"No," she said irritably. "It doesn't make the slightest bit of sense."
"Good. I'm glad to hear that. If you said it did, I'd be worried about you."
"But, dammit, something highly unusual is happening here. Something extraordinary. And it seems to me that Sheriff Laurenski must be a part of it. After all, he protected Frye last week, actually lied for him. And now he's avoiding you because he doesn't have an acceptable explanation for his actions. Doesn't that seem like suspicious behavior to you? Doesn't he seem like a man who is up to his neck in some sort of conspiracy?"
"No," Tony said. "To me, he just seems like a very badly embarrassed policeman. For an officer of the law, he committed a damned serious error. He covered for a local big shot because he thought the man couldn't possibly be involved in rape and attempted murder. He couldn't get hold of Frye last Wednesday night, but he pretended that he had. He was totally convinced that Frye wasn't the man we wanted. But he was wrong. And now he's thoroughly ashamed of himself."
"Is that what you think?" she asked.
"That's what everyone at HQ thinks."
"Well, it's not what I think."
"Hilary--"
"I saw Bruno Frye tonight!"
Instead of gradually coming to her senses, as he had hoped she would do, she was getting worse, retreating further into this dark fantasy of walking dead men and strange conspiracies. He decided to get tough with her.
"Hilary, you didn't see Bruno Frye. He wasn't here. Not tonight. He's dead. Dead and buried. This was another man who came after you tonight. You're in mild shock. You're confused. That's perfectly understandable. However--"
She pulled her hand out of his and stepped back from him.
"I am not confused. Frye was here. And he said he'd be back."
"Just a minute ago. you admitted your story doesn't make any sense at all. Didn't you?"
Reluctantly, she said, "Yes. That's what I said. It doesn't make sense. But it happened!"
"Believe me, I've seen how a sudden shock can affect people," Tony said. "It distorts perceptions and memories and--"
"Are you going to help me or not?" she asked.
"Of course I'm going to help you."
"How? What will we do?"
"For starters, we'll report the break-in and the assault."
"Isn't that going to be terribly awkward'?" she asked sourly. "When I tell them that a dead man tried to kill me, don't you suppose they'll decide to commit me for a few days, until they can complete a psychiatric evaluation? You know me a hell of a lot better than anyone else, and even you think I'm crazy."
"I don't think you're crazy," he said, dismayed by her tone of voice. "I think you're distraught."
"Damn."
"It's understandable."
"Damn."
"Hilary, listen to me. When the responding officers get here, you won't say a word to them about Frye. You'll calm down, get a grip on yourself--"
"I've got a grip on myself!"
"--and you'll try to recall exactly what the assailant looked like. If you settle your nerves, if you give yourself half a chance, I'm sure you'll be surprised by what you'll remember. When you're calm, collected, more rational about this, you'll realize that he wasn't Bruno Frye."
"He was."
"He might have resembled Frye, but--"
"You're acting just like Frank Howard did the other night," she said angrily.
Tony was patient. "The other night, at least, you were accusing a man who was alive."
"You're just like everyone else I've ever trusted," she said, her voice cracking.
"I want to help you."
"Bullshit."
"Hilary, don't turn away from me."
"You're the one who turned away first."
"I care about you."
"Then show it!"
"I'm here, aren't I? What more proof do you need?"
"Believe me," she said. "That's the best proof."
He saw that she was profoundly insecure, and he supposed she was that way because she had had very bad experiences with people she had loved and trusted. Indeed, she must have been brutally betrayed and hurt, for no ordinary disappointment would have made her as sensitive as she was now.
Still suffering from those old emotional wounds, she now demanded fanatical trust and loyalty. The moment he showed doubts about her story, she began to withdraw from him, even though he wasn't impugning her veracity. But, dammit, he knew it wasn't healthy to play along with her delusion; the best thing he could do for her was gently coax her back to reality.
"Frye was here tonight," she insisted. "Frye and nobody else. But I won't tell the police that."
"Good," he said, relieved.
"Because I'm not going to call the police."
"What?"
Without explaining, she turned away from him and walked out of the kitchen.
As he followed her through the wrecked dining room, Tony said, "You have to report this."
"I don't have to do anything."
"Your insurance company won't pay if you haven't filed a police report."
"I'll worry about that later," she said, leaving the dining room, entering the living room.
He trailed her as she weaved through the debris in the front room, heading toward the stairs.
"You're forgetting something," he said.
"What's that?"
"I'm a detective."
"So?"
"So now that I'm aware of this situation, it's my duty to report it."
"So report it."
"Part of the report will be a statement from you."
"You can't force me to cooperate. I won't."
As they reached the foot of the stairs, he grabbed her by the arm. "Wait a minute. Please wait."
She turned and faced him. Her fear had been driven out by anger. "Let go of me."
"Where are you going?"
"Upstairs."
"What are you going to do?"
"Pack a suitcase and go to a hotel."
"You can stay at my place," he said.
"You don't want a crazy woman like me staying overnight," she said sarcastically.
"Hilary, don't be this way."
"I might go berserk and kill you in your sleep."
"I don't think you're crazy."
"Oh, that's right. You think I'm just confused. Maybe a little dotty. But not dangerous."
"I'm only trying to help you."
"You've got a funny way of doing it."
"You can't live in a hotel forever."
"I'll come home once he's been caught."
"But if you don't make a formal complaint, no one's even going to be looking for him."
"I'll be looking for him."
"You?"
"Me."
Now Tony was angry. "What game are you going to play--Hilary Thomas, Girl Detective?"
"I might hire private investigators."
"Oh, really?" he asked scornfully, aware that he might alienate her further with this approach, but too frustrated to be patient any longer.
"Really," she said. "Private investigators."
"Who? Philip Marlowe? Jim Rockford? Sam Spade?"
"You can be a sarcastic son of a bitch."
"You're forcing me to be. Maybe sarcasm will snap you out of this."
"My agent happens to know a first-rate firm of private detectives."
"I tell you, this isn't their kind of work."
"They'll do anything they're paid to do."
"Not anything."
"They'll do this."
"It's a job for the LAPD."
"The police will only waste their time looking for known burglars, known rapists, known--"
"That's a very good, standard, effective investigative technique," Tony said.
"But it won't work this time."
"Why? Because the assailant was an ambulatory dead man?"
"That's right."
"So you think maybe the police should spend their time looking for known dead rapists and burglars?"
The look she gave him was a withering mixture of anger and disgust.
"The way to break this case," she said, "is to find out how Bruno Frye could have been stone-cold dead last week--and alive tonight."
"Will you listen to yourself, for God's sake?"
He was concerned for her. This stubborn irrationality frightened him.
"I know what I said," she told him. "And I also know what I saw. And it wasn't just that I saw Bruno Frye in this house a little while ago. I heard him, too. He had that distinct, unmistakable, guttural voice. It was him. No one else. I saw him, and I heard him threatening to cut off my head and stuff my mouth full of garlic, as if he thought I was some sort of vampire or something."
Vampire.
That word jolted Tony because it made such a startling and incredible connection with several things that had been found last Thursday in Bruno Frye's gray Dodge van, strange items about which Hilary couldn't possibly know anything, items that Tony had forgotten until this morning. A chill swept through him.
"Garlic?" he asked. "Vampires? Hilary, what are you talking about?"
She pulled out of his grasp and hurried up the stairs.
He ran after her. "What's this about vampires?"
Climbing the steps, refusing to look at Tony or answer his questions, Hilary said, "Isn't this some swell story I've got to tell? I was assaulted by a walking dead man who thought I was a vampire. Oh, wow! Now you're absolutely positive that I've lost my mind. Call the little white chuckle wagon! Get this poor lady into a straitjacket before she hurts herself! Put her in a nice padded room real quick! Lock the door and throw away the key!"
In the second-floor hallway, a few feet from the top of the stairs, as Hilary was heading toward a bedroom door, Tony caught up with her. He grabbed her arm again.
"Let go, dammit!"
"Tell me what he said."
"I'm going to a hotel, and then I'm going to work this thing out on my own."
"I want to know every word he said."
"There's nothing you can do to stop me," she told him. "Now let me go."
He shouted in order to get through to her. "I have to know what he said about vampires, dammit!"
Her eyes met his. Apparently she recognized the fear and confusion in him, for she stopped trying to pull away. "What's so damned important?"
"The vampire thing."
"Why?"
"Frye apparently was obsessed with the occult."
"How do you know that?"
"We found some things in that van of his."
"What things?"
"I don't remember all of it. A deck of tarot cards, a Ouija board, more than a dozen crucifixes--"
"I didn't see anything about that in the newspapers."
"We didn't make a formal press release out of it," Tony said. "Besides, by the time we searched the van and inventoried its contents and were prepared to consider a release, all of the papers had published their first-day stories, and the reporters had filed their follow-ups. The case just didn't have enough juice to warrant squeezing third-day coverage out of it. But let me tell you what else was in that van. Little linen bags of garlic taped above all the doors. Two wooden stakes with very sharp points. Half a dozen books about vampires and zombies and other varieties of the so-called 'living dead.'"
Hilary shuddered. "He told me he was going to cut out my heart and pound a stake through it."
"Jesus."
"He was going to cut out my eyes, too, so I wouldn't be able to find my way back from hell. That's how he put it. Those were his words. He was afraid that I was going to return from the dead after he killed me. He was raving like a lunatic. But then again, he returned from the grave, didn't he?" She laughed harshly, without a note of humor, but with a trace of hysteria. "He was going to cut off my hands, so I couldn't feel my way back."
Tony felt sick when he thought of how close that man had come to fulfilling those threats.
"It was him," Hilary said. "You see? It was Frye."
"Could it have been make-up?"
"What?"
"Could it have been someone made-up to look like Frye?"
"Why would anyone do that?"
"I don't know."
"What would he have to gain?"
"I don't know."
"You accused me of grabbing at straws. Well, this isn't even a straw you're grabbing at. It's just a mirage. It's nothing."
"But could it have been another man in make-up?" Tony persisted.
"Impossible. There isn't any make-up that convincing at close range. And the body was the same as Frye's. The same height and weight. The same bone structure. The same muscles."
"But if it was someone in make-up, imitating Frye's voice--"
"That would make it easy for you," she said coldly. "A clever impersonation, no matter how bizarre and unexplainable, is easier to accept than my story about a dead man walking. But you mentioned his voice, and that's another hole in your theory. No one could mimic that voice. Oh, an excellent impressionist might get the low pitch and the phrasing and the accent just right, but he wouldn't be able to recreate that awful rasping, crackling quality. You could only talk like that if you had an abnormal larynx or screwed-up vocal cords. Frye was born with a malformed voice box. Or he suffered a serious throat injury when he was a child. Maybe both. Anyway, that was Bruno Frye who spoke to me tonight, not a clever imitation. I'd bet every cent I have on it."
Tony could see that she was still angry, but he was no longer so sure that she was hysterical or even mildly confused. Her dark eyes were sharply focused. She spoke in clipped and precise sentences. She looked like a woman in complete control of herself.
"But Frye is dead," Tony said weakly.
"He was here."
"How could he have been?"
"As I said, that's what I intend to find out."
