Swimsuit (22 page)

The bastard had called Amanda. It was another threat.

Outside the trailer, the desert was cooking in the July inferno, forcing me to wait until sundown before beginning my trek.
While I waited, Henri would be erasing his trail, assuming another identity, boarding a plane unhindered.

I no longer had any sense of security, and I wouldn’t feel safe again until “Henri Benoit” was in jail or dead. I wanted my
life back, and I was determined to get it, whatever it took.

Even if I had to put Henri down myself.

BIG GAME HUNTING

ON MY FIRST DAY back from my desert retreat with Henri, Leonard Zagami called to say he wanted to publish fast so we’d get
gonzo press coverage for breaking Henri’s first-person story before the Maui murders were solved.

I’d called Aronstein, taken a leave from the
L.A. Times,
turned my living room into a bunker and not just because of the pressure from Zagami. I felt Henri’s presence all the time,
like he was a boa constrictor with a choke hold on my rib cage, peering over my shoulder as I typed. I wanted nothing more
than to get his dirty story written and done, and get him out of my life.

Since my return, I’d been working from six in the morning until late at night, and I found transcribing the interview tapes
educational.

Listening to Henri’s voice behind a locked door, I heard inflections and pauses, comments made under his breath, that I’d
missed while sitting next to his coiled presence and wondering if I was going to make it out of Joshua Tree alive.

I’d never worked so hard or so steadily, but by the end of the second full week at my laptop, I’d finished the transcription
and also the outline for the book.

One important item was missing: the hook for the introduction, the question that would power the narrative to the end, the
question Henri hadn’t answered.
Why did he want to write this book?

The reader would want to know, and I couldn’t understand it myself. Henri was twisted in his particular way, and that included
being an actual survivor. He dodged death like it was Sunday traffic. He was smart, probably a genius, so why would he write
a tell-all confession when his own words could lead to his capture and indictment? Was it for money? Recognition? Was his
narcissism so overpowering that he’d set a trap for himself?

It was almost six on a Friday evening. I was filing the transcribed audiotapes in a shoe box when I put my hand on the exit
tape, the one with Henri’s instructions telling me how to get out of Joshua Tree Park.

I hadn’t replayed the tape because Henri’s message hadn’t seemed relevant to the work, but before I boxed it up, I dropped
tape number 31 into the recorder and rewound it to the beginning.

I realized instantly that Henri hadn’t used a fresh tape for his message. He’d recorded on the tape that was already in the
machine.

I heard my drugged and weary voice coming through the speaker, saying, “This is important, Henri.”

There was silence. I’d forgotten what I wanted to ask him. Then Henri’s voice was saying, “Finish your sentence, Ben.
What
is important?”

“Why… do you want to write this book?”

My head had dropped to the table, and I remembered hearing Henri’s voice as through a fog.

Now he was coming in loud and clear.

“Good question, Ben. If you’re half the writer I think you are, if you’re half the cop you used to be, you’ll figure out why
I want to do this book. I think you’ll be surprised.”

I was going to be
surprised?
What the hell was that supposed to mean?

A KEY TURNED in the lock, and bolts thunked open. I started, swiveled in my chair.
Henri?

But it was only Amanda coming across the threshold, hugging a grocery bag. I leapt up, took the bag, and kissed my girl, who
said, “I got the last two Cornish game hens. Yea! Also. Look. Wild rice and haricots verts —”

“You’re a peach, you know that?” I said.

“You saw the news?”

“No. What?”

“Those two girls who were found on Barbados. One of them was strangled. The other was
decapitated.
”

“What two girls?”

I hadn’t turned on the TV in a week. I didn’t know what the hell Amanda was talking about.

“The story was all over cable, not to mention the Internet. You need to come up for air, Ben.”

I followed her into the kitchen, put the groceries on the counter, and snapped on the under-cabinet TV. I tuned in to MSNBC,
where Dan Abrams was talking to the former FBI profiler John Manzi.

Manzi looked grim. He was saying, “You call it ‘serial’ when there’ve been three or more killings with an emotional cooling-off
period in between. The killer left the murder weapon in a hotel room with Sara Russo’s decapitated body. Wendy Emerson was
found in a car trunk, bound and strangled. These crimes are very reminiscent of the killings in Hawaii a month ago. Despite
the distances involved, I’d say they could be linked. I’d bet on it.”

Pictures of the two young women appeared on a split screen as Manzi talked. Russo looked to be in her late teens. Emerson
in her twenties. Both young women had big, expectant, life-sized smiles, and Henri had killed them. I was sure of it. I’d
bet on it, too.

Amanda edged past me, put the birds in the oven, banged pots around, and ran water on the veggies. I turned up the volume.

Manzi was saying, “It’s too soon to know if the killer left any DNA behind, but the absence of a
motive,
leaving the murder weapons
behind,
these form a picture of a very practiced killer. He didn’t just get started in Barbados, Dan. It’s a question of how many
people he’s killed, over how long a time, and in how many places.”

I said to Mandy over the commercial break, “I’ve been listening to Henri talk about himself for weeks. I can tell you absolutely,
he feels no remorse whatsoever. He’s happy with himself. He’s
ecstatic.
”

I told Mandy that Henri had left me a message telling me that he expected me to figure out why he was doing the book.

“He’s challenging me as a writer, and as a cop. Hey, maybe he wants to get
caught
. Does that make any sense to you?”

Mandy had been solid throughout, but she showed me how scared she was when she grabbed my hands hard and fixed me with her
eyes.

“
None
of it makes sense to me, Benjy. Not why, not what he wants, not even why he picked you to do this book. All I know is he’s
a freaking
psycho
. And he knows where we live.”

I WOKE UP in bed, my heart hammering, my T-shirt and shorts drenched with sweat.

In my dream, Henri had taken me on a tour of his killings in Barbados, talked to me while he sawed off Sara Russo’s head.
He’d held up her head by her hair, saying, “See, this is what I like, the fleeting moment between life and death,” and in
the way of dreams, Sara became Mandy.

Mandy looked at me in the dream, her blood streaming down Henri’s arm, and she said, “Ben. Call Nine-one-one.”

I threw my arm over my forehead and dried my brow.

It was an easy nightmare to interpret. I was terrified that Henri would kill Mandy. And I felt guilty about those girls in
Barbados, thinking, If I’d gone to the police, they might still be alive.

Was that dream-thinking? Or was it true?

I imagined going to the FBI now, telling them how Henri had put a gun on me, took photos of Amanda, and threatened to kill
us both.

I would have to tell them how Henri chained me to a trailer in the desert and detailed the killings of thirty people. But
were those confessions? Or bullshit?

I had no proof that anything Henri had told me was true. Just his word.

I imagined the FBI agent eyeing me skeptically, then the networks broadcasting “Henri’s” description: a white male, six feet,
160 pounds, midthirties. That would piss Henri off. And then, if he could, he’d kill us.

Did Henri really think I’d let that happen?

I stared at headlights flickering across the ceiling of the bedroom.

I remembered names of restaurants and resorts Henri had visited with Gina Prazzi. There were a number of other aliases and
details Henri hadn’t thought important but that might, if I could figure them out, unwind his whole ball of string.

Mandy turned over in her sleep, put her arm across my chest, and snuggled close to me. I wondered what
she
was dreaming. I tightened my arms around her, lightly kissed the crown of her head.

“Try not to torment yourself,” she said against my chest.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s a joke, right? You almost blew me out of bed with all your heaving and sighing.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s early. Too early, or late, for us to be up. Benjy, I don’t think obsessing is helping.”

“Oh. You think I’m obsessing?”

“Get your mind on something else. Take a break.” “Zagami wants —”

“Screw Zagami. I’ve been thinking, too, and I have an idea of my own. You won’t like it.”

I WAS PACING in front of my building with an overnight bag when Mandy roared up on her gently used Harley Sportster, a snappy-looking
bike with a red leather saddle.

I climbed on, put my hands around Mandy’s small waist, and with her long hair whipping across my face we motored to the 10
and from there to the Pacific Coast Highway, a dazzling stretch of coastal road that seems to go on forever.

To our left and below the road, breakers reared up and curled toward the beach, bringing in the surfers who dotted the waves.
It struck me that I had never surfed —
because it was too dangerous.

I hung on as Mandy switched lanes and gunned the engine. She shouted to me, “Take your shoulders down from your ears.”

Huh?

“Relax.”

It was hard to do, but I willed myself to unclench my legs and shoulders, and Mandy shouted again, “Now, make like a
dog.
”

She turned her head and stuck out her tongue, pointed her finger at me until I did it, too. The fifty-mile-an-hour wind beat
on my tongue, cracking me up, making both of us laugh so hard that our eyes watered.

I was still grinning as we blew through Malibu and crossed the Ventura County line. Minutes later, Mandy pulled the bike over
at Neptune’s Net, a seafood shack with a parking lot full of motorcycles.

A couple of guys called out, “Hey, Mandy,” as I followed her inside. We picked out two crabs from the well, and ten minutes
later we picked them up at the take-out window, steamed and cracked on paper plates with small cups of melted butter. We chased
the crabs down with Mountain Dew, then climbed aboard the Harley again.

I felt more at home on the bike this time, and finally I got it. Mandy was giving me the gift of glee. The speed and wind
were blowing the snarls out of my mind, forcing me to turn myself over to the excitement and freedom of the road.

As we traveled north, the PCH wound down to sea level, taking us through the dazzling towns of Sea Cliff, La Conchita, Rincon,
Carpinteria, Summerland, and Montecito. And then Mandy was telling me to hang on as she took the turn off the freeway onto
the Olive Mill Road exit to Santa Barbara.

I saw the signs, and then I knew where we were going — a place we had talked of spending a weekend at, but we had never found
the time.

My whole body was shaking when I dismounted the bike in front of the legendary Biltmore Hotel, with its red tiled roofs and
palm trees and high view of the sea. I took off my helmet, put my arms around my girl, and said, “Honey, when you say you
have an
idea,
you sure don’t mess around.”

She told me, “I was saving my Christmas bonus for our anniversary, but you know what I thought at four this morning?”

“Tell me.”

“No better time than now. No better place than this.”

THE HOTEL LOBBY GLOWED. I’m not one of those guys who studies the “House Beautiful” channel, but I knew luxury and comfort,
and Amanda, prancing in place beside me, filled in the details. She pointed out the Mediterranean style, the archways and
beamed ceilings, the plump sofas and logs burning in a tiled fireplace. The vast, rolling ocean below.

Then Mandy warned me — and she was serious.

“If you mention what’ s-his-name, even once, the bill goes on your credit card, not mine. Okay?”

“Deal,” I said, pulling her in for a hug.

Our room had a fireplace, and when Mandy started tossing her clothes onto the chair, I pictured us rolling around in the king-size
bed for the rest of the afternoon.

She read the look in my eyes, laughed, and said, “Oh, I see. Wait, okay? I’ve got another idea.”

I was becoming a big fan of Mandy’s ideas. She stepped into her leopard-print bikini, and I put on my trunks, and we went
out to a pool in the center of the main garden. I followed Mandy’s lead, diving in, and heard — I couldn’t quite believe it
—
music
playing underwater.

Back in our room, I untied the strings of Mandy’s swimsuit, pushed down the bikini bottoms, and she climbed up on me, her
legs around my waist. I walked her into the shower and not too many minutes later we tumbled onto the bed, where goofiness
became heart-pounding lovemaking.

Later we napped, Mandy falling asleep while lying on my chest with her knees tucked up along my sides. For the first time
in weeks, I slept deeply without my eyes flying open at some bloody nightmare.

At sundown, Mandy slipped into a small black dress and twisted up her hair, making me think of Audrey Hepburn. We took the
winding stairs down to the Bella Vista and were shown to a table near the fire. There was marble underfoot, mahogany-paneled
walls, a billion-dollar view of whitecaps below, and a glass-paned ceiling showing cobalt twilight over our heads.

I glanced at the menu, put it down when the waiter came over. Mandy ordered for us both.