Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threat’ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav’n.
—John Milton, “Paradise Lost”
That same day, Cat got word from the FBI in Chicago. Boston, Miami, New York, and San Francisco had come up dry on this guy’s MO. But Chicago, well, that was a different story.
Cat immediately decided to fly into O’Hare. Richmond disagreed. “Cat, you’re needed here. Without you who’ll oversee the forensics work, photo analysis, the evidence handling?”
“Agent Gray is well versed in FBI procedures. And anything he can’t handle, Sanchez can. From there, anything that needs further decision can be handled by me.” She lifted her cell phone in the air. “I’ll be reachable.”
“But what can you hope to gain from going to Chicago now?”
“I don’t exactly know, but I mean to find out,” she said. She was supremely cool yet anxious to be on her way. “Will you drive me to the hotel, to pack some clothes? Then the airport? I’ve got a six o’clock flight on United.” Cat cursed herself again for not renting a car yet. What kind of life was this, begging rides here and there?
“I see no reason why not.”
“Good,” she responded in a knee-jerk fashion.
“You sure Gray and McGregor can handle it? What if we get another body?”
“James is as competent a medical examiner as I have seen. You get anything major, you call me.”
Within five minutes they were in Richmond’s car, a Mercedes 500 SEL. Cat surveyed the car. “Police work must pay well.”
“Just appearances. It’s a lease. I don’t own one of these, probably never will.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I see big things in your future.” Cat knew it sounded like polite small talk, but she was telling the truth. “You’ve got a good way with the media, and your men respect you. That’s more than I can say for a lot of chiefs I’ve worked with.”
They headed toward the Hyatt, Cat tucking her black doctor’s bag firmly between her ankles. “Any aspirations of higher office?”
“To be honest with you, I haven’t thought about it since my wife’s death.”
Cat wondered if she should ask then decided on it anyway. “How did Emily die?”
He took a gulp. “She was killed at night coming back from a fundraiser in Brea. Hit by a drunk driver on Brea Canyon Road. Guy fell asleep at the wheel.” His words were shaky, quick, as if by speaking of it he relived each second. “His pickup truck crested a hill, already over the center line. Hit my Emily straight on, doing seventy-three miles an hour. She didn’t have a chance.”
“That’s horrible. I’m sorry.” It was one thing to deal with death daily, strangers’ deaths, innocuous bodies on a slab. It was another to listen to a personal account.
“She was beautiful, my Emily. Always giving of herself, even till the day she died.” His face reddened. She could see he was fighting tears.
They sat in silence till they reached the Hyatt. Cat ran in and five minutes later reappeared with an overnight bag. In the time she was gone, Richmond gathered enough strength to continue the conversation.
“What about you? You must have someone special in your life.”
Cat wondered about his intent; he probably meant nothing. “I have a son, Joey. He is six, almost seven. And an ex-husband who I’d rather not talk about.”
“No, actually we get along pretty well as far as my son is involved. It’s just that Mark isn’t part of my life. I don’t need him anymore.” Cat watched the sun setting.
“Do you need anyone?” Richmond asked.
“That’s a strange question.”
“No, it’s an honest one,” he said as they turned onto MacArthur Boulevard, left toward John Wayne Airport.
“I don’t know, Robert.” It was the first time she had called him by his first name.
Pulling up to United’s departure terminal, he asked, “Do you think you ever could?”
“I don’t know. Never thought of it.”
“Well, think of it while you’re gone, Catherine. And keep yourself safe.”
She grabbed her bags and was gone.
News of the Burning Man Task Force made the Orange County Register’s front page. He settled down with a Blue Mountain coffee in his favorite overstuffed chair.
From his Laguna Beach house overlooking the midnight blue Pacific, he could see the water outside swelling, waves growing larger and more prolific. In keeping with the island’s secluded aura, Catalina appeared to emerge naturally from its surroundings in the distance.
Night was just giving rise to day.
He opened the paper, amused to see Dr. Catherine Powers on the front page. Thinking of her was quite common to him now.
Surrounded by his white-on-white Turkish rugs, paintings by Medved, he relished this sanctuary. This house. He’d called it La Blanca, “The White,” and outfitted it in all white. He sat in the one object in the house which was any other color, a blood-red-hued chair.
It was pleasing to let Catherine into his house. The only woman, other than Maria, the maid, who had shared this space with him for the past fifteen years. He beamed as he thought of her, his eyes studying her news photo once more.
“Catherine,” he whispered to her, his words barely a purr. “Catherine, welcome to my world.” He lifted his arms. “This is my world.”
He took the front page and splayed it out on the white carpeting. “My Catherine, beautiful Catherine,” he said, eyes dancing over her photograph, taking in a three-stranded pearl choker, cobalt blue suit, pearl earrings, elegant and understated. “Like the woman herself,” he added, his voice soft, controlled.
He felt the excitement rising in him, his pulse quickening.
It was so exhilarating to share himself with this woman. Finally, after all these years. He could see her here, walking casually among his McGuire furniture, towel drying her damp auburn hair after a brisk morning shower.
A shower they would share together.
He took scissors, carefully cutting out the photograph and the article. He studied the words they had written about her: “‘We intend to catch him, pure and simple.’ That’s the quote from Dr. Catherine Powers, 38, the FBI’s chief forensic pathologist out of Quantico, Virginia. Dr. Powers will head the Burning Man Task Force from Orange County, a statewide FBI dragnet. Calls have also been put out nationwide. The task force will call for the cooperation of over 100 law enforcement agencies working in unison. Dr. Powers, a doctor of psychology, brings her special talents in forensic medicine and criminal psychology to the investigation…”
Looking at the photograph, he noticed a lock of hair was pulled behind her right ear. A nervous habit? Right-handed, no doubt. Blue suit buttoned so high around her neck. The last time he had seen her, she had been wearing a gray sweat suit. Despite the informality, signs of Catherine’s clout were evident to him—the way she commanded the media, the coterie of politicians who trailed in her wake, the diamond solitaire ring she wore.
“I wonder who gave that to you?” he mused.
More perceptible, even from this grainy color shot, was the way she held herself. Head high, back straight. Catherine had become a lightning rod of the public’s perception of problems with violent and uncontrolled crime. A Madonna for all that was wrong in the world. From the aggressive fire in her eyes, she relished this role.
“I like a woman with a little fire,” he murmured, remembering how Consuelo Vargas tried to scream. “But you are lagging behind. I expect so much from you. I know you will get there soon.”
He lay on the floor, seeming to be asleep, his head propped under one hand. The newspaper clipping lay on his chest. Almost imperceptible breathing. The only real betrayal of each breath was a slight rise in his chest. He could control it. Had many times before.
Opening his emerald eyes, sitting cross-legged on Berber carpeting, he returned his gaze to the photo, pressing supple fingers against the print. He kept reading. “When asked how long the investigation will take, Dr. Powers replied, ‘As long as it takes. What’s important is that the women and children of this community feel safe.’ Dr. Powers herself is the mother of a six-year-old boy.”
“Ah yes, my little friend, Joey,” he said smoothly, controlling each syllable. He let excitement wash over him. Anxiety tingling in his fingertips.
He would know the boy better before the day was over.
Without meaning to, he sucked in a deep breath.
What would the boy look like today? Those long eyelashes. His innocence. Laughter.
He laughed himself, small white teeth showing.
“I read all your stories, Catherine. Each is more interesting than the last. More…” He hesitated, then instantly found the right word. “Passionate.”
He looked up from the paper, watching dawn break. The real beauty of Laguna lay in the daily discovery of its hidden gems, he thought. Its roaring surf.
Small children playing in sand down below. He loved to watch them from this vantage point. Like a hawk watching his prey, from high above. Silent, unseen, deadly.
An uncanny orange sunrise. He wanted to share these things with Catherine. Surprises at each corner, surprises with each light glimmer that painted these white walls.
Surprises that she could not possibly imagine.
He wanted to share this perpetual backdrop of ocean and sky with her. “Yes,” he said. “Catherine, one day soon.”
Taking a sip of coffee, he read the articles again. Catherine said she cared about the people who lived here, and he believed her. But what would she know about the overwhelming bond that he held with her? It was imperceptible to her now.
But soon it would not be.
When all the talking ended, when she had protested his actions and was stunned by their result, then and only then would she understand their bond.
He had never been bitter about his mother. Hated her and loved her, yes, but never bitter. She taught him some good lessons. How to deliver on a promise, how to be productive during the day, and how to feel so engulfed by the night that he felt he was thrown into the sea.
At times it was scary. He didn’t deny it.
But with each day, he set his heart and mind at developing his talent. With each minute he invested in making it real, the investment paid off. Each woman he killed felt better than the last, the prior one a fraction as fulfilling as her successor.
Laguna Beach was of course the perfect place for such fantasies. A community of upper-class gays, artists, and liberals, it seemed to personify the free-flowing easy mentality that was Berkeley in the sixties. This town was tucked just below Newport, but people here were not into Porsches and Beemers. One could just as easily appreciate a 1964 mint-condition Mustang with gleaming chrome trim, top down.
He fit in here perfectly. Fancied himself a mastermind at portraying what was expected. He appeared the liberal yuppie, carved from the ranks of men who named their kids “Sebastian” and “Tyler.”
He could not foresee himself ever leaving this place. La Blanca. Soon enough, Dr. Catherine Powers, his colleague, would share it with him.