the ground.
'Lonely up here,' Pam says. 'End of the street so nobody's likely to drive past, and the house is well set back. Good place to make dirty films. Probably shot them in the rec room.'
'Sinister, isn't it?'
'If you're asking do I like being up here, I don't. What did you expect to find?'
'Just wanted to sense the mood.'
'So you can draw it?'
'Yeah, something like that.'
At the Thai restaurant, I tell her that ever since Shoshana Bach's revelations, I've felt empty, disinterested in Flamingo.
'I know what bothers you,' she says. 'If Mace's retaliation theory is correct, if Flamingo was about the Steadmans and Tom Jessup was the target, then it doesn't cut so close to home.'
She's right, of course. The notion that Dad committed suicide out of guilt because he'd murdered his favorite patient cuts a good deal closer than if he jumped out his office window merely because he was depressed.
But Pam challenges me again. 'Is it really about which explanation is more meaningful to you, David, or because all your life it's been in your head that Barbara brought your family to ruin? I think you've had a love-hate thing for her for years, turned her into your personal femme fatale. From the way you describe her at that Parent's Day, it's clear you've been besotted by her since you were twelve. So you come back here and find out all this stuff, and now that it looks like she might not have been the killer's target, you feel empty because that undermines your ‘family romance.’
'Know something? You sound just like a shrink.'
'Is that a compliment?'
I smile. 'Maybe you're right, maybe a part of me always did hope that Dad played a role in Flamingo. Otherwise I'd feel all the emotion I'd invested in it was a waste.'
'Okay, but don't forget – real people were killed. Even if Flamingo isn't the key to your life, it's just as important as your Zigzag murders.'
Hearing that makes me feel better. Anyhow, Mace's retaliation theory is just that – a theory. So if I want, I can hold onto my romantic belief that Barbara Fulraine was the key actor in my early life.
Back at the Townsend, after several nightcaps at Waldo's, we adjourn to Pam's room, then go at each other in our customary fashion – panting, grasping, working ourselves up, seeking heart-pounding, shattering release. But then something different starts to happen, our love-making turns sweet. We get romantic, start kissing and whispering endearments. It's more of a slow dance than a quick wheel around the track.
'Well, that was a change,' Pam announces when we lie back. 'I liked it.'
'Are you surprised?'
'Gushy isn't my style. But then, being with a Calista boy, I guess all bets are off.'
'For a Jersey girl, it must be quite the exotic experience.'
'Uh huh… exotic,' she agrees.
I wrap a towel around my waist, sit in her easy chair, then start sketching her as she watches me from the bed, chin propped by an elbow.
'Am I allowed to move?'
'Of course.'
'You haven't drawn me before.'
There've been so many unpleasant people to draw, I never got around to the good stuff.'
She studies me while I continue sketching. To my surprise, I discover I'm executing a serious portrait. I work on her eyebrows, then her eyes. I don't want to idealize her, simply get her down handsomely on the page. I like the way she looks at me, the direct way she engages. She's relaxed, the intensity's still there, but without the overlay of ambition.
'Just can't keep your hands still, can you?'
'My drawing hand – no.'
'Why's that?'
'I draw people to understand them.'
'You told me that before.'
'I also draw a lot because I'm always hoping my hand'll be take over by the planchette effect.'
'Which is-?'
'A planchette's a drawing instrument on casters that slides around like a computer mouse. It can also be a pointing device, the heart-shaped gizmo that zips around a Ouija board spelling out messages from The Dear Departed out in The Great Beyond.'
'So what's the ‘effect’?'
'That's when an outside force seems to take hold of my hand. Drawing becomes effortless. Of course, it's not an outside force, it's my subconscious guiding the pencil. Psychologists call it ‘ideomotor action.’ So, you see, I always keep my drawing hand busy hoping the planchette effect will take hold.'
She gazes at me with perhaps a bit of admiration. 'That's cool, like an athlete being ‘in the zone.’'
'Sure, that's it – being in the ‘zone,’ the ‘groove,’ the ‘flow.’ There's nothing sweeter. It's nearly as good as great sex.'
When I finish the drawing, I hand it to her.
'Oh, I like this!' she says. 'It looks lovingly drawn.'
'It was.'
'I like the way you make me look tender… not the way I am on TV.'
'That's how I see you tonight.'
She laughs. 'I'm glad, because I wouldn't want you to see me like Mr. Potato Head – just an empty oval.'
Early in the morning, when I return to my room to shave, I notice the message light blinking on my phone. I call down to the desk.
'There's a package for you, sir, left here around midnight,' the deskman tells me. 'I'll have the bellboy bring it up.'
The package turns out to be a large envelope enclosing what appears to be manuscript accompanied by the following note:
Dear David:
I've been doing a lot of thinking since your visit, especially about your comment that maybe it's time to finally put the family nightmare to rest.
Yesterday I pulled out Mom's diary and tried again to read it through. Just as before, I didn't get too far.
Perhaps you will have better luck. Enclosed please find a photocopy, which is yours to read, study, do with as you like. I believe you'll find it painful to read, but, hopefully, not nearly as painful as it was for me.
Sincerely,
Robin Fulraine
My heart starts to pound as I glance through the sheets, several hundred pages of photocopy paper upon which are centered smaller handwritten pages. The writing on these is clear, inscribed in a fine hand, feminine, elegant, authoritative. I'm no handwriting expert, but the evenly penned forward-slanting script, the even rounding of the letters, and the nearly total lack of cross-outs suggest a writer in full command, inscribing carefully, perhaps even slowly, as she puts her thoughts to paper.
