I felt like I was stumbling in the dark.
Peters heard my disbelief. “I came down to Bisbee to check it out. According to records here, Anne’s father fell carrying Patty down some stairs. He felt so bad about it he put a bullet in his head two weeks later. Anne insisted she shot him, and she claimed that Patty’s death was no accident, that her father had murdered her. Her mother had Anne committed. That’s why she spent eleven years in the state hospital.”
I could hear the sound of Peters’ breathing on the other end of the phone. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Beau, are you all right?”
After being in the dark, sudden light blinded me. “I’ve gotta go, Peters,” I said. I slammed the phone down in his ear. Powell was coming toward me. I almost knocked him over. “Get somebody to take Stahl’s statement,” I said over my shoulder.
“Hey, wait a minute. Janice Morraine from the lab tried to get you while you were on your phone,” he called after me. “Says to tell you it’s a match.”
And the rest of my world tumbled down around my ears.
Chapter 24
My hands were shaking so badly I could hardly get the key in the ignition. Truths and half-truths chased each other in dizzying circles in my head. Milton Corley had been the first to believe her. That’s what she had said. So he was the first to understand that Anne had told the truth about killing her father. The realization sickened me, but I feared the past far less than I did the present.
It was not yet ten o’clock on Sunday morning, and downtown Seattle was virtually deserted. I made short work of the trip to the Royal Crest. She wasn’t there. I knew she wouldn’t be. The telephone in the bedroom was slightly off the hook. When I hung it up properly, it started working again. How long had the phone been disabled? I wondered. Since last night?
I looked in the closets, in the drawers. The clothes were there; nothing was missing. Then I checked the corner on the other side of the dresser. The Adidas bag was gone. I poured myself a shot of MacNaughton’s and sat down in my leather chair. I needed to think.
I tried to remember Friday night. When had we gotten home? What had been said? I remembered going to bed, her saying she wanted to stay up and work on the last chapter so she could send it down to Phoenix with Ralph.
The next thing I remembered was her crawling into bed with me Saturday morning, telling me she had been out for a jog. I had no way of knowing whether or not she had come to bed before that. It had seemed reasonable to assume she had. There had been no cause to question it, but there was no way to prove it, either. There would have been plenty of time for her to drive to Auburn and back between the time I went to sleep and the time I woke up. When had she moved the Porsche to a parking lot?
I waited for the phone to ring, knowing it was unreasonable, knowing she wouldn’t call. Where could she be? What was she thinking? Didn’t she know I loved her, that I’d find help for her whatever the cost? I waited.
I thought about Pastor Michael Brodie and Suzanne Barstogi blown away in Faith Tabernacle by the same weapon that had killed Charles Murray Kincaid. The same.38. Christ. She must have done that, too. What night was that? Monday? I tried to remember Monday night. She had been here; we had made love. We had made love Saturday morning, too. My stomach rebelled at the thought of her excitement, her need for satisfaction. Had she come to me on the crest of murderous heat that I had misread as passion? I battled to keep breakfast and the MacNaughton’s in place. The breakfast, the liquor, and the wedding cake. Jesus.
Had she thought she could get away with it forever, that I would never find out? Or was I next on her list? How long was the list, for that matter? Her father, Brodie, Suzanne, Kincaid? How many more were there? What about Corley? Had Milton Corley really committed suicide, or had he been given a helping hand along the way?
I waited. Peters would be home by four or so. At that point Powell would know and Watkins and the world. An all-points bulletin would go out for Anne Corley Beaumont, wanted for murder, beautiful and highly dangerous. I had to find her before then. I had to be the one to bring her in. The thought of Anne in handcuffs, tossed in the back of a patrol car, was anathema to me.
I waited, watching the time slip by, watching the minute hand move inexorably. I sat for a long, long time, letting my mind wander through the last few days, searching for some hope, some consolation. There was none. I watched the clock without thinking about it, without internalizing the information it was trying to give me. It was two o’clock when I got the message, two o’clock when I realized that at that time one week ago, Angela Barstogi’s funeral was just getting under way, and Anne Corley was about to walk into my life.
I jumped to my feet, remembering. She had said she intended to have a standing reservation for Sunday dinner at Snoqualmie Lodge. My nerves were too shot to tackle the phone book myself. I placed a call to the lodge and a hostess answered. “Does Anne Corley have a reservation there for this afternoon?”
There was a pause while she looked. “Yes she does, a reservation for two at three o’clock.” I had been holding my breath. I let it out in a long sigh.
“Would you like to leave a message? I’ll be glad to give it to her.”
“No. No, thank you. I’ll catch her later.”
I put down the phone. Either she wouldn’t show or she was expecting me. It was one or the other. The hostess had said the reservation was for two, not one. I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I buried my face in a towel, a soft new towel Anne Corley herself had chosen. I flung it away from me, sending it sailing down the hall. How dare she buy me towels!
I went to the hall closet for my shoulder hoister and.38. The holster was there. The gun wasn’t.
There was no point in searching the apartment. I knew I had put it away. I always put it away. Anne had taken it. Anne Corley Beaumont, armed, beautiful, and exceedingly dangerous.
I’m qualified to carry a.357 magnum. You get qualified by being an excellent shot. It’s a macho symbol I don’t need to pack around the department. I keep one, though, in the same bottom drawer where I had kept my mother’s engagement ring all those years. I got it out and checked it to make sure it was loaded. I put it in my jacket pocket. A.357 is only good for one thing — killing. I prayed I wouldn’t have to use it.
My body ran on automatic pilot. I don’t remember getting into the car or driving up Interstate 90 to Fall City. I was doing what I had to do, what was inevitable. It was too painful to do it consciously, so I did it like a sleepwalker. It was like that last night with my mother, wanting her to die and not wanting her to die, wishing her suffering over yet not wanting to lose her. I didn’t know whether I should hope for the red Porsche to be there or not. It would hurt either way.
I was trying to readjust my thinking, to turn Anne Corley Beaumont my love into Anne Corley Beaumont my enemy. She would have to be that if I was going to confront her and win. Afterward I could try to salvage what could be salvaged, once she was safe. Locked up and safe.
As it turned out, the Porsche was there, parked directly in front of the restaurant. There was no attempt to conceal her presence. She wanted me to know where she was. I was expected.
I grappled with the realization that Anne had called every shot since I met her. This was no exception. My hand dropped unconsciously to my pocket, checking the.357, making sure it was available. She had outwitted me at every turn. I would have to be wary. She was Mrs. J. P. Beaumont in name only. She was also a ruthless, savvy killer.
The vestibule was crowded. Of course it would be. This was Sunday afternoon. For the first time I realized how foolhardy I had been to attempt this without calling for help, without having a backup. The restaurant was full of innocent bystanders, any one of whom could suffer dire consequences for my going off half-cocked. I eased my way through the crowd to the hostess desk and peered through the dining room.
Anne was there, at a corner table. Our eyes met and held above the heads of the other diners. She motioned for me to come to her.
The hostess appeared then. “Oh,” she said, “are you Mr. Beaumont? Mrs. Corley has been expecting you.”
