Demming was just going to have to kill her. He should have already. It was part of the package. Demming's only purpose was to solve problems. Whatever the hell that woman was talking about with Pete Tilton, it didn't sound good. She certainly wasn't a problem Richard could tolerate.
Richard picked up his car keys from his dresser, looked at himself in the full-length mirror and ran his hand through his hair, then stepped to the doorway and reached for the light switch, but he thought better of it. If he came back an hour from now, he didn't want to walk into the bedroom and find that crazy bitch waiting for him in the dark.
He went downstairs to the kitchen and stopped at the new security door into the garage. He turned on the garage light, peered through the peephole, and made sure the garage was safe before he entered.
Richard got into his black Porsche, locked the doors, started the engine and shifted to reverse before he pressed the garage door opener. As the door rolled upward, he was already turned around in his seat, checking to be sure she wasn't in the driveway waiting for him. As soon as the door was up far enough for the Porsche's roof to clear it, he backed out quickly, pressed the button to close the garage, and drove off.
He had already told his mother he was on his way to the house in Rancho Santa Fe, or he might very well have changed his mind about going out there right now. The disturbance there and the phone call could easily be some sort of scheme to lure him out alone in the middle of the night. There was absolutely no doubt now that the woman was the one who had broken into his house. It wasn't just some coincidence that a burglar had chosen to hit the place today.
A simple thief was an impersonal threat, and had more reason to fear Richard than Richard had to fear him. But a madwoman was a different thing entirely. Facing a woman who didn't care if she got killed was like facing somebody who was already dead. It made the hair on the back of Richard's neck stand up.
He turned off the freeway at Solana Beach and headed inland. The Porsche was made for this kind of drive, a winding road that was deserted at this time of night, where there were few lights or stop signs. Within minutes he was gliding up the road that led to his parents' house, and then he saw flashing lights far ahead—yellow and blue, but also some red ones that made the grayish leaves of the oak trees look as though they were on fire.
Richard slowed down in increments, downshifting until he was crawling along. Now he could make out cop cars and an ambulance, and people walking around on foot with flashlights. They were grouped around the last intersection before his parents' house, only about half a mile from it. More uniformed men and women were walking around in a stand of oak trees. The cars' headlights and the movable floodlights were trained to throw a steady glow of white light into the grove. The back doors of the ambulance were open, but the paramedics didn't seem to be in a rush.
Richard coasted past with his foot disengaging the clutch, partly to keep from drawing too much attention to himself. He saw Pete Tilton's bright yellow motorcycle lying in the brush under the trees. And not far from it he could see what looked like a sheet over a lump about the size of a man's body. It had to be Pete. Richard lifted his foot to release the clutch and gave the car a little gas, then shifted to second.
Farther on, he could see lights glowing through the hedge. He hoped the cops didn't wonder why everyone at the Beale house was up at this hour, but he supposed whatever had happened to Pete had been noisy. He picked up the other remote control while he was still many yards away, and held his thumb on the button so that when he turned in he didn't have to wait for the gate to open.
He parked in the middle of the paved area, got out of his car, trotted to the front door of the house, and touched the knob, but the door was locked. He took out his keys again and opened it, then froze. Across the foyer, Steve Demming and Sybil Landreau were leaning into the entrance to the great room, each showing only an eye, an arm, and a gun. As soon as they saw Richard they lowered their weapons, and Demming hurried to Richard and locked the dead bolt.
'Sorry for that,' he said. 'It sounded like your Porsche, but we had to be sure who was driving it.'
'It's okay,' Richard said. 'I just drove by a bunch of cops looking over Pete's motorcycle in the woods down by the corner. It looked like a body beside it. What happened?'
Sybil Landreau said, 'We don't—'
At that moment Claudia Marshall stepped out of the great room. 'Oh my God,' she wailed. 'Pete, too?' She dissolved into sobs. Sybil glared at Richard as though he were to blame, put her arm around Claudia, and ushered her up the stairway.
'What's going on? Where are my parents?'
Demming said, 'A while ago your mother got up and saw that woman who hid Christine.'
'Saw her? Here?'
'She was outside the glass doors along the side wall of the house.' Demming pointed. 'At first we figured your mother had been dreaming. She said she saw this woman all in black, who kind of dissolved into the darkness. Of course we went to check it out and see if anybody was out there. We couldn't find anything, but Pete figured it was possible that she had been here and gotten away on foot. He figured if he went out on his motorcycle, he might be able to catch her before she got to her car.'
'I guess he did,' Richard said. 'She says she shot him.'
'She says?'
'I just talked to her. I was throwing on some clothes to come here and the phone rang. She called to tell me she'd shot him.'
'Why?'
'She said she asked him where Christine was and he didn't tell her.'
'Shit.'
'She asked me, too.'
Demming looked at him closely, as though he were wondering whether Richard understood what he had just said. 'Did she say she was going to kill you, too?'
'Not in those words, but I guess so. And all of you.'
'There! See?' Claudia Marshall was up on the first landing of the staircase. 'We've got ourselves stuck in the brain of a psycho. You think she's going to try to find Christine for a while and then give up and go away?'
Demming shrugged. 'You're probably right. Maybe we could arrange to make a trade.'
'What?' Richard was confused.
'Claudia? What do you think? You're about the right height. We could get you the right wig, and we've already got Christine's clothes. This woman was probably with her when she bought them, and she'll recognize them as Christine's.'
Richard said, 'You think you can pass off Claudia as Christine?'
'Not forever. Just long enough to get Claudia close to her. Then Claudia puts her out of our misery.'
'I'm in,' said Claudia.
'We don't even have a plan,' said Demming. 'Don't sign on to be the bait until we at least have a plan.'
'We'll think of something,' Claudia said. 'I really want to be the one who pops her. I'd like to be close enough when I do it to see the surprise on her face.'
'Richard.' The three all turned their heads to see Andy Beale standing beneath the arch into the great room. He was dressed now, wearing a pair of blue jeans that were stiff and dark-colored as though they had just come off the rack, a green flannel shirt, and walking shoes. To Richard, his father looked the way he used to look when they went to the mountain lakes for a week or two during the summers. It was a happy memory, because the lakes in the Sierras had all been too small to be choppy, and his parents had paid attention to him intermittently.
'I'll be right there,' Richard called. He turned to Demming. 'What are you going to do now?'
'We can't do much until the cops get Pete's body out of the woods and finish looking for evidence. I don't think that woman will be back before then. That means tomorrow night, I think.'
Andy Beale called, 'Take your time, Richard.'
Richard hurried into the great room after him. Andy Beale sat down beside his wife on a couch along the wall beside the massive stone fireplace. All that stone and mortar shielded the couch from any shot fired from outside. Richard had to take the only seat left, a large leather armchair that he hoped made him hard to see from a distance. He was alarmed at the way his mother looked. The usual healthy plumpness of her face seemed to have been deflated. She was pale and her eyes were red, as though she had been crying.
'You okay, Mom?'
Andy Beale said, 'It's not our favorite way to spend a night, but we plan to live through it.'
