She and Tony had successfully dealt with all of their business that needed tending to–the insurance adjuster, the house cleaning service,the police reports, and all the rest. The only thing that hadn’t gone smoothly was the stop at the Wyant Stevens Gallery in Beverly Hills. Neither Wyant nor his assistant, Betty, was there, and the plump young woman in charge was reluctant to take possession of Tony’s paintings. She didn’t want the responsibility, but Hilary finally convinced her that she would not be sued if one of the canvases was marked or torn accidentally. Hilary had written a note to Wyant, explaining the artist’s background, and then she and Tony had gone to the offices of Topelis & Associates to ask Wally to make excuses to Warner Brothers. Now the slate was clean. Tomorrow, after Frank Howard’s funeral, they would catch the 11:55 PSA flight that would take them to San Francisco in time to board a connecting commuter air shuttle to Napa.
And then a rented car to St. Helena.
And then they would be on Bruno Frye’s home ground.
And then–what?
Tony parked the Jeep and switched off the engine.
Hilary said, “I forgot to ask if you managed to find a hotel room.”
“Wally’s secretary made reservations for me while you and Wally were huddling in his office.”
“At the airport.”
“Yes.”
“Not twin beds, I hope.”
“One kingsize.”
“Good,” she said, “I want you to hold me while I drift off to sleep.”
He leaned over and kissed her.
They took twenty minutes to pack a pair of suitcases for him and to carry their four bags down to the Jeep. During that time, Hilary was on edge, fully expecting Frye to leap out of a shadow or step around a corner, grinning.
He didn’t.
They drove to the airport by a roundabout route that was full of twists and turns. Hilary watched the cars behind them.
They were not followed.
They reached the hotel at 7:30. With a touch of old-fashioned chivalry that amused Hilary, Tony signed them in as husband and wife.
Their room was on the eighth floor. It was a restful place, done in shades of green and blue.
When the bellhop left, they stood by the bed, just holding each other for a minute, silently sharing their weariness and what strength they had left,
Neither of them felt capable of going out to dinner. Tony ordered from room service, and the operator said service would take about half an hour.
Hilary and Tony showered together. They soaped and rinsed each other with pleasure, but the pleasure wasn’t really sexual. They were too tired for passion. The shared bath was merely relaxing, tender, sweet.
They ate club sandwiches and french fries.
They drank half a bottle of Gamay rosé by Robert Mondavi.
They talked only a little while.
They draped a bath towel over a lamp and left the lamp on for a nightlight because, for only the second time in her life, Hilary was afraid to sleep in the dark.
They slept.
Eight hours later, at 5:30 in the morning, she woke from a bad dream in which Earl and Emma had come back to life, just like Bruno Frye. All three of them pursued her down a dark corridor that grew narrower and narrower and narrower….
She couldn’t get back to sleep. She lay in the vague amber glow of the makeshift nightlight and watched Tony sleep.
At 6:30 he woke, turned toward her, blinked, touched her face, her breasts, and they made love. For a short while, she forgot about Bruno Frye, but later, as they dressed for Frank’s funeral, the fear came back in a rush.
“Do you really think we should go to St. Helena?”
“We have to go,” Tony said,
“But what’s going to happen to us there?”
“Nothing,” he said. “We’ll be all right.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said.
“We’ll find out what’s going on.”
“That’s just it,” she said uneasily. “I have the feeling we’d be better off not knowing.”
***
Katherine was gone.
The bitch was gone.
The bitch was hiding.
Bruno had awakened in the blue Dodge van at 6:30 Tuesday evening, thrown from sleep by the nightmare he could never quite remember, threatened by wordless whispers. Something was crawling all over him, on his arms, on his face, in his hair, even underneath his clothes, trying to get inside his body, trying to scuttle inside through his ears and mouth and nostrils, something unspeakably filthy and evil. He screamed and clawed frantically at himself until he finally realized where he was; then the awful whispers slowly faded, and the imaginary crawling thing crept away. For a few minutes, he curled up on his side, in a tight fetal position, and he wept with relief.