Agnes Hahn (8 page)

Like she was going to cry. It kind of scared me. I don’t talk to her anymore when she’s like that.”

“Does she get like that every night after supper?”

She rolled to him and arched her eyebrows. “I’m ready for another, and I don’t mean a beer. I bet I can get you up for it.”

“No. Does she get like that every night?”

The smile left her face. “Not every night, but most.”

“How long does she stay that way?”

“Most of the time, only a minute or so. Sometimes ten minutes. No more than that.” A loud laugh. “That’s all I’m saying. Any more conversation comes with another payment.” She reached and grabbed his crotch.

He pushed her hand away. “I’ll settle for your name.”

“Uh huh.”

J
ASON PUSHED ON THE GAS PEDAL, AND THE
H
ONDA RE
sponded with a slight thrust of acceleration. He let it slide up, ten past the speed limit, and held it there. On his better days, cleverness was a trait he checked off near the top of his list of positive attributes. The last two days were among his best.

To stay off Bransome’s radar, he needed a different car. The budget for the job couldn’t accommodate a rental. Wrangling the keys to Agnes’s Honda was a major coup, even if he had it for this one trip. He looked down—under twenty-two thousand on the odometer. A faint hint of new car smell wafted from some untouched, undisturbed corner of the upholstery. Not bad for a latenineties Japanese import.

He relaxed back into the seat and held down the button to the driver’s side window. A jealous sky hid the sun behind gray clouds that stretched between horizons like a wall-to-wall carpet. The soothing smell of the ocean rushed in, like a breaker, and churned around him. With no risk of a revenge-based speeding ticket, the stiff breeze of illegality further puffed his chest with pride.

Yesterday, Jason had waited for Bransome to waddle off for lunch. Getting the visit with Agnes was easy, but convincing her to let him drive her home today, in her car, required all of the smooth talking in his extensive repertoire. His honorable intentions were confirmed when he insisted she tell the property clerk to take her house key off the chain. Only the car key was needed. What a smoke screen. No one asked how he planned to get the automatic garage door open. He smiled. The back door of Agnes’s house had yielded easily to his lock-jimmying skills.

The dank, cool air, with the smell of a grandma’s house, came back to him as if blown in through the open car window. He had found nothing remarkable in the house. Vintage furniture that would command a good price at an estate sale cluttered every room but one. Agnes’s living space was ordered, plain, almost spartan, except for the decorative carved wood elaborations on all of the furniture appendages and picture frames.

Her clothing hung in a small walk-in, dominated by a row of flannel shirts as straight as a chorus line, the muted colors in spectral order. All garments were free of bloodstains, and none bore the telltale signs of recent, desperate scrubbings.

What had captured his attention was her bathroom medicine cabinet. With her solitary ways, her recent familial losses, and her timid nature, he expected to see at least one bottle of prescription, mind-targeting pills. All he had found was an empty circular card that once held a cycle of birth control pills.

A stiff gust of wind feathered his hair, bringing him back to the Honda. The speedometer read fifteen over, and he held it there for a few defiant seconds before letting it slide down by five. Birth control pills. She wasn’t the type who needed contraception. Maybe they were for irregular cycles.

His mind flashed on the police reports he’d seen from the first two murders. In both, the killer was menstruating, and she used the victim’s member after she severed it. Probably in the third as well. Otherwise Bransome wouldn’t have reacted so strongly when Jason called her the Menstrual Murderer. In any event, there was plenty of DNA from the sites.

His foot pulled from the gas pedal. Female athletes used birth control pills to control the timing of their periods so they wouldn’t be bothered during a competition. Murder dates paraded through his head—always on Friday or Saturday nights. Mental calculations came hard with the sudden infusion of adrenaline. The cycles couldn’t all fall on weekends, could they? Random chance was a long shot.

His mind went back to the house. Letters had been strewn on the carpet under the belt-level mail slot in the front door. He had found nothing remarkable there either. A couple of utility bills, a
Sunset Gardening
magazine, and a card from the AAA auto club. No personal letters.

Jason looked at his watch and pressed on the gas pedal. Back up to fifteen over he risked detection, even in his camouflage vehicle, but he was behind schedule, nearly five minutes late.

A chest-level hedge protected the entry to the police station parking lot, so he couldn’t change his mind once he’d made the turn. His foot jumped to the brake pedal, but he didn’t slam it down. Bransome leaned against the rear fender of a police cruiser, arms crossed and resting on the top of his belly. He stared at the Honda.

Jason thought of swinging through the lot without slowing. With the diffuse glare from the cloud cover, maybe his features were obscured by a glint on the windshield. His finger hit the window button and the pane whined upward. Continuing on, he hoped to avoid detection by hiding in plain sight.

Bransome pushed away from the vehicle and withdrew the baton from his belt, as if he was pulling a sword from its scabbard. Stepping closer to the approaching Honda, he waved the stick at an empty parking space two down from the cruiser.

Jason exhaled his frustration, but obliged. He opened the door slowly, keeping his eyes on the baton.

Bransome blocked his entrance to the station, rhythmically slapping the rod into his cupped palm. Each impact produced a muted pop.

Jason closed the door and stood in place, but he kept his hand on the handle. If Bransome came at him, he would jump back in the car and lock the doors.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m pissed enough to use this. You better go straight to Ms. Hahn’s house or I’ll have you as a guest here.”

“That’s all I plan to do.”

Bransome took a step back so Jason could pass. “We’ll be watching twenty-four/seven, so if you’re up to anything, we’ll know. Ms. Hahn has instructions to stay in Mendocino. She leaves town, she’s back in the clink.”

Jason waited until he was three steps beyond Bransome, then stopped and turned around. “Have you talked with her aunt? Ella?”

“Why would I? If she has any useful information, it’s locked up in that suitcase she calls a head.”

Jason shook his. “I may be able to get through to her, but only briefly. I think she might be able to help. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Bransome stepped forward and swung his baton into his palm with a single, loud pop. “I don’t find ass-kissing an endearing trait, Powers. You find anything out, from anyone, you better get it here as fast as you can without getting a speeding ticket. If I find out you’re withholding anything, I’ll let this toothpick loose on your head.”

Jason reached for the door, but stopped short. Officer Wilson exited and nearly plowed over him.

“Wait,” Bransome said. “Have you talked with her lawyer?”

Jason glanced over his shoulder. “No. Why?”

“The pencil-dick is acting like he owns the place. I thought the two of you might be related.” Bransome nodded to Wilson, who walked to an unmarked Ford that faced the parking lot exit. The officer swung into the driver’s seat.

“I don’t even know who he is,” Jason said. “He must know what he’s doing if you don’t like him.”

Bransome stomped over and poked his baton at Jason’s throat, leaving it an inch short of the Adam’s apple. “You play wiseass with me and I’ll put you fifty IQ points behind Ella Hahn. I almost hope there’s another murder. Anything happens from now on and I’ll consider you an accomplice. You’ve got motive and opportunity. As far as I can tell, you’ll do anything to get a book out of this. Even help Agnes carve up someone else.”

This time, Jason knew Bransome wouldn’t hesitate to use the stick. He needed to calm him down. “You still think she’s guilty?”

“As sin. My guess is she’s a real smart one. She’s probably playing you. Playing that geek of a lawyer. Playing you all. But not me. I got a line on her. I can feel it. In fact, I’ll bet a month’s wage. You want to take it?”

Jason opened the door and hurried in, hoping it would shut Bransome outside. It did. He hurried down the hall to the booking room. Bransome was a seasoned veteran, the kind whose intuition didn’t need corrective lenses.

Jason felt his shirt sticking to his back. How much did he really know about Agnes Hahn? Was he playing hunches, or was he doing all this to piss off Bransome? His hunches had served him well in the past. Or did he see dollar signs above all else? And what if Agnes decided to hone her razor on his crotch when they got to her house? He hadn’t given that possibility a thought before now. He tried to put it out of his mind. Bottom line? Was he convinced enough to take Bransome’s bet?

“No way,” he said as he rested his elbows on the high counter.

Jason opened the police station door for Agnes, but she hesitated, shielding her eyes against the glare. He scanned the parking lot. Bransome was gone. The whir of a starter brought an engine to life, and Jason snapped his gaze to the white Ford. Officer Wilson stared back through the lightly tinted window. His hands gripped the steering wheel.

Jason ushered Agnes to her car, but paused by the hood. “Do you want to drive?”

Her focus stayed on the ground. “No.”

He couldn’t decipher her expression. Can one be truly blank? Indifferent, maybe.

A double push on the remote button, and the car doors clunked an invitation.

Agnes slipped into the Honda and settled into the seat like it was an old friend, but then she stiffened, staring ahead, hands on her lap. Her feet and knees clamped together, like she was uncomfortable, afraid.

As the Honda turned left out of the parking lot, Jason peeked in the rearview mirror. The Ford followed. He assumed Officer Wilson wouldn’t bother giving tickets on this trip, but he pushed aside the temptation to test the theory. He signaled every lane change and turn, and kept the speedometer dead on the posted limit. Agnes remained silent so he forced a conversation.

“Are you glad to be out?”

Yes.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about Lilin?”

No.

“No.”

“No, not now, or no, not ever?”

No answer.

He looked over at her.

“Not now,” she said.

He smiled. “You’ll tell me when?”

Silence.

Officer Wilson didn’t follow the turn into Agnes’s driveway. The Ford stopped directly across the street. Jason slowed and scanned the lot. Wilson’s observation site gave an unobstructed view of the entire front of the house, as well as the garage and adjacent side yard.

As he pulled the Honda to the garage door, Agnes’s hand shot toward him and he jerked back, bumping his head on the window. She thrust a pointed finger at the driver’s side visor, jabbing at the black plastic remote switch. The garage door grunted, then slowly lifted.

Despite the tingling in his armpits and the heat radiating from his face, Jason forced himself to straighten, inched the car into the center of the double garage, and looked over his shoulder to judge the clearance of the rear of the car. His eyes strayed farther. Officer Wilson sat in his car, staring.

A thunderous roar sounded through the garage. Jason nearly came out of his skin, his heart thumping. The jarring sound gave way to a constant whir and he realized Agnes had pushed the remote button again. Moisture formed along his hairline.

He thought about throwing the Honda in reverse, flooring it to break the control beam and stop the descending door, but the dwindling light told him he was too late. He looked over at Agnes. She sat in her original posture, staring straight ahead.

He twisted the key and yanked it from the ignition as the light in the garage settled down to the glow of a forty-watt bulb. What if she was the killer?

Fumbling, he flicked the door handle and slid out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Agnes remained frozen for what seemed an eternity, but was more like fifteen seconds. She slipped out of the car and walked to the front fender. He felt himself move to the rear, keeping the full width of the car between them.

She stopped, and a puzzled expression swept her face. “Do you want to come in?”

He looked around. There was no other choice. The side door of the garage opened into the house. The only other exit was the large garage door, which was now tightly closed. He could get to the remote on the visor before she could, but that would place him in a vulnerable position, inside the car. He shook his head. What was he thinking? She was as meek as they came and barely over a hundred pounds. The murders didn’t involve guns—weapons of distance. Blades were close range. Intimate. He could handle her up close. Just like the victims?