The two sat down over tea, and talked. Ron was in his teens when Maxi was married to Jack, and he would drop in on his mom
now and then—Carlotta would chuckle that usually the reason he graced her with an after-school visit was to borrow money against
his allowance. When Ronald was around, you couldn’t miss the enormous pride she had in her only child. “Mrs.
Nathanson,” she’d call, “come see how much Ronnie’s grown in the last couple of months,” and Ron would turn shades of crimson
and be uncomfortably polite until he could manage to escape out the door, leaving Carlotta and Maxi laughing. Now he was red-eyed,
and Maxi ached for him. She walked him to his room, turned down his bed, plumped up the pillows, and gave him a hug, feeling
a need to mother him, for Carlotta.
With a heavy heart she went into her study, booted up the computer, and logged in to the Basys system in the Channel Six newsroom.
She had research to do for an interview she had scheduled in the morning. Minutes into it, she was distracted by a noise outside.
She turned and cocked her head. Probably Yukon, who had bolted out of the room a few minutes before. Yukon had the run of
the house, and no conception of grace when he lumbered across floors and down hallways. She figured he’d heard something that
she couldn’t hear, one of the night sounds that so intrigued her about L.A. canyon living.
“Yukon!” she called, trying to smoke him out. “Come here, Yuke!” He came bounding into the study. She gave him a rub behind
both ears and turned back to her work, the dog settling down on the rug beside her.
Again she heard a noise. Beverly Glen canyon was populated with raccoon, deer, coyotes, and other animals that would wander
down from the high ground at night looking for scraps to eat. Or maybe Ronald was rustling about in his room and needed something.
“Is that you, Ron?” she called. No answer. “Ronald Ricco!” she shouted louder. Silence. He was probably asleep.
She returned to tapping out questions for her interview, when Yukon let out a growl and leaped to his feet, pointing foursquare
toward the door.
Maxi whirled, and gasped in horror. In the doorway was a spectral figure dressed entirely in black, in some kind of macabre
getup of flowing robes and capes, with a black hood that covered
the entire face except for the eyes, which Maxi could see were staring fixedly at her.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her heart pounding wildly. “How did you get in here?”
The figure didn’t answer, didn’t move. Maxi felt tentacles of fear churning her stomach and raising bile in her throat. The
doors and windows were closed and locked, the alarm was set, and all accessible means of entry were wired into the system.
She flashed on Richard Winningham’s warning: “Are you sure you have adequate security?” The eerie, terrifying figure didn’t
stir.
She turned back to her computer keyboard and pressed four characters that connected her to the newsroom assignment desk. Martin
Reese, an alert, aggressive newsman, was heading up the desk tonight, she knew. She tapped out a message that would trigger
a beep and scroll across the top of his computer screen, along with her personal ID code to indicate where the message originated
from:
MAX
*
P
:
SEND POLICE MY HOUSE ASAP
—
INTRUDER INSIDE
She turned again to the figure, who now had two black-gloved hands extended toward her, holding a cross—
the
cross, Maxi realized, stunned—the
Black Sabbat
cross from the auction of Jack’s effects, the one she had shown on the news, the one Meg Davis had purchased and had with
her yesterday afternoon when they talked at the beach. Held this way, it looked lethal. My
God,
Maxi thought,
is this what killed Carlotta?
“Meg?” she said to the figure. “Meg Davis, is that you? Meg, will you talk to me?” she attempted again, knowing in her heart
that whoever was under those ghoulish robes was most likely beyond reasoning with. Looming in the only doorway to the room,
the phantomlike figure blocked all escape.
A beep sounded from her computer. She glanced at the terminal.
Martin Reese’s ID code flashed at the top of her screen, followed by a one-word message:
MAR
*
R
:
DONE
Thank God. Reese had been canny enough not to call her on the phone, lest it trigger a response from the intruder.
The figure had begun some sort of unearthly chant now, its voice raspy and guttural and muffled by the hooded mask, indistinguishable
as male or female. At the outlandish sounds, Yukon let out a growl. Maxi reached down and grabbed his collar.
Slowly, the figure, still intoning the dirge, raised the cross on high. The gesture caused its robes to lift somewhat, and
Maxi saw black running shoes; they looked like Reeboks. She remained rooted to her chair, nearly frozen with fear, thinking
about Carlotta, praying for the strength to bolt and run if she saw a chance, still hoping to talk this maniac into backing
off.
“Meg,” she said as calmly as she could, “I can help you with Gia—” The chanting grew louder, as if to drown out her pleadings,
and though the voice was muffled, Maxi recognized the same drivel that Meg Davis had raved into her tape recorder yesterday,
phrases about the black art… spells and divination….
Suddenly the figure took a deliberate step toward her, and with that, Yukon broke from Maxi’s hold and charged at it, lunging
fiercely with the force of his hundred-plus pounds. The hooded creature emitted a howl and stabbed at the dog with the cross,
landing several gashes to his throat that sent the animal staggering to the floor, yowling in pain.
Maxi let out a scream and rushed for her dog, just as Ron Ricco came bounding down the stairs waving a baseball bat. The specter
spun and flew out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door. Ron rushed to Maxi, who was kneeling in a pool of blood
beside her dog, using her sweatshirt to stanch the flow pouring from the animal’s neck and head.
A car screeched to a stop out front and two uniformed police officers sprinted in through the open front door. “Maxi Poole?”
one of them shouted, as they skidded around the corner into the study where Maxi was ministering to her mutilated dog. Ron
was standing over them, still gripping the baseball bat.
“What the hell’s going on here?” one of the cops barked, while the other one wrenched the bat away from Ricco and pinned his
arms behind his back. Maxi protested that Ron was innocent, and blurted the gist of the story, pointing out the door where
the intruder had fled. As the two officers ran out in pursuit, one of them flung back, “Don’t go anywhere; we’ll be back.”
“Ron,” she cried, “you have to take Yukon to the emergency vet for me, please, right away.”
“Of course.” He gently hefted the dog’s bulk away from Maxi. “He’s alive,” he said. “Quick, Maxi, where do I go?”
She got up and pounced on her computer, dripping blood across the carpet. She called up her Rolodex program and typed in VETERINARIANS,
then cursored to a name with the notation
twenty-four hour emergency service
beside it. Quickly, she pressed the PRINT key, the printer clacked out the file, and she ripped it off and handed it to Ron.
He’d grown up in L.A.; he knew the streets.
“It’s on Robertson,” she said, “just south of Beverly. I’ll call and tell them you’re coming.” Maxi ran to get some sheets,
and they wrapped Yukon, who was shivering and letting out low whines, obviously in shock. Ron carried Yukon to his rental
car and settled him on the front passenger seat so he could hold on to him with one hand, to brace the dog and to comfort
him.
“Go
inside and lock the door, Maxi, and don’t open it unless you’re sure it’s the cops,” he called, as he backed out and headed
south to the animal hospital.
Lock the door,
Maxi echoed to herself as she sprinted back inside the house. It was locked, bolted, and alarmed before, and that hadn’t
done a damn bit of good! She was shaking uncontrollably
as she secured the door behind her and rearmed the alarm system. She sat in her living room and wept aloud.
What kind of monster is this who can walk through locked doors?
she asked herself, oblivious that she was smearing the white upholstery with blood.
In minutes the police returned; they’d found no sign of the bizarre creature Maxi had described. Still whimpering, she led
them into her study to recount the macabre events that had taken place there. When they were satisfied, Maxi told them she
was going to the vet’s to be with her dog, and she gave them the address. Crime-lab technicians would be out here in the morning,
they informed her, looking for evidence in daylight, most specifically for footprints from a pair of black Reeboks.
“I feel sure,” Maxi reiterated to the officers, “that it was the actress Meg Davis.”
T
his is glorious.” Sally Shine beamed at her husband. It was Monday night, a bracing, early fall evening at Santa Monica beach,
and they were enjoying soft-shelled crabs, the specialty of the house at the Ivy at the Shore.
She was surprised at how relaxed she felt, how she had laughed tonight for the first time in so long, and most of all, how
good it was to be with her husband again. She and Alex had been living apart for five months, and having focused intently
and exclusively on Meggie all that while, Sally had numbed herself to such feelings, forgotten how much she’d missed him.
When Alex had called and suggested dinner she’d demurred, concerned that the evening would be another emotional minefield,
but he’d persisted—he needed to see her, he said, for no other reason than he missed her. “No questions, no plans, no talking
about what’s going on or what we should do,” he promised. “Let’s just get together, go to a great restaurant, have a terrific
dinner, and enjoy each other—what do you say?” She couldn’t resist.
And he was being faithful to his word. They kept the chat impersonal. They discussed George W. and the economy. They
talked about books, movies, theater, their Lakers—the incredible Shaq and Kobe show.
Sally smiled at her husband.
“What?” he asked, savoring her joy.
“I was just thinking… that I’d like you to make love to me tonight.”
He laughed. “Are you asking for cheap sex?”
“With what we’ve been through, I’d say we’ve paid a high price for it.”
“Uh-uh-uh-uh!” he said, raising his hands to stop her. “Nothing heavy—those are the rules, remember?”
Bless this man,
she thought; I
really do love him.
“Let’s have more nights like this, shall we?”
“Absolutely. And let’s
do
make love tonight,” he whispered, taking both her hands in his. “Please.”
They left the restaurant and walked hand in hand along the shoreline in silence, high on the heady salt air, and on each other.
This night was a revelation that there was life to be lived, Sally thought, and she wanted to live it. He was right to insist
that they not discuss any future plans tonight. And it made her want to discuss future plans.
Driving back into town, listening to one of Alex’s old Neil Young tapes, inhaling his familiar Aramis fragrance, looking up
at his strong profile from the safe haven of his shoulder, she allowed herself to be wrapped in the delicious anticipation
of love-making with this wonderful man, her husband.
They pulled into the parking garage beneath her apartment building, taking no special note of the police squad car parked
out front. On the elevator ride up to the nineteenth floor, Alex turned her to face him, drew her into his arms, and kissed
her tenderly, until the doors opened at their stop. They walked arm in arm down the hall, and rounded the corner to see two
uniformed LAPD officers standing in front of the door to her apartment.
As they approached, one of the policemen presented credentials. “I’m Officer Bob Brown, and this is Officer Juan Salinas,”
he said. “Is this the residence of Margaret Davidson, also known as Meg Davis?”
“Why… yes,” Sally said tremulously. “I’m her mother. Has something happened to her?” She gripped Alex’s arm.
“Where is she, ma’am?” the officer questioned. His partner was talking on a cell phone.
“She’s out for the evening, I’m not sure where. Why?”
“May we come in, Mrs. Davidson?”
“This is Mrs.
Shine,”
Alex put in. “I’m her husband, Dr. Alexander Shine.” He took Sally’s key out of her trembling hand and opened the door. The
four filed into the living room.
“Now,” he said confronting the officers, “what is this about?”
“Your daughter is wanted for questioning in connection with an assault with a deadly weapon,” Brown told them. “My partner
is alerting Sheriff’s Homicide that you’re home now, and they’ll be sending personnel here with a search warrant.”
“What
assault? What are you talking about?” Sally begged.
“I have to ask you both to stay in this room,” Brown said, “in the presence of my partner or myself.”
“Just a minute,” Alex retorted. “It sounds like we need an attorney—”
“You won’t need an attorney for yourselves, Dr. Shine,” the officer answered. “This doesn’t involve you.”
“Then why the order not to leave the room?”
“To ensure that nothing is moved, Doctor.”
“What would we move? For God’s sake, what are you looking for?” Sally asked. “Just tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”
“Shhh, darling.” Alex put a restraining arm on her, coaxing her onto one of the sofas and settling down beside her.
Salinas folded his cell phone and put it in his pocket. “It’ll be about ten minutes,” he notified his partner. And to Sally,
“Do you know what time your daughter will be home, ma’am?”
“No,” she whispered. The gravity of the situation had suddenly hit her.
In the silence that followed, the four of them heard a key turn in the lock, the front door open, and footsteps in the hall;
then Meg appeared in the wide-arched doorway to the living room. She looked frail and ethereal in the half-light, dressed
in a loose-fitting, pale yellow cotton dress that seemed scant protection against the chilly autumn night, and clutching a
straw tote bag in both her arms. For a few seconds, her mother, her stepfather, and the two policemen stared at her as though
they were seeing a ghost.