“Do you approve of the knot,” I asked, “or would you like to tie one of your own?”
At the open fuel port, I lowered the cartridge into the tank. The weight of it pulled the fuse all the way down into the reservoir. Like a wick, the highly absorbent gauze would immediately begin to soak up the gasoline.
Orson ran nervously in a circle:
I left almost five feet of fuse out of the tank. It hung along the side of the patrol car and trailed onto the sidewalk.
After fetching my bicycle from where I’d leaned it against the trunk of the laurel, I stooped and ignited the end of the fuse with my butane lighter. Although the exposed length of gauze was not gasoline-soaked, it burned faster than I expected. Too fast.
I climbed onto my bike and pedaled as if all of Hell’s lawyers and a few demons of this earth were baying at my heels, which they probably were. With Orson sprinting at my side, I shot across the parking lot to the ramped exit drive, onto Embarcadero Way, which was deserted, and then south past the shuttered restaurants and shops that lined the bay front.
The explosion came too soon, a solid
Recklessly, I squeezed the hand brake, slid through a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, came to a halt with one foot on the blacktop, and looked back.
Little could be seen, no details: a core of hard yellow-white light surrounded by orange plumes, all softened by the deep, eddying mist.
The worst thing I saw wasn’t in the night but inside my head: Lewis Stevenson’s face bubbling, smoking, streaming hot clear grease like bacon in a frying pan.
“Dear God,” I said in a voice that was so raspy and tremulous that I didn’t recognize it.
Nevertheless, I could have done nothing else but light that fuse. Although the cops would know Stevenson had been killed, evidence of how it was done — and by whom — would now be obliterated.
I made the drive chain sing, leading my accomplice dog away from the harbor, through a spiraling maze of streets and alleyways, deeper into the murky, nautilus heart of Moonlight Bay. Even with the heavy Glock in one pocket, my unzipped leather jacket flapped as though it were a cape, and I fled unseen, avoiding light for more than one reason now, a shadow flowing liquidly through shadows, as though I were the fabled Phantom, escaped from the labyrinth underneath the opera house, now on wheels and hell-bent on terrorizing the world above ground.
Being able to entertain such a flamboyantly romantic image of myself in the immediate aftermath of murder doesn’t speak well of me. In my defense, I can only say that by recasting these events as a grand adventure, with me in a dashing role, I was desperately trying to quell my fear and, more desperately still, struggling to suppress the memories of the shooting. I also needed to suppress the ghastly images of the burning body that my active imagination generated like an endless series of pop-up spooks leaping from the black walls of a funhouse.
Anyway, this shaky effort to romanticize the event lasted only until I reached the alleyway behind the Grand Theater, half a block south of Ocean Avenue, where a grime-encrusted security lamp made the fog appear to be brown and polluted. There, I swung off my bike, let it clatter to the pavement, leaned into a Dumpster, and brought up what little I had not digested of my midnight dinner with Bobby Halloway.
I had murdered a man.
Unquestionably, the victim had deserved to die. And sooner or later, relying on one excuse or another, Lewis Stevenson would have killed me, regardless of his coconspirators’ inclination to grant special dispensation to me; arguably, I acted in self-defense. And to save Orson’s life.
Nevertheless, I’d killed a human being; even these qualifying circumstances didn’t alter the moral essence of the act. His vacant eyes, black with death, haunted me. His mouth, open in a silent scream, his bloodied teeth. Sights are readily recalled from memory; recollections of sounds and tastes and tactile sensations are far less easily evoked; and it is virtually impossible to experience a scent merely by willing it to rise from memory. Yet earlier I’d recalled the fragrance of my mother’s shampoo, and now the metallic odor of Stevenson’s fresh blood lingered so pungently that it kept me hanging on to the Dumpster as if I were at the railing of a yawing ship.
In fact, I was shaken not solely by having killed him but by having destroyed the corpse and all evidence with brisk efficiency and self-possession. Apparently I had a talent for the criminal life. I felt as though some of the darkness in which I’d lived for twenty-eight years had seeped into me and had coalesced in a previously unknown chamber of my heart.
Purged but feeling no better for it, I boarded the bicycle again and led Orson through a series of byways to Caldecott’s Shell at the corner of San Rafael Avenue and Palm Street. The service station was closed. The only light inside came from a blue-neon wall clock in the sales office, and the only light outside was at the soft-drink vending machine.
I bought a can of Pepsi to cleanse the sour taste from my mouth. At the pump island, I opened the water faucet partway and waited while Orson drank his fill.
“What an awesomely lucky dog you are to have such a thoughtful master,” I said. “Always tending to your thirst, your hunger, your grooming. Always ready to kill anyone who lifts a finger against you.”
The searching look that he turned on me was disconcerting even in the gloom. Then he licked my hand.
“Gratitude acknowledged,” I said.
He lapped at the running water again, finished, and shook his dripping snout.
Shutting off the faucet, I said, “Where
He met my eyes again.
“What secret was my mother keeping?”
His gaze was unwavering. He knew the answers to my questions. He just wasn’t talking.
27
I suppose God really might be loafing around in St. Bernadette’s Church, playing air guitar with a companion band of angels, or games of mental chess. He might be there in a dimension that we can’t quite see, drawing blueprints for new universes in which such problems as hatred and ignorance and cancer and athlete’s-foot fungus will have been eliminated in the planning stage. He might be drifting high above the polished-oak pews, as if in a swimming pool filled with clouds of spicy incense and humble prayer instead of water, silently bumping into the columns and the corners of the cathedral ceiling as He dreamily meditates, waiting for parishioners in need to come to Him with problems to be solved.
This night, however, I felt sure God was keeping His distance from the rectory adjoining the church, which gave me the creeps when I cycled past it. The architecture of the two-story stone house — like that of the church itself — was modified Norman, with enough of the French edge abraded to make it fit more comfortably in the softer climate of California. The overlapping black-slate tiles of the steep roof, wet with fog, were as armor-thick as the scales on the beetled brow of a dragon, and beyond the blank black eyes of window glass — including an oculus on each side of the front door — lay a soulless realm. The rectory had never appeared forbidding to me before, and I knew that I now viewed it with uneasiness only because of the scene I had witnessed between Jesse Pinn and Father Tom in the church basement.
I pedaled past both the rectory and the church, into the cemetery, under the oaks, and among the graves. Noah Joseph James, who’d had ninety-six years from birthday to deathbed, was just as silent as ever when I greeted him and parked my bike against his headstone.
I unclipped the cell phone from my belt and keyed in the number for the unlisted back line that went directly to the broadcasting booth at KBAY. I heard four rings before Sasha picked up, although no tone would have sounded in the booth; she would have been alerted to the incoming call solely by a flashing blue light on the wall that she faced when at her microphone. She answered it by pushing a hold button, and while I waited, I could hear her program over the phone line.
Orson began to sniff out squirrels again.
Shapes of fog drifted like lost spirits among the gravestones.
