weren’t about to run a bio piece on a dead little girl who lived by a bridge. They weren’t going to tell me who she was, or what had happened to her, or if it was likely that I’d ever see her again.
But I knew someone who might be able to give me that information, if I could get to her. There were a few things I needed if I was going to manage that.
I found a stack of bills in a little office downstairs. I filed through the envelopes until I found one from the phone company. Just as I’d hoped, Spider Ripley had a cell phone.
I picked up the phone on the desk and punched in the number.
An electronic chirping sounded in an adjoining room.
I was in luck. In a minute I found the cell phone. I needed a few other things, and I found them, too. I stashed the stuff in a bag and walked to the Toyota.
Then I drove back to Spider’s pyramid. There was one other thing I needed, but I didn’t want to be spotted carrying it down the road.
Diabolos Whistler’s head.
Diabolos was waiting for me. Still sneering, still in on the joke.
Some people claimed that Diabolos Whistler was the real power behind Charles Manson. The rumors had drifted around for years. That Whistler had fingered Sharon Tate for murder. That he’d funneled money to Manson, and pulled his strings, and made him do the things he did through supernatural means.
There was one other rumor worth noting. It went like this-when Whistler was reborn as Satan, demons would unlock the prison gates, and Charles Manson and his followers would reap their unholy rewards at Whistler’s side.
Thinking about it gave me a chill.
Not because I believed it.
But because others did.
Because their belief gave them hope.
4
The rain settled into a steady rhythm, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I returned to the vacant lot, wrapped the iron box in a plastic drop cloth I’d taken from Spider Ripley’s pyramid, and stashed Diabolos Whistler’s head beneath an umbrella of lush ferns.
The head would be dry for the time being. Not that it mattered. As far as I could tell, Whistler’s all-too- mortal remains were already rotting. It didn’t look like the old boy was going to make a comeback anytime soon, no matter what Spider Ripley or Charles Manson believed. As for me, I didn’t care what kind of shape the head was in. Maggots could nest in Whistler’s mouth, and the head would still be a valuable tool.
I climbed into the truck. Silver needles of rain beat against the windshield, washing away bugs splattered from Los Cabos to Tijuana, San Diego to Bakersfield, Fiddler to Cliffside. I notched the wipers from low to high and the dead things were taken by the storm as I drove toward Hangman’s Point Drive.
I skipped the turnoff and took another road about a quarter mile down the highway. It ran at an angle, back toward Hangman’s Point, though the two roads didn’t intersect.
There was a trailhead at the end of the road, though no one was hiking in this weather. I parked the truck, got out, and trudged along the cliff trail that followed the coastline back to the hanging tree.
The storm was gaining strength. A brutal wind pushed me along, cutting through my clothes. Driving gusts of rain sliced me to the bone. I was soaked through in less than a minute. Another minute, and my guts felt like they were frosted with ice.
But there was nothing I could do about it now. I was wearing the coat I’d stolen from the deputy at Circe’s mansion, and it wasn’t much more than a windbreaker. For a second I wished I’d taken something more substantial from Spider Ripley’s place. But Spider and I weren’t the same size-he was seven feet tall and I was a couple inches under six-and I never much liked black latex, anyway.
Fuck fashion. I would have worn a dead German Shepherd for a coat and a roadkilled Chihuahua for a hat, as long as they’d kept me warm. By the time I reached the tree, I felt like I’d taken a swim in the Arctic Ocean.
One look at the ghostly witches swinging in the gallows tree told me that things could have been a whole lot worse. I did my best to ignore them. Ducking low, I headed for the deadfall piled near the historical marker. I crouched behind the twisted heap of fallen branches, slicked rainwater across my brow with one hand, and watched Janice Ravenwood’s house.
Janice’s Ford Explorer sat in the driveway, along with two other cars-a black Rolls Royce and a Toyota Rav 4.
The storeroom where I’d had my little tussle with Spider Ripley was on the other side of the house, so I hadn’t seen either car when I made my escape. Still, it was a sure bet that the Rolls belonged to Circe. I wasn’t sure about the Rav 4. Maybe it belonged to Spider Ripley.
Or maybe the owner was the man who stood on Janice Ravenwood’s porch, nice and dry, watching the road like a good little soldier. A little red flare ignited near his mouth as he sucked on a cigarette, and at that moment I would have jammed the butt against my palm just to feel some heat.
But it wasn’t the cigarette I wanted. Not really. What I wanted was the man’s coat. Nice and thick and warm, and from the looks of him, just about my size.
I dug into the windbreaker’s left pocket and found Spider Ripley’s cell phone. It was soaked. So was Janice Ravenwood’s business card. But I could still read the number and I punched it in.
Dull ringing shivered against my ear. The cell phone worked fine. Now it was up to me. My teeth started chattering and I clamped my jaw tight, thinking warm thoughts, telling myself I was by a well-stoked fire with a cup of hot soup between my hands -
“Hello?” Janice’s voice was still a little shaky.
I didn’t say anything for a second. I drew my K-bar, studying the gleaming edge that had sliced Janice’s fingers. One touch from those long, slim fingers and she’d told me everything about my knife. Gifted fingers, or cursed…I wondered if our encounter had changed her perspective.
I said, “How’s the hand?”
She gasped.
“Sorry about cutting you. Really. And I’m sorry about your kitchen, too. Some Plastic Wood and plaster, no one will ever know you had a gunfight in your home.”
“Y-you bastard.”
“Yeah, but you knew that yesterday. Or you should have, if you would have had the guts to shake my hand. Anyway, that’s old news. Get Ripley on the line.”
I heard crosstalk in the background as Janice handed over the phone. It sounded like Circe wanted in on the conversation. I didn’t want that. Not yet.
I wanted Spider Ripley, and I got him.
“You’re dead, Saunders,” he said. “I’m gonna carve a map of hell on your face, and I’m gonna do it with your own fuckin’ knife.”
“You just might get your chance, Gilbert.”
“Huh? How did you know my name was-”
“Good Saint Gilbert. That’s what I should call you. Nice place you’ve got here. I especially like the copulating gnomes in the garden, and the sarcophagus bathtub shows a certain panache, but all that late period Egyptian stuff is a little out of step with the Sunday school you’ve got on the third floor.”
“You’re at my fucking house?”
“I’m at your fucking pyramid, Gilbert. I came for something that belongs to me, and I found it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Saunders. You don’t know what you’re messing with. You’d better leave Whistler’s head alone.”
“Leave it alone? Shit, Gilbert, I already let it out of the box. In fact, Diabolos is dying to talk to you. Here, let me get him on the line
