fence and mature cottonwood trees provided privacy. If a narrow line of sight between branches gave neighbors a sliver of a view, the moonlight alone didn’t brighten the scene enough to lend credibility to their testimony in a courtroom.
I muscled the sheet-wrapped cadaver off the floor, into the open window. I shoved him out feetfirst because though he was inarguably dead, I felt squeamish about dropping him on his head. Halfway out the window, the sheet hung up on a protruding nail head, but with determination, I maneuvered him far enough to let gravity take over.
The drop from the windowsill to the ground measured twelve or thirteen feet. Not far. Yet the impact produced a brutal, sickening sound that seemed instantly identifiable as a dead body plummeting to hard earth from a height.
No dogs barked. No one said, Did you hear something, Maude? No one said, Yes, Clem, I heard Odd Thomas drop a corpse out his window. Pico Mundo slept on.
Using paper towels to avoid leaving fingerprints, I plucked the pistol off the carpet. I added the gun to the contents of the plastic shopping bag.
In the bathroom once more, I checked to be sure that I hadn’t missed anything obvious during the cleanup. Later I would need to do a more thorough job than I had time for now: vacuum for incriminating hairs and fibers, wipe every surface to eliminate Bob Robertson’s prints ...
I wouldn’t be helping the killer get away with the crime. By all indications, he was a cool professional who would have been too smart and too self-aware to have left fingerprints or any other evidence of his presence.
When I consulted my wristwatch, what I saw surprised me. One-thirty-eight A.M. The night had seemed to be racing toward dawn. I’d thought it must be two-thirty or later.
Nonetheless, time was running out for me. My watch was digital, but I could hear my opportunity for action tick-tick-ticking away.
After turning off the bathroom light, I went to the front window once more, cracked the blind, and studied the street. If anyone was standing vigil, I still couldn’t spot him.
Carrying the shopping bag, I went outside and locked the front door behind me. Descending the steps, I felt as intently watched as a Miss America contestant during the swimsuit competition.
Although pretty much certain that no eyes were on me, I balanced a load of guilt that made me self-conscious. I nervously scanned the night, looking everywhere but at the steps in front of me; it’s proof of miracles that I didn’t fall and break my neck and leave a second body for the police to puzzle over.
You might wonder what I had to feel guilty about, considering that I hadn’t killed Bob Robertson.
Well, I never need a good reason to embrace guilt. Sometimes I feel responsible for train wrecks in Georgia, terrorist bombs in distant cities, tornadoes in Kansas ...
A part of me believes that if I worked more aggressively to explore my gift and to develop it, instead of merely coping with it on a day-by-day basis, I might be able to assist in the apprehension of more criminals and spare more lives from both bad men and brutal nature, even in places far removed from Pico Mundo. I know this is not the case. I know that to pursue much greater involvement with the supernatural would be to lose touch with reality, to spiral down into a genteel madness, whereafter I would be no good to anyone. Yet that chastising part of me weighs my character from time to time and judges me inadequate.
I understand why I am such an easy mark for guilt. The origins lie with my mother and her guns.
Recognizing the structure of your psychology doesn’t mean that you can easily rebuild it. The Chamber of Unreasonable Guilt is part of my mental architecture, and I doubt that I will ever be able to renovate that particular room in this strange castle that is me.
When I reached the bottom of the steps without anyone rushing forward to shout J’accuse!, I started around the side of the garage—then stopped, struck by the sight of the nearby house and the thought of Rosalia Sanchez.
I intended to use her Chevy, which she herself seldom drives, to move Robertson’s body, then return the vehicle to the garage without her being the wiser. I didn’t need a key. As a high-school student, I may not have paid as much attention in math class as would have been advisable, but long ago I had learned to hot-wire a car.
My sudden concern about Rosalia had nothing to do with the possibility of her seeing me at this nefarious bit of work, and everything to do with her safety.
If another man, with murder on his mind, had gone with Robertson into my apartment between 5:30 and 7:45, they’d done so in daylight. Bright Mojave daylight.
I suspected that the two men had arrived as conspirators and that Robertson thought they were engaged on a bit of nasty business aimed at me. Perhaps he believed they were going to lie in wait for me. He must have been surprised when his companion drew a gun on him.
Once Robertson was dead and I’d been set up for murder, the killer would not have hung around to try on my underwear and sample the leftovers in my refrigerator. He would have left quickly, also in daylight.
Surely he had worried that someone in the nearby house might have seen him entering with his victim or departing alone.
Unwilling to risk a witness, he might have knocked on Rosalia’s back door after he had dealt with Robertson. A gentle widow, living alone, would have been an easy kill.
In fact, if he were a thorough and cautious man, he probably would have visited her before bringing Bob Robertson here. He would have used the same pistol in both instances, framing me for two murders.
Judging by the swiftness and boldness with which he had acted to eliminate a compromised associate, this unknown man was thorough, cautious, and much more.
Rosalia’s house stood silent. No lights shone at any of her windows, only a ghostly face that was, in fact, merely the reflection of the westering moon.
I STARTED ACROSS THE DRIVEWAY TOWARD Rosalia’s back porch before I realized that I had begun to move. After a few steps, I halted.
If she was dead, I could do nothing for her. And if Robertson’s killer had visited her, he had surely not left her alive.
Until now I had thought of Robertson as a lone gunman, a mental and moral freak scheming toward his bloody moment in history, like so many of those infamous scum in his exquisitely maintained files.
He might have been exactly that at one time, but he had become that and more. He had met another who thrilled to the same fantasies of mindless slaughter, and together they had grown into a beast with two faces, two hateful hearts, and four busy hands to do the devil’s work.
The clue had hung on the study wall in Robertson’s house, but I had not understood it. Manson, McVeigh, and Atta. None of them had worked alone. They had conspired with others.
In the files were case histories of numerous serial killers and mass murderers who acted alone, but the three faces in his shrine were men who had found meaning in a brotherhood of evil.
My illegal visit to Robertson’s residence in Camp’s End had somehow become known to him. Maybe cameras were hidden in the house.
Sociopaths are frequently paranoids, as well. If he chose to do so, Robertson had financial resources large enough to equip his home with well-concealed, state-of-the-art videocams.
He must have told his murderous friend that I had prowled his rooms. His kill buddy might then have decided that he himself was at risk if his association with Robertson became known.
Or because of my nosing around, Robertson might have grown nervous about their plans for August 15. He might have wanted to postpone the slaughter that they had been prepared to commit.
Perhaps his psychotic friend had been too excited to accept a delay. Having