By the time the trembling jogger had hobbled painfully onto Park Presidio, hitched two rides home, iced his swollen ankle, and telephoned the police, the assembly in the glen was complete: some two dozen homeless men and women, arrayed in a circle around a waist-high heap of twigs and branches, into which was nestled a small stiff body. They were singing the hymn “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” painfully out of tune but with enthusiasm, when Brother Erasmus set the match to the pyre.
The headline on the bottom of page one of that afternoon’s
¦
Three weeks later, his breath huffing in clouds and the news announcer still jabbering against his unhearing ears, the physically recovered but currently unemployed former Bank of America vice presidential assistant was slogging his disconsolate way alongside Kennedy Drive in the park when, to his instant and unreasoning fury, he was attacked for a second time by a branch-wielding bearded man from the shrubbery. Three weeks of ego deflation blew up like a rage-powered air bag: He instantly took four rapid steps forward and clobbered the unkempt head with the only thing he carried, which happened to be a Walkman stereo. Fortunately for both men, the case collapsed the moment it made contact with the wool cap, but the maddened former bank assistant stood over the terrified and hungover former real estate broker and pummeled away with his crumbling handful of plastic shards and electronic components.
A passing commuter saw them, snatched up her car telephone, and called 911.
Three minutes later, the eyes of the two responding police officers were greeted by the sight of a pair of men seated side by side on the frost-rimed grass: One was shocked, bleeding into his shaggy beard, and even at twenty feet stank of cheap wine and old sweat,- the other was clean-shaven, clean-clothed, and wore a pair of two- hundred-dollar running shoes on his feet. Both men were weeping. The runner sat with his knees drawn up and his head buried in his arms,- the wino had his arm across the other man’s heaving shoulders and was patting awkwardly at the runner’s arm in an obvious attempt at reassurance and comfort.
The two police officers never were absolutely certain about what had happened, but they filled out their forms and saw the two partners in adversity safely tucked into the ambulance. Just before the door closed, the female officer thought to ask why the homeless man had been dragging branches out of the woods in the first place.
By the time the two officers pounded up the pathway into the baseball clearing, the oily eucalyptus and redwood in this second funeral pyre had caught and flames were roaring up to the gray sky in great billows of sparks and burning leaves. It was a much larger pile of wood than had been under the small dog Theophilus three weeks earlier, but then, it had to be. On the top of this pyre lay the body of a man.
¦
TWO
¦
“God Almighty,” muttered Kate Martinelli, “what’ll you bet Jon does a barbecue tonight.”
She and Al Hawkin stood watching the medical examiner’s men package the body for transport. The typical pugilist’s pose of a burned body was giving the men problems, but they finally got the fists tucked in and loaded the body onto the van. The cold air became almost breathable.
“You know,” remarked Al, squinting up at a tree, “that’s the first joke I’ve heard you make in—what, six months?”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“It’ll pass for one.”
“Life has not been funny, Al.”
“No,” he agreed. “No. How is Lee?”
“She’s doing really well. She finally found a wheelchair that’s comfortable, and the new physical therapist seems good. She wants to try Lee in a walker in a week or so. Don’t mention it, though, if you talk to Lee. She’ll want to do it then and there.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Did I tell you she’s started seeing clients again?”
“No! Now, that is good news.”
“Only two of them, and on different days, but it gives her a feeling of real life. It’s made a hell of a difference.”
“I can imagine. Do you think she’d like a visitor?”
“She always loves to see you, Al.”
“I got the impression it tired her out.”
“Tires her for that day, cheers her up for the next two. A good trade. Just call before you go,- she doesn’t deal too well with surprises.”
“I’ll call. Tomorrow, if I can swing it. I’ll take her some flowers.”
“Don’t do that. Lee hates cut flowers.”
“I know. It’ll give us something to argue about.”
“So thoughtful, Al.”
“That’s me.”
“Well,” said Kate, pulling her notebook and pen from a jacket pocket, “back to work.”
“Martinelli?” She stopped and turned to look at her partner. “It’s good to have you back.”
Kate ducked her head in acknowledgment and walked quickly away.
Al Hawkin watched her walk toward the motley congregation of homeless, her spine straight and her attitude as quietly self-contained as ever, and found himself wondering why the hell she had come back.
The last months must have seared themselves straight down into the bones of her mind, he reflected, but aside from the increased wariness in her already-wary eyes, she did not show it. Oh, yes—and the white-eyed terror with which she regarded the three newspaper reporters who slouched behind the police tapes.
Last spring the media had seized her with sheer delight, a genuine San Francisco lesbian, a policewoman, whose lover had been shot and left dramatically near death by a sociopath who was out to destroy the world- famous artist Eva Vaughn— the combination of high culture, pathos, and titillation were irresistible, even for serious news media. For a couple of weeks, Kate’s squarish face and haunted dark eyes looked out from the pages of supermarket scandal sheets and glossy weekly news journals, and ABC did a half-hour program on homosexuality in the police force.
And while this jamboree was going on, while the hate mail was pouring in and the Hall of Justice switchboard was completely jammed, Kate lived at the hospital, where her lover teetered on the edge of death. It was six weeks before Kate knew Lee would live,- another six weeks passed before the doctors voiced a faint hope that she might regain partial sensation and a degree of control below the waist.
At this juncture Hawkin had done something that still gave him cold sweats of guilt when he thought about it: Guided by an honest belief that work would be the best therapy for Kate, he had taken ruthless advantage of her newfound optimism and yanked her back onto the force, into their partnership, and straight into the unparalleled disaster of the Raven Morningstar murder case. And of course, when the case blew up in blood and scandal back in August, the media had been ecstatic to find Kate right in the middle. That she was one of the few out of the cast of dramatic personae not culpable for any fault greater than a lack of precognition mattered not. She was their prize, their Inspector Casey, and she bled publicly for the nation’s entertainment.
Why she had not resigned after the Morningstar case, Hawkin could not understand. She hadn’t put her gun inside her mouth because Lee needed her,- she hadn’t had a serious mental breakdown for the same reason. Instead, she had clawed herself into place behind a desk and endured five months of paper shuffling and that special hatred and harassment that a quasimilitary organization reserves for one of their own who has exposed the weakness of the whole. Two weeks ago, pale but calm, she had appeared at Hawkin’s desk and informed him that if he still wanted her as his partner, she was available.
He held an enormous respect for this young woman, a feeling he firmly kept from her, and just as firmly
