The Golem of Hollywood (20 page)

She feels the blood beat in her ears.

“Say something,” Cain says.

“What should I say?”

“Yes. Or no.”

A silence.

She says, “Your son keeps asking me to be his mother.”

A silence.

Cain says, “It's your decision, not his or mine. I learned that a long time ago, and I told him so.”

“He's not listening.”

Cain pauses. “He wants to help.”

“I know.”

A silence.

He says, “I did love her. Nava.”

She nods.

“I may have failed to convey how hard it's been on me.”

“I can imagine,” she says.

“You can't. I had someone and I lost her. You can't possibly know what that's like.”

She says, “I know.”

For a moment, he sags. Regret, or fear. Either would be a first. Either would soften her heart.

She says, “Do you ever think about him?”

He disappoints her then: he straightens up and his green eyes shine and he speaks with confidence. “I only think about what I can control.”

“That's impressive,” she says. “I remember whether I want to or not.”

“I used to see him, in my dreams.” The wind makes snakes of his hair. “But it's been so long. Now, when I try to remember . . .”

He starts to laugh.

“What,” she says.

He shakes his head, laughing. “I see a sheep.”

Asham stares at him.

“I'm sorry. That was unkind. I've changed. Everything has changed. That things turned out the way they did is unfortunate. But it's past, and I can only act in the present. I've tried to atone. You've seen how I give everything I have to my people.”

“They're not your family.”

“But they are. All men are. That's what Father was so afraid of, you see. That's why he wouldn't let us leave the valley. I didn't give him enough credit. I admit that now. He knew. He knew others were out there, that we'd find them, that we'd understand: all men are equal. He knew that if we understood that, we would refuse to submit to him.”

“We submitted to the Lord, not to Father.”

“And who told us what the Lord wanted? Father. Who told us what to do, when to do it; how we'd be punished if we didn't? Who changed the rules when he saw fit? He did.”

“Why would he lie?”

“To control us. That's what men want. Power.”

“What makes you special?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I'm like any man.
I
am no different. But
we
are. An assemblage of men. What makes
us
special is that there are many voices speaking at once. Some speak for each other. Some against. It's that loud mass of voices that produces a unity. Look at what we've been able to build. Not because of any one person. I've taken the greatest burden on my shoulders, yes, but I rely on people to help me. Do you see what I'm saying? Man survives together. It isn't right to be alone. Not for anyone.”

He pauses. “Not me. Not my son. He needs a mother. He needs you. We both do. I brought you here to show you what we're building. I'm building this for you. It's a monument to togetherness. We've both wandered, we've both been alone, we are all that we have. Don't you think I've had offers of marriage? Every man in the city wants to give his daughter to me. I refused them all. I waited for you. Every day I watched the horizon. I put sentries by the gates and I told them to watch for you. I sent the dog out to hunt for your scent. I still have your robe. I carried it with me, over mountains and through the plain. When I felt I could not go on, I raised it to my face and I remembered you. It still smells like you. I told the dog to find you and he did. Because I knew you would come, and I knew that by the time you arrived here you'd be coming in love, not anger. I have loved you forever and I will love you forever still.”

A silence.

Asham says, “Forever is a long time.”

Cain laughs: a high, frightened sound. “You see? That's what I love you for. I love you for saying that. I live in a world of flatterers and liars. You speak the truth. I need truth to come home to. I need you to come home to. Enoch does. Do it for him. No. No. Do it for me. Because you love me, I know you love me. You can't deny that. You wouldn't.”

He kneels by the edge of the tower. “If you say you don't love me, I will fling myself off.”

A silence.

Asham says, “I do love you.”

“So it's yes,” he says. “You will be my wife, as you have always meant to be.”

The wind slices through Asham's cloak, and she shivers.

Cain says, “Don't stand there like a statue.”

She kneels to be level with him.

“My love,” he says, “my love.”

She presses her mouth to his. His tongue pushes back, and their bodies kiss from chest to groin.

His skin smells of dust and oil; with demanding hands he urges her toward the ground, as he has done once before, and she breaks away, and he says, “What? What is it?”

She brushes his hair from his eyes, kisses the crown of his head, embraces him again, staring over his shoulder at a dark sky speckled with dark crows.

She holds him tightly, so as to never let him go, and—fixing the balls of her feet against the rough surface of the clay—says, “Forever.”

With the strength and conviction of vengeance long deferred, she pushes them both over the edge.

R
oughly twenty-seven thousand white Ford Econolines were registered in the state of California, not one of which bore the license plate number Jacob copied from his photograph. He ran it several times, each successive search taking longer to return the same verdict.

Not found.

Head spinning, back smarting, he rechecked that he'd entered the number correctly.

Not found.

Forged plate?

He tried his own license plate number. It came back as expected.

He plugged the van's plate in for a fifth time. The progress bar slowed, froze. He waved the mouse, whaled on the space bar, cursed. He was reaching around to do a hard reset when the system crashed entirely, a wisp of smoke wafting from the front panel vent.

To stop himself from bashing the screen in, he escaped to the kitchen. Nothing to eat; he didn't dare take a drink. It was two in the morning. He put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Mindful of his bruised tailbone, he eased down to the floor in front of his sofa, slumping against his disconnected TV, and wondered what terrible thing was happening to him.

He flashed back: the van, speeding past. Screaming tires, stench of burnt rubber. No normal person could grab on without dislocating a shoulder. So either Mai was a stuntwoman, or he hadn't really seen her.

But he had. Clear as his own reflection.

And Victor—Victor had seen her, too.

And if Victor hadn't?

Would he trust his own perception?

Subach, cradling him in his linebacker's arms.

Where'd she go.

Who?

Mai. The girl.

What girl?

The
girl
.

Jake—

Don't fuck with me. Don't you fucking fuck with me.

Jake. Buddy. Calm down.

Did it—did she get hit?

You sound funny, man.

I'm—

Maybe I hurt your neck. You should go to the ER. You might have whiplash.

I need to go.

What's—hey—wait a second.

I need to get out of here.

Wait. Jake. Wait. You're not good to drive. Jake.

Breaking free, standing.
Tell Mallick to call me.

You need to chill out, lemme buy you a drink—c'mon, give you a ride, at least . . .

ASAP.

The computer panel was no longer smoking, and the desktop booted up normally, but the moment Jacob opened up the DMV database and retried his search string, the screen froze again.

He left the coffee untouched, the progress bar grinding away in futility, staggered to his bedroom, swept aside the crime scene photos still blanketing his duvet, and fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

—

D
IVYA
D
AS
SAID
, “Good news first or bad?”

“Good.”

“I found your second offender.”

“That's great news.”

“Well, but the bad part is he doesn't bring up any additional hits. All I can tell you is he's male and probably Caucasian.”

“Thanks for trying.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “What next?”

“I'm going to start poking around seriously for other cases that match the Creeper MO. Maybe L.A. got too hot and they moved on to someplace else.”

“Sounds like fun.”

It sounded like grunt work, and it was: once he restarted the still-churning computer and sat down at the desk, he didn't get up for another ten hours except to refill his glass, go to the bathroom, or stretch the muscles bunching in his lower back. Grunt work, and he needed it, because if he allowed himself a second to think freely, his mind brought him to the events of the previous evening, and his guts began to roil.

He had seen her.

He'd seen the letters, too.

He was seeing things, and they were disappearing. Blame Sam and his eyes. Blame Bina and her mind. Sooner or later, he thought, he'd have to get himself to a doctor. An ophthalmologist. A shrink. For now, he wrote his own prescription: facts and liquor, maximum strength.

—

B
Y
ELEVEN
-
THIRTY
P
.
M
., four Post-its fluttered on the wall over the desk.

Lucinda Gaspard, New Orleans, July 2011.

Casey Klute, Miami, July 2010.

Evgeniya Shevchuk, New York, August 2008.

Dani Forrester, Las Vegas, October 2005.

The information Jacob had access to online didn't indicate what direction the vics had been facing when they died.

Put that aside and the cases matched up.

Four women, mid-twenties to late thirties, living alone. Fresh-faced and smiling, the new quartet was right at home alongside his nine.

Four first-floor residences, four doors with no forced entry.

Sixteen rope burns, two for each of eight ankles and eight wrists. No ropes found.

Eight rapes, four vaginal, four anal.

Four facedown bodies.

Four cut throats.

Four cold cases.

Zero offender DNA recovered, except in New York, where traces of vaginal semen had turned up. In the last case, Vegas PD noted that their vic's fingernails had been closely trimmed, far down enough to draw blood, maybe to eliminate skin cells. No mention of that in the other files.

Maybe the evil twins had grown more careful over twenty years. In the New York case—Shevchuk—he guessed broken condoms.

If the sample taken from Shevchuk was filed in CODIS, why hadn't Divya gotten a match to Mr. Head?

Jacob wondered if he was reading too much into the similarities, desire deepening shallow footholds. He needed to speak to the other Ds, find out more about body positioning. Midnight. Too late to call.

Perfect hour for building speculative castles, though.

—

N
ONE
OF
THE
INVESTIGATORS
had linked their murders to the Creeper—understandable, given the lack of proximity and the fact that the story had been out of the news for two decades.

Nor had they linked any one of them to any other. He couldn't fault them for that, either.

What jumped out at Jacob were the dates. If even one of the four murders belonged to his bad guys, the duo had been active within the last seven years, possibly as recently as last year.

Increasing the likelihood that the remaining guy, Mr. Head's partner and possible slayer, was alive.

Out there.

The first killing had gone down in 2005. Bad guys checked the paper like anyone else. More often, and more carefully, if they were looking for information about themselves. Could be they'd read the 2004
Times
article about Ludwig retiring and decided it was safe to resume operations—just not in L.A.

New Orleans, Miami, New York, Las Vegas.

Each of those cities had its fair share of action and distraction. They were places you could go and be anonymous.

Find a cheap weekend fare, carve up a girl, come home?

Open-ended searches for the cities and dates yielded too many hits. Putting quotes around each city and year created the opposite problem.

The months of the murders clustered, somewhat: July through October. At this point, anything remotely patternlike was tempting. Human nature to see faces in the clouds or Jesus in oatmeal.

NCIC had only listed one sample found on Shevchuk, raising another possibility: one of the bad guys had gone solo. Or found another partner who hadn't left semen.

The latter seemed a big risk to take. Three can keep a secret if two are dead. And one or both of the Creepers had been careful enough to evade capture for this long. So if one bad guy had found a new buddy, he'd have to be persuasive.

I'll cut off your head
persuasive?

Jacob checked his e-mail yet again, hoping for an answer from Mallick
about the 911 recording. Instead, a message from Phil Ludwig caught his eye.

The subject heading:
Your bug.

From my friend the entomologist, best I could do, sorry.

Below it, a forwarded e-mail.

Dear Phil,

We're good thanks, Rosie sends regards. Exciting news, we booked Costa Rica.

Jacob skipped down several paragraphs of chitchat.

So anyhow about your friend's beetle. I agree w/ you, v. hard to tell from low-res images. Head shape and size (if he is remembering it correctly, that seems pretty big to me, people get spooked, he probably overestimated)

Jacob frowned. He knew how big the beetle was; he'd held it, and it had easily stretched the length of his palm.

He kept reading.

put me in mind of rhinos but none that I know a lot about, I'm no expert, maybe O. nasicornis (see below) but coloration is wrong and never seen one in Southern California. Could be someone's pet that got out? Too bad you don't have it, you could name your own species lol.

Take care

Jim

The attached photo showed top and bottom views of a beetle. The head was spadelike, with a prominent central horn. Jim was right, though: the color was off, a shiny reddish brown instead of jet black.

Jacob typed
O. nasicornis
into Wikipedia and read about the European rhinoceros beetle, a member of the subfamily Dynastinae (rhinoceros beetles), of the family Scarabaeidae (scarabs). It ranged in size from about three-quarters of an inch to an inch and a half, and its maximum of two and a half inches appeared too small. Where his beetle's underside shone like onyx,
O. nasicornis
sprouted long red hair.

A pet?

He started clicking through links, hoping he'd luck onto a match, but
it swiftly became clear that Ludwig's estimate of a hundred jillion species was conservative. He did learn that large horned beetles were indeed kept as pets in parts of Asia, and that they were pitted against each other for money, like pit bulls or gamecocks or tiny exoskeletal MMA fighters.

At least he knew what to get Bar Lady for Valentine's Day.

He closed out the browser and went around the apartment, checking his roach motels. They didn't seem to be doing much business, so he tossed them out and determined not to think about it anymore. He had enough on his hands without worrying about an infestation that, for all appearances, had cleared up on its own.