I think this'd be a fine time to change the subject."
After a few minutes of brisk walking, they reached the picnic area. The lakeside clearing looked deserted except for a squirrel sitting upright on one of the green tables, gnawing something it held in its forepaws.
As they crossed the clearing, the squirrel stopped eating. It sat motionless, alert, looking away as if it didn't want them to realize they'd been spotted.
Just ahead of them, the ground dropped off sharply. They walked toward the slope. After a few strides, they found themselves looking down at a woman.
She was on her back, hands folded under her head, her bare feet only inches from the lapping water of the lake. Sunglasses hid her eyes. She wore a white bikini. Her skin was glossy with oil and had a smooth, mellow tan.
She reminded Rusty of Ursula Andress in the first James Bond movie, Dr. No.
"Think she's asleep?" Pac whispered.
"Might be."
"Should we . . . ?"
"Wake me?" Smiling, the woman twisted her head awkwardly and looked up at them. "May I help you?" she asked.
"I'm Sheriff Hodges. This is Deputy Hodges. We're . . ."
"A lovely couple," the woman said.
Again, Rusty blushed. "She's my daughter-in-law," he said, and felt embarrassed about explaining.
"You have a very fortunate son," she said. Then she introduced herself. "I'm Amanda Lane."
"Nice to meet you, Miss Lane," Rusty asked. "We're down here looking for a couple of teenagers who may have witnessed a crime we're investigating. A boy and a girl, both about seventeen."
"What do they look like?" Amanda asked.
"Pin cushions," Rusty said.
Amanda laughed softly. "Actually," she said, "I haven't seen anybody at all. Only the two of you."
"Okay," Rusty said. "Well, thank you. Have a good day, now."
"I'm having an excellent day, thank you."
With a final look at Amanda's tanned, sleek body, Rusty turned around.
"That was a surprise," Pac said as they walked away from the slope.
"A pleasant surprise."
"Don't forget you're married, Pop."
He looked at her, surprised she'd called him Pop. He couldn't recall Pac ever calling him that before. It was a term used mostly by Harney, and sometimes by Millie. Unlike "Dad," it carried a hint of playful derision.
This time, too.
"Kid," he said, "I never forget I'm married."
"Glad to hear it."
Chapter Fourteen
Nightmares