Girl With a Past (3 page)

“The worst was when Kennedy and King were
killed.” I remembered how my hope had died the moment I heard the
radio announcer tell us presidential candidate Bobby Kennedy had
been shot in the Ambassador Hotel kitchen hallway. In despair, most
of us had turned to drugs, art and music for consolation, but,
unlike the most discouraged of our generation, we had not “dropped
out.”

Jeff picked up a joint from the tray, lit
it, took a big toke, smiled at each of us in turn, and passed the
“relief from our despair” to Lauren. Lauren took a hit, held her
breath, and turned to me. By the time the weed had gone around the
circle twice, Jeff pulled out a roach clip to avoid any waste.

Ron, the wannabe preppie surfer, had stayed
in town to pick up his friend Suzy from the library. Around ten,
they joined in the fun.

We smoked, played a few mind games, drank,
got the munchies and ordered a pizza.

“Hey, whaddaya think about this Zodiac guy?”
Ron asked as he pulled dripping cheese on to the top of the piece
of pizza he had lifted from the box.

“I think he’s scary as hell, that’s what,”
Suzy said.

“Do ya think he really killed all those
people he claims?” Ron asked, looked around the circle of faces as
he munched on a bite.

“Why would he say he killed more than he
actually did?” I asked.

“Cause he’s nuts?” Jeff asked.

“That’s obvious from the notes he sends to
the
Chronicle,”
Derek said.

“I can’t look at them. I wish they wouldn’t
print them on the front page. Those letters creep me out.” Lauren
shivered.

“Why do they print the notes at all?” I
asked. “Doesn’t it just encourage the guy?”

“The psycho tells them he’ll kill even more
people if they don’t print them,” Ron muttered, his mouth full of
pizza.

“Is it true that he kills young lovers?”
Suzy asked.

“He seems to have a knack for finding people
in compromising positions on their first date,” Jeff explained.

“How in the world does he know it’s their
first date?” I asked.

Everyone in the circle shrugged their
shoulders, shook their heads.

“Good question,” Jeff said.

“Maybe he follows pretty girls around,” Ron
said, “waits for them to meet a new guy.”

“Oh, that’s just too, too horrifying.”
Lauren shuddered.

“Yuck, yuck, yuck,” Suzy said. “Where’s the
dope? I need a hit.”

We smoked some more, and finally decided to
dance.

Jeff changed the record to slow, romantic
music. Following one dance that was more like
standing-up-making-out, Jeff and Lauren wandered down the hall hand
in hand. “We’re gonna hit the rack,” Jeff called out.

Ron led Suzy into the next room where Dave
was writing his usual, a business plan. Ron asked Dave for use of
his bedroom.

Dave shot Ron a scowl, but was too much of a
kiss-ass to say no.

Now we were alone in the room. Derek held me
tighter, kissed my neck sending chills down my body.

But I dreaded what I knew was coming; Suzy,
the screamer. Suzy’s pre-orgasmic groans were shockingly loud when
she and Ron had sex; I was embarrassed even before the noises
started.

At the first dramatic moan, followed by an
even louder grunt, Derek said, “Is that what I think it is? Or I
should say, who I think it is?”

“Shit.” I nodded.

“You wanta get outa here?” Derek asked.

We climbed into Derek’s VW bug, the same
model that we all had and headed to his place.

All my friends owned VW Bugs. If their
parents insisted they get a new one, the usual routine was to kick
a few dents into the fenders and smear it with mud. In Berkeley in
the 60’s, it wasn’t hip to look as though you came from money.

I loved my bug––an early ragtop, black on
the outside, red inside, and I had replaced the interior lining
with yellow fabric printed with red and black ladybugs.

Derek surprised me when he stopped at a pay
phone on Hearst Avenue, made a quick call, and hopped back in the
car.

I looked at him questioningly. I was a
little freaked, “What’s happening?”

“Ah, sorry, just something I forgot.”

Derek flipped on lights as we entered a
brown shingle craftsman in the flats. I followed him into the
kitchen where he stood studying the contents of the fridge.

“Wanna beer?”

“Sure.” I glanced around the room. The
original kitchen had been updated, walls taken down to create a
dining area, and the back wall replaced with sliding glass doors
opening onto a deck. Unusually neat for student housing, especially
male student housing. A movement in the yard beyond the deck
startled me. “Do you have housemates?”

“Yeah, three other architecture students.
They’re on campus. Chained to their drafting tables no doubt.”
Derek smiled, handed me a beer.

I tilted the bottle to my lips, took a long
swallow. Then I asked, “Did you call to see if they were home?”

Derek looked at me puzzled.

“The phone call? At the pay phone?”

“Oh, that.” He bit his lip.

Was that a blush? I waited for an
answer.

“I thought maybe someone had come over,” he
finally said.

“Your girlfriend?”

“No,” he said, “nothing like that.”

I gave him a faint smile, took another slug
of the beer.

“I thought maybe my father might stop by.
Seemed like that might be a bit awkward. That’s all. He’s not.
Coming by, that is.” He shot me that smile, the one I couldn’t
resist. “Wanna see my room?”

I giggled and he grinned.

He wrapped an arm around my waist and led me
to his attic bedroom with a wall-to-wall bed nestled against a
window overlooking the bay.

He patted the corner of the bed. “Come,
check out the view.”

Could I do this? Carol’s voice in my head
said, “Do it!”

“That’s quite a line.” I had to admire the
clever set up. “Does this usually work?”

“This does.” He reached out and pulled me
close until his lips touched mine in a gentle, tentative kiss. I
wrapped my arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. He smiled
into my eyes, slid my arms off his neck, peeled off my jacket and
it hit the floor.

Yes, I could do this; I wanted to do
this.

His hand explored the center of my back. His
sly smile reacted to my lack of a bra.

He removed my belt, lifted my tunic over my
head and eased me down next to him on the bed. His mouth crushed
mine. Then he kissed his way down my body and stroked feathery soft
touches on my breasts.

My nipples hardened, and a growing warmth
traveled down to a yearning between my legs. His mouth
followed.

Oh yeah, it definitely worked.

* * *

I’d finally satisfied Carol’s nagging me to
fuck someone new so I would realize there were other lovers
possible. She insisted I’d get over the one who had broken my
heart, and left me gun shy.

But this didn’t feel right. I fought back
the post-orgasmic emotions, the urge to cuddle. He was too good,
too smooth, too practiced. I refused to fall for this guy just
because he was a skilled lover. In fact his skill was the very
thing that put me off. He was too good to be true, to be true to me
that is.

A noise near the front of the house startled
me. Probably his housemates were coming home. I had to get out of
there. “Take me home please.”

“What?” He pushed himself up on his arms and
studied my face. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“I want to go home.” I turned my face to the
side; I couldn’t look at the hurt in his eyes. Just his ego that’s
hurt, I told myself. “Please, take me home.”

He rolled off me. Turned his back and picked
up his jeans.

I gathered my clothes from the floor and
scrambled into them. Tossing on my jacket, I threw my scarf around
my neck and headed for the door.

Derek followed, grabbed my arm on the
landing. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pulled my arm from his grasp.
The twinge of guilt for hurting his feelings didn’t out weigh my
fear of being hurt again. Didn’t so-called liberated women
understand why the sex act was called “making love”? “Look, it’s
not you, that was . . . nice . . . very nice . . . just, just too
much for me. I’m not used to going so fast.”

“Nice? That was nice? Not mind blowing? Not
fab? Or even bitchin?” Derek pulled me around so that he could look
in my eyes. “I’m sorry. For me, it was a lot more than nice.”

I moved out of his arms, but waited while he
dressed.

He held my hand; we walked down the stairs
side by side. He opened the door and guided me through the opening
with his arm around my waist. “One last kiss.” He pulled me to him,
brushed his lips across mine, nibbled on my bottom lip, and
groaned, “Stay the night, please.”

I wrenched away and ran down the porch
stairs to the street.

There was a loud bang, a car backfire? A
glimpse of a dark figure wearing a black hood, another bang, then
something hit my head, slammed it hard, knocked me down, my hand to
my head covered in warm fluid, sharp unbearable pain filled my
skull.

Then merciful blackness closed in.

Letter to the
San Francisco Chronicle
newspaper received May 1969

PRINT THIS LETTER TOMORROW OR I WILL GO ON A
KILLING SPREE ON THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO AND I GUARANTEE 12
DEAD IN ONE DAY.

GOOD CLEAN HEAD SHOT

A NEW LOCK TO MY COLLECTION

WHAT the HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOUNG GIRLS
THESE DAYS? USED TO BE SOILED WOMEN HAD LITTLE CHOICE BUT TO SELL
THEMSELVES. NOW THEY CALL IT FREE LOVE!

LOT OF WORK TO DO.

GOTTA PURGE THE WORLD OF THIS FILTH.

ROLL IT

SHOOT IT

MARK IT WITH Z

PUT IT IN THE OVEN

FOR BABY AND ME

ZODIAC

1

San Francisco, March 2008

My name is Alexandra Nichols, but everyone
calls me Al. Even my dad.

Usually the best way to talk to my father is
to visit his office in San Francisco, but that day he was totally
into a case he was prosecuting soon. His secretary had done her
best to stop my entrance, but I pushed past and opened the heavy
oak door.

“Dad, I can’t find the Zodiac file. Did your
new secretary do something with it?”

“Al,” my startled father looked up from the
law book on his massive oak desk, “what do you want with it?”

I plopped into one of his leather guest
chairs, “To look at it.”

“Why?” He removed his reading glasses,
studied my face.

I returned his stare, scowling at him. “Do I
have to have a reason?”

“Why the sudden interest?” Dad asked, as the
chime of a new email caught his attention.

He glanced at the laptop on his desk.

“I don’t know . . . I had a dream a couple
weeks ago, it’s been coming back. Probably from you keeping that
file around when I was a kid.” I swung my legs over the arm of the
chair trying to appear casual. If I told Dad about the nightmares
that had gotten worse every night, if I said, “I’m afraid to go to
sleep because I’m haunted by this terrifying image of a dark figure
in a black hood,” he’d be alarmed. He’d want me to “talk to
someone.”

Especially if I told him I woke up with
blinding headaches after each of the nightmares––pain in my head
that felt like half of my face had been blown off.

The dreams started my freshman year at Cal
and got increasingly frequent and more intense each year. Then,
last summer I paid a visit to a great aunt in Pacific Heights. I
saw this kid on a bike. He was about sixteen. Strong déjà vu. My
heart leapt, then fell. Something about him was familiar. He looked
like some one but I couldn’t think of who. I watched his dark head
disappear as he rode away and my heart ached with loss. I had no
clue why I reacted like that, but the dark nightmare got even worse
that night.

Now, in my senior year, the headaches that
followed the nightmare were so bad I often missed morning
classes.

Then again, if I told him, maybe he’d stop
looking at his computer and talk to me. “Hey, Dad!”

“What?” He closed the lid of his laptop and
leaned back in his fancy black mesh chair.

“When I was little, I used to sit at your
desk at home and pretend I was a lawyer.”

“Yeah, you sure did.” He smiled at the
memory of his five-year old daughter playing prosecuting attorney,
how I would pick up the phone and mimic his voice and attitude when
talking to defense attorneys.

“That file was on your desk for years. I
looked for it after dinner when I was over last night and it wasn’t
there.” I could vaguely recall the contents of the folder; I
remembered that I felt a strong connection to the incidents.

And my first totally bad headache started
while I was looking at newspaper clippings included with the
papers. “Mom thought you’d brought it to the office.”

“Al, please, there’s no need to dig all that
up again. It’s ancient history.”

“Where is it?” I grinned at my father. He
was a good guy; all my school chums were hot for him. He still had
a full head of strawberry blonde hair, although it got lighter
every year. He and Mom spent enough time on golf courses, tennis
courts, sailboats, and ski hills to maintain his year round
tan.

“I put it away. Decided it was time to get
over it.” He glanced at the book on his desk.

“Why?” I knew he needed to get back to work,
but I persisted. “Why give up on it now after decades of
obsession?”

“Don’t you have classes today? A painting to
work on?” He raised a blonde eyebrow at me. “What are you doing
hanging around here anyway? You don’t work here anymore. Summer’s
over.”