Returning the financial statements to the desk drawer, I began to sense that I had stayed too long in this place.
I assumed that the engine noise of the Explorer pulling into the carport would alert me to Robertson’s return and that I would be able to slip out of the front as he entered by the side door. If for any reason he parked in the street or came home on foot, however, I might find myself trapped before I discovered that he had arrived.
McVeigh, Manson, and Mohammad Atta seemed to watch me. How easily I could imagine that genuine awareness informed the intense eyes in those photographs and that they glinted now with wicked expectation.
Lingering a moment longer, I turned backward through the small, square day-date pages on the desk calendar, searching for notations of appointments or other reminders that Robertson might have written during recent weeks. All the note lines were blank.
I returned to the current date—Tuesday, August 14—and then flipped forward, into the future. The page for August 15 was missing. Nothing had been written in the calendar after that date for as far as I cared to look.
Leaving everything as I had found it, I rose from the desk and went to the door. I switched off the overhead light.
Golden sunshine, trimmed into flame shapes by the intervening bladelike leaves of the melaleuca, made a false fire on the sheer curtains, without greatly illuminating the room, and the emboldened shadows seemed to gather more heavily around the portraits of the three killers than elsewhere.
A thought occurred to me—which happens more often than some people might suppose and certainly more often than I would prefer—whereupon I switched the light on again and went to the bank of file cabinets. In the drawer labeled R, I checked to see if, among these dossiers of butchers and lunatics, Fungus Man kept a file on himself.
I found one. The tab declared: ROBERTSON, ROBERT THOMAS.
How convenient it would have been if this folder had contained newspaper clippings concerning unsolved murders as well as highly incriminating items related to those killings. I could have memorized the file, replaced it, and reported my findings to Wyatt Porter.
With that information, Chief Porter could have figured a way to entrap Robertson. We could have put the creep behind bars before he had a chance to commit whatever crimes he might be currently contemplating.
The file, however, contained but a single item: the page that was missing from the desk calendar. Wednesday, August 15.
Robertson had written nothing on the note lines. Apparently, in his mind, the date itself was significant enough to include as the first item in the file.
I consulted my wristwatch. In six hours and four minutes, August 14 and August 15 would meet at the midnight divide.
And after that, what would happen? Something. Something…not good.
Returning to the living room, to the stained furniture and the dust and the litter of publications, I was struck once more by the sharp contrast between the well-cleaned and well-ordered study and the rest of the residence.
Out here, engrossed sometimes in raunchy magazines and sometimes in romances innocent enough to be read by ministers’ wives, evidently oblivious of forgotten banana peels and empty coffee mugs and dirty socks long overdue for laundering, Robertson seemed to be unfocused, adrift. This was a man of half-formed clay, his identity in doubt.
By contrast, the Robertson who spent time in the study, creating and tending to those hundreds of files, surfing websites dealing with serial killers and mass murderers, knew precisely who he was—or at least who he wished to be.
FOURTEEN
I LEFT AS I HAD ENTERED, BY THE SIDE DOOR connecting the kitchen and the carport, but I didn’t immediately return to the Mustang that I had borrowed from Terri Stambaugh. Instead, I went behind the house to have a close look at the backyard.
The front lawn had been half dead, but the grass here in back had withered away long ago. The well-baked dirt had not received a drop of water since the last rain in late February, five and a half hot months ago.
If a man were in the habit of burying his victims, dismembered or not, in the backyard, a la John Wayne Gacy, he would keep the soil receptive to a shovel. This hardpan would break the point of a pick and send any midnight gravedigger in search of a jackhammer.
Fenced with open chain-link on which grew no vines or other screening vegetation, the backyard offered no privacy to a murderer with an inconvenient corpse on his hands. If they were of a ghoulish disposition, the neighbors could open a keg of beer, set up lawn chairs, and watch the interment for entertainment.
Supposing that Robertson was an actual serial killer instead of merely a wannabe, he had planted his garden elsewhere. I suspected, however, that the file he had created for himself was complete as of this date and that his debut performance would be tomorrow.
Watching from the edge of the barrel-tile roof, a crow cracked its orange beak and shrieked, as though it suspected that I had come to poach whatever crispy beetles and other sparse fare it fed upon in this parched territory.
I thought of Poe’s dire raven, perched above the parlor door, maddeningly repeating one word—nevermore, nevermore.
Standing there, gazing up, I didn’t realize that the crow was an omen, or that Poe’s famous verse would, in fact, serve as the key to unlock its meaning. Had I understood then that this shrill crow was my raven, I would have acted much differently in the hours that followed; and Pico Mundo would still be a place of hope.
Failing to understand the importance of the crow, I returned to the Mustang, where I found Elvis sitting in the passenger’s seat. He wore boat shoes, khaki slacks, and a Hawaiian shirt.
All other ghosts of my acquaintance have been limited in their wardrobes to the clothes that they were wearing when they perished.
For instance, Mr. Callaway, my high-school English teacher, died on his way to a costume party, dressed as the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz. Because he had been a man of some refinement, born with dignity and poise, I found it depressing, in the months following his death, to encounter him around town in his cheap velour costume, his whiskers drooping, his tail dragging the ground after him. I was much relieved when at last he let go of this world and moved on.
In death as in life, Elvis Presley makes his own rules. He seems to be able to conjure any costume that he wore on a stage or in the movies, as well as the clothes that he wore when not performing. His attire is different from one manifestation to the next.
I have read that after downing an imprudent number of sleeping pills and depressants, he died in his underwear or maybe in his pajamas. Some say that he was found in a bathrobe as well, but some say not. He has never yet appeared to me in quite such casual dress.
For certain, he died in his bathroom at Graceland, unshaven and facedown in a puddle of vomit. This is in the coroner’s report.
Happily, he always greets me clean-shaven and without a beard of upchuck.
On this occasion, when I sat behind the steering wheel and closed the car door, he smiled and nodded. His smile had an unusual melancholy quality.
He reached out and patted me on the arm, clearly expressing sympathy, if not pity. This puzzled and somewhat troubled me, for I had suffered nothing that would warrant such an expression of commiseration.
Here in the aftermath of August 15, I still cannot say how much Elvis knew then of the terrible events that were about to unfold. I suspect he foresaw all of it.
Like other ghosts, Elvis does not speak. Nor sing.
He dances sometimes if he’s in a rhythmic mood. He’s got some cool moves, but he’s no Gene Kelly.
I started the car and punched up some random-play music on the CD box. Terri keeps the six-disc magazine stocked with the best work of her idol.
When “Suspicious Minds” came from the speakers, Elvis seemed to be pleased. With his fingertips, he tapped the rhythm on the dashboard as I drove out of Camp’s End.
By the time we reached Chief Wyatt Porter’s house in a better nei
ghborhood, we were listening to “Mama Liked the Roses,” from Elvis’s Christmas Album, and the King of Rock ’n’ Roll had succumbed to quiet tears.
I prefer not to see him like this. The hard-driving rocker who sang “Blue Suede Shoes” wears a cocky smile and even a sneer better than he does tears.
Karla Porter, Wyatt’s wife, answered the door. Willowy, lovely, with eyes as green as lotus petals, she unfailingly projects an aura of serenity and quiet optimism that is in contrast with her husband’s doleful face and mournful eyes.
I suspect Karla is the reason that Wyatt’s job has not worn him down to total ruin. Each of us needs a source of inspiration in his life, a cause for hope, and Karla is Wyatt’s.
“Oddie,” she said, “what a pleasure to see you. Come in, come in. Wyatt is out back, getting ready to destroy some perfectly good steaks on the barbecue. We’re having a few people to dinner, we’ve got plenty extra, so I hope you’ll stay.”
As she led me through the house, unaware that Elvis accompanied us in a “Heartbreak Hotel” mood, I said, “Thank you, ma’am, that’s very gracious of you, but I’ve got another engagement. I just stopped by to have a quick word with the chief.”
“He’ll be delighted to see you,” she assured me. “He always is.”
In the backyard, she turned me over to Wyatt, who was wearing an apron bearing the words BURNT AND GREASY GOES BETTER WITH BEER.
“Odd,” Chief Porter said, “I hope you’ve not come here to ruin my evening.”
“That’s not my intention, sir.”
The chief was tending to two grills—the first fired by gas for vegetables and ears of corn, the second by charcoal for the steaks.
With the sun still more than two hours above the horizon, a day of desert sunshine stored in the patio concrete, and visible waves of heat pouring off both barbecues, he should have been making enough salt water to reconstitute the long-dead sea of Pico Mundo. He was, however, as dry as the star of an antiperspirant commercial.
Over the years, I have seen Chief Porter sweat only twice. On the first occasion, a thoroughly nasty man was aiming a spear gun at the chief’s crotch from a distance of just two feet, and the second occasion was much more unnerving than that.
Checking out the bowls of potato salad, corn chips, and fresh fruit salad on the picnic table, Elvis seemed to lose interest when he realized that no deep-fried banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches would be provided. He wandered off to the swimming pool.
After I declined a bottle of Corona, the chief and I sat in lawn chairs, and he said, “You been communing with the dead again?”
“Yes, sir, off and on all day. But this isn’t so much about who’s dead as who might be soon.”
I told him about Fungus Man at the restaurant and later at Green Moon Mall.
“I saw him at the Grille,” the chief said, “but he didn’t strike me as suspicious, just…unfortunate.”
“Yes, sir, but you didn’t have the advantage of being able to see his fan club.” I described the disturbing size of Fungus Man’s bodach entourage.
When I recounted my visit to the small house in Camp’s End, I pretended, rather ludicrously, that the side door had been standing open and that I had gone inside under the impression that someone might be in trouble. This relieved the chief of the need to conspire with me, after the fact, in the crime of breaking and entering.
“I’m not a high-wire artist,” he reminded me.
“No, sir.”
“You expect me to walk a dangerously narrow line sometimes.”
“I have great respect for your balance, sir.”