Bad Desire (15 page)

The next intersection—where Mercantile Street crossed Concepción—was the one Faith wanted. It led to City Hall half a block away, but she found herself mired at the end of a line of traffic so stationary that she sat through the light, twice. Unwilling to wait any longer, Faith pulled to the right around the car in front of her, rolling slowly forward, threading into the gap between the line of traffic and the cars parked at the curb.

Through the open car windows beside her, Faith heard their radios—one after another, discordant voices but all part of the same fragmented stream:

“… neighbors discovered the body …”

“… for years a teacher at Uriah Elementary …”

“… a brutal attack of such savagery …”

“… Sheila Bonner, seventeen, lone surviving member …”

“… president emeritus of the Garden Club …”

“… still at large … urged to stay at home and lock their doors …”

Oh, Rachel, she thought. Rachel, Rachel.

She reached the corner and saw immediately what had caused the backup. The street was cordoned off. A patrolman, directing traffic, motioned for her to stop. “Lady,” he said, “where d'you think you're going? You can't go in there.”

“But I've got to,” Faith told him. “I'm Mrs. Henry Slater, the mayor's wife. It's extremely important that I see him.”

The patrolman eyed her, quickly. “I thought you looked familiar,” he said. “Mrs. Slater, you won't find a place to park in the lot. You could park there on the corner, but you'll have to walk it.”

“That's all right,” she told him. “I have to.”

The patrolman waved her past. Faith parked where he had indicated, on the corner near a yellow line. She turned the engine off and saw the tumult spread out before her. Halfway down Mercantile, in front of City Hall, television vans and crews clogged the street. Up and down the sidewalks, crowds collected and split apart in roaming, murmuring pockets. She could almost feel their fear.

Wasting no time, Faith rolled up her windows, got out of the car and locked the driver's door. Throwing her purse onto her shoulder, she hurried down the sidewalk, dodging through the crowds, skirting the larger gatherings of people, moving out into the street and around parked cars.

Outside the True Value store, a young housewife clutched a tray of potted geraniums and spoke into a reporter's microphone. “It scares everybody,” Faith heard her say. “She was a very highly thought of person …”

In front of Delray's department store, a large throng spilled across the sidewalk into the street, completely surrounding the window display of television sets, watching and listening to a news update by way of the outdoor loudspeaker: “Mrs. Buchanan is survived by a granddaughter, Sheila Bonner, seventeen. Although Miss Bonner is in seclusion and could not be reached for comment, others in this exclusive community of fifty-nine thousand are less restrained …”

From the loudspeaker, Faith heard a noise that sounded like a Teletype, and the crowd quieted. A newsman was saying, “We go now live to …” and instantaneously, Henry's face appeared duplicated many times over on the stacked display of monitors. But after the first glimpse, Faith couldn't see him. The crowd had closed ranks in front of her. She stepped off the curb.

Patrolmen manned the yellow barricades around City Hall. The first policeman she approached recognized her right away. “Of course, Mrs. Slater,” he said, drawing the barrier aside, letting her through. Faith ran up the shallow flight of steps and crossed the open civic plaza, where cables and power lines crisscrossed the inlaid tile like tentacles. Television crews moved in and out of the emergency doors. “What's going on?” she asked one of the electricians.

“Press conference,” said the man. “We've been live now for about five minutes.”

“Where's it being held?” she asked, but he had gone toward the remote van. Faith pushed through the revolving glass doors, into the milling crowd that occupied the lobby. Following the heavy cables, she made her way toward the main floor conference room. When she reached the entryway, she caught the attention of the security guard, Radley.

“Is that where Mr. Slater is?” she shouted above the bedlam.

He nodded.

“Which way will he be coming out?”

Radley pointed toward the end of the corridor, where a few of the city council members stood at the back door.

“Please let me in,” she said, going around those men who knew her. “Excuse me,” she whispered. “Hello, Emery. I'm sorry, excuse me,” weaving past their sweat-streaked shirts, hardly aware of their greetings, so focused was she on getting to Henry.

Resounding through the public-address system, she heard her husband's deep, forceful voice. “These convicts must be caught. These brutal murders must be stopped before more innocent blood is spilled.”

Flashbulbs went off; the air itself seemed to quake. The theaterlike room was brilliant with klieg lights. Faith felt as if she had rushed into a white-hot sun. The ranks of cameramen and reporters were impassable, but she could see over their shoulders if she rose on tiptoe.

Standing side by side at a podium, accompanied by an older uniformed state policeman, she saw Henry and Burris Reeves. Unflinchingly, Henry faced the barrage of light. “Only minutes ago,” he continued, “the Rio Del Palmos city council met in executive session. By a unanimous vote, we are offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of each of these deranged killers of Rachel Buchanan.”

Again the chatter of cameras and flashbulbs. Burris Reeves stood jotting in his small notebook, sometimes staring at a point on the floor. In all this chaos, he was its still, grim center.

Slater waited for the noise to die down.

“We invite and we will accept any private funding that increases this reward. But let it be known”—he shook his fist angrily and still again the room exploded with flashing bulbs—“I say, let it be known that this city government will not rest until these three murderers are captured and rightfully brought to trial—according to the sacred laws of this state.”

The iron-hard forcefulness of his voice sent a shudder of relief through Faith. He was her ballast when the world was trembling beneath her. Questions rang through the air, shouts merged into confusion, but he didn't respond. After a moment, Slater motioned for quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes my remarks this morning. Rio Del Palmos Police Chief Burris Reeves, the officer in charge of this morning's investigation, has prepared a brief statement regarding Rachel Buchanan's murder. With your kind indulgence, he will entertain your questions at the conclusion of his remarks. Thank you. Chief Reeves.”

From the alcove at the side of the room, Faith watched Henry relinquish the microphone and step back toward the long conference table—while Burris Reeves unfolded his reading glasses and took the podium. Henry's back was turned toward her when he quickly drank half a glass of water, his legs slightly apart, his left hand plunged into his trouser pocket. Even in the midst of turmoil, he looked powerful, entirely in charge of the proceedings. Faith felt a tremendous peace of mind now that she was here, able to see him and to know firsthand what was actually being done to find Rachel's killers.

Reeves said: “At approximately seven
A.M.
this morning, we were called to the residence of one Rachel S. Buchanan, age sixty-eight, at 522 Canyon Valley Drive. An ambulance from St. Mary's Hospital preceded our arrival by a few minutes and Mrs. Buchanan was pronounced dead at the scene. The body had been discovered by neighbors. She was the victim of a violent attack, apparently during the commission of a thwarted burglary. She had been struck repeatedly with a single knife, which we have recovered, although the exact cause of death has yet to be officially determined. We are assisted in this investigation by the California Highway Patrol, namely Lieutenant Detective Nolan Ellis, who you see now standing to my right, and by the crime lab facilities and personnel in neighboring Santa Barbara.”

He removed his glasses to wipe the sweat from his brow and put them back on. “There are a number of things I could point to,” he continued, “but our first overriding opinion is that this unfortunate woman happened to be in the wrong place at the worst possible time. Further, it is our immediate impression that Mrs. Buchanan was apparently the latest homicide victim of escaped killers William Buckram Taylor and his companions, the brothers Ned and Bobby Rice.”

A reporter yelled, “Does that mean you think these killers are still here—in Rio Del Palmos?”

“It's a possibility,” Reeves said.

“Possibility? Or probability?” came a shout from another area of the room.

“It's possible—if they follow their usual pattern. We're advising people who call our headquarters to stay at home and take the usual precautions.”

Faith listened as Reeves summarily described Rachel as a highly independent woman, who lived quietly with her granddaughter, Sheila Bonner, seventeen. He emphasized that the girl was emerging from a “state of shock” brought on by the killing and that Bonner, while never an actual suspect, had been completely cleared of any suspicion. He pointed out that Buchanan and her granddaughter were known to be “very, very close.”

Then, he called Ellis to the microphones, introducing him as a twenty-eight-year police veteran. Ellis said, “As you know, these three escaped killers are convicted felons, with criminal and institutional records. They are considered extremely dangerous, now with nine alleged murders credited to this current crime spree.”

Someone shouted, “What progress have you made in their capture?”

Ellis scowled into the audience. “Let's just say,” he said, “we're not optimistic. We're dealing with a highly volatile, unpredictable element here.”

Reeves clasped Ellis's shoulder, conferred with him a moment, and bent to the microphones. “That's all we have at this time. Thank you.” The questions continued but the briefing was over. As Reeves and Ellis exited through the alcove, Slater shook their hands and then Faith was beside him. “I'm glad you came down,” he said, taking her arm while they headed down the corridor. The security guard removed the rope; two patrolmen escorted them through the crowd, toward the elevators.

Someone thrust a microphone at Faith. “Give us your comments, Mrs. Slater.”

“It's a tragedy,” she said, feeling herself jostled forward. “Rachel Buchanan was the last of her kind; someone fine and rare is gone …” Moments later, as they entered the elevator, she wondered if she had even partially communicated her own sense of loss.

The pneumatic doors closed, sealing them in an unquiet hush. No one spoke. Maybe it was because she was next to him, but for the first time, Faith noticed how electric with tension Henry was. He let go of her arm and began to pace back and forth in the small confines of the compartment. She said to him, “Darling, calm down. The worst is over now.”

He seemed to look beyond her when he said, “I hope you're right.”

The elevator slowly rose. Only one of the patrolmen remained with them; in silence, with Henry pacing restlessly, they rode to the sixth floor. Again they were besieged by reporters.

“Don't you guys ever get enough?” Slater asked them, waving them aside. “I've got nothing else to say.” Then turning to Faith, he said, “Go on in. I'll be right there.”

His office reflected the morning's confusion—leather chairs sat in disarray; dirty ashtrays and coffee cups, some half full, had been left on the occasional tables.

Running the back of her hand across her damp forehead, Faith thought about tidying it up, but there wasn't time. The door to the outer office stood open, and she saw Abigail dashing about. All seven buttons on Henry's telephone were lit and blinking. Faith went into the private washroom and blotted the perspiration from her face, still trying to steady her nerves. She ran a comb through her hair, quickly touched up her makeup and went back out.

Henry was sitting behind his desk, talking quietly with Abigail, who had handed him a stack of messages. Faith went to one of the two chairs that faced his desk and sat down. While he listened to Abigail, Henry turned, picked up a note from his desk and inspected it, but there was little doubt where his attention was. “Who's screening my calls?” he asked, irritably.

“I've been screening most of them,” Abigail told him.

“Good. That's good; that's what I want you to do. What about the press release?”

She said, “It's copied and on my desk.”

“Then you know what to do. Let me get this straight: none of these calls are reporters, is that right?”

“Yes,” she said, going quickly across the room. “That's right.” She smiled a quick, businesslike hello at Faith before leaving the two of them alone.

Stripping off his suit jacket and throwing it across a chair, Henry moved behind his desk and sat down. Sweat beaded his eyebrows and he wiped it away impatiently. “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” he kept whispering over and over in disbelief. Faith watched him lean forward with his elbows on his knees, taking a moment to collect himself. He said, “You surprised me—when I saw you down there.”

“It's unbelievable,” she said. “I was so shocked; I just had to see you for a minute—to touch base. I can't get over this, Henry, I can't.”

He sank back in his chair, but then immediately got up and started to pace behind his desk. “I can't talk about this right now,” he said. “I've got to get these calls. I've got a thousand things I have to do.”

“How can I help?” she asked in an even quieter voice. “What can I do? Isn't there something I can do?”

“I don't know, Faith; I can't think of anything.” He returned to his chair, took up the telephone with his left hand and pressed the first blinking button. “This is Henry Slater,” he said.