not what she was witnessing in this reunion, but a very different thought: about her and Jon Boling and the children… and what her mother had learned about Boling’s move to San Diego.
Once again, Kayleigh’s lyrics echoed, from the very verse that had inspired the attempt on Sheri Towne’s life.
Is that what would happen to her? Was everything changed, the life she’d tacitly hoped for, for herself and her children, with Boling?
And where, she thought with some bitterness, is
Chapter 38
A PLEASANT, IF hot, September evening in Fresno.
It was a quiet time in the Tower District-featuring the famous Art Deco theater, at Olive and Wishon, which boasted an actual, if modest, tower (though the neighborhood had probably been named for
Tonight, locals were returning from early suppers at Mexican taquerias or boutiquey cafes or were visiting art galleries, tattoo parlors, discount stores, ethnic bakeries. Maybe headed for the movies or an improv comedy club or community theater. It wasn’t San Francisco but you weren’t in Fresno for art, music or literature. You were here to raise a family and work and you took what culture was offered.
Tonight, teenage boys had come to the District to cruise the streets in their pimped-out Subarus and Saturns, enjoying the last few evenings free from homework.
Tonight, girls had come here to gossip and sneak cigarettes and to look toward, but not at, boys and sit over sodas for hours and talk about clothes and looming classes.
And tonight Kayleigh Towne had come to the District to kill a man.
She’d formulated this plan because of one person: Mary-Gordon Sanchez, the little girl Edwin Sharp had- whatever the police said-kidnapped.
Oh, God, she was furious.
Kayleigh had always looked forward to being a mother but those plans had been delayed by her own father, who felt that a career wasn’t compatible with a home life.
Kayleigh had gone along but the maternal urge within her only grew.
And to think that Mary-Gordon had been in danger-and might be in the future-well, no, that wasn’t acceptable.
Edwin Sharp was going down.
The sheriff’s office wasn’t going to do it. So Kayleigh would, all by herself.
With these lyrics, which she’d written years ago, rolling through her mind, Kayleigh Towne climbed out of the Suburban, which Darthur Morgan had parked on Olive Avenue. They were in front of a Victorian-style auditorium. It was Parker Hall, a small theater and lecture venue from the nineteenth century. She noted the brass plaque that read:
KAYLEIGH, OUR HOME “TOWNE” GIRL, GAVE HER FIRST CONCERT HERE.
She’d been thirteen. The “first concert” part was not exactly true-she’d done churches and sporting events since she was nine or ten. But this was, yes, the first performance in a concert hall, though she’d shared the stage with a few other kids from the children’s choir of George Washington Middle School.
“About a half hour,” she told Morgan.
“I’ll be here,” he said. And began immediately to study the street for signs of Edwin Sharp or any other threat.
Kayleigh found the key to the hall and slipped inside the musty place. That afternoon she’d contacted the foundation that owned it and explained that she was thinking about giving a concert there. Could she borrow the key to check the place out? They’d been delighted and she’d had politely to decline the several invitations by the staff to give her a tour of the venue. Her time was so limited, she’d said, that she wasn’t sure when she could get there.
Inside, the murky hall resonated with its own brand of creaks and snaps but this time, unlike at the convention center, she wasn’t made the least uneasy by the atmosphere. She knew where the danger was.
And it wasn’t in the shadows that surrounded her.
Kayleigh headed straight for the loading dock in the back, opened the door and stepped outside, looking over the street, which ran parallel to Olive. A few minutes later she saw the red Buick driven by the man who had killed Bobby and tried to kill Sheri and who had kidnapped Mary-Gordon and Suellyn. He cruised past the theater to the stoplight. One of the sheriff’s deputies was following.
Hell, she hadn’t counted on that.
She couldn’t have the police near when Edwin died. What was she going to do? Give up? She was furious at the thought.
The Buick waited for a light, signaling left.
A block away the deputy, trying to be clever, slowed and turned left, apparently hoping to pick up the Buick after Edwin turned.
She nearly laughed to see Edwin floor the accelerator and speed right into a largely residential neighborhood. He’d eluded the deputy completely.
Stepping back inside, she opened her purse and slipped on leather gloves, then unfixed the twist ties securing the eight-inch filleting knife to the cardboard backing. She wrapped the blade in a tissue and slipped it into the inner pocket of her denim jacket.
And then she double-no, triple-checked the other thing she’d brought with her.
Kayleigh was now thinking of the song Edwin Sharp had played on the jukebox at the Cowboy Saloon yesterday. “Me, I’m Not a Cowgirl.”
For Kayleigh Towne that last sentence was not exactly true.
The present her father had given her was a Colt revolver. He’d bought it for her for protection when she was in her teens. Suellyn was away at college, their mother dead and he was spending insane amounts of time on the road, trying futilely to salvage his career.
She’d fired it a few times but hadn’t liked the recoil or the noise, even with the earmuffs, and she’d thought: What a joke.
The idea of taking a human life was impossible for her to imagine.
And yet two years ago she recalled spotting a coyote, twitchy and probably rabid, in her garden behind the house, hissing and baring yellow teeth.
Kayleigh had matter-of-factly blown the ragged thing away with a single shot to the head.
That’s all Edwin Sharp was to her now.
