looking at the instrument as if he had never seen one before.

"What am I going to say to her?"

"You'll know what to say. I want to talk to herwhen you're finished."

A voice rasped from the receiver: "Yes? Who isthis?"

"I'm Alex Kincaid. Is that MissJenks? . . . We don't know each other, Miss Jenks, but Imarried your niece a few weeks ago . . . Your niece, DollyMcGee. We were married a few weeks ago, and she's come down with a ratherserious illness . . . No, it's more emotional. She'semotionally disturbed, and she wants to see you. She's in the Whitmore NursingHome here in Pacific Point. Dr. Godwin is looking after her."

He paused again. There was sweat on hisforehead. The voice at the other end went on for some time.

"She says she can't cometomorrow," he said to me; and into the receiver: "Perhaps Sundaywould be possible? . . . Yes, fine. You can contact me atthe Mariner's Rest Motel, or . . . Alex Kincaid. I'll lookforward to meeting you."

"Let me talk to her," I said.

"Just a minute, Miss Jenks. Thegentleman here with me, Mr. Archer, has something to say to you." Hehanded over the receiver.

"Hello, Miss Jenks."

"Hello, Mr. Archer. And who are you,may I ask, at one o'clock in the morning?" It wasn't a light question. Thewoman sounded anxious and irritated, but she had both feelings under reasonablecontrol.

"I'm a private detective. I'm sorryto disrupt your sleep with this, but there's more to the situation than simpleemotional illness. A woman has been murdered here."

She gasped, but made no other comment.

"Your niece is a material witness tothe murder. She may be more deeply involved than that, and in any case she'sgoing to need support. So far as I know you're her only relative, apart fromher father—"

"You can leave him out. He doesn'tcount. He never has, except in a negative way." Her voice was flat andharsh. "Who was killed?"

"A friend and counselor of your niece's,Professor Helen Haggerty."

"I never heard of the woman," she said withcombined impatience and relief.

"You'll be hearing a great deal about her, ifyou're at all interested in your niece. Are you close to her?"

"I was, before she grew away from me.I brought her up after her mother's death." Her voice became flat again:"Does Tom McGee have anything to do with this new killing?"

"He may have. He's in town here, orhe was."

"I knew it!" she cried in bleaktriumph. "They had no business letting him out. They should have put himin the gas chamber for what he did to my little sister."

She was choked with sudden emotion. Iwaited for her to go on. When she didn't, I said:

"I'm anxious to go into the detailsof that case with you, but I don't think we should do it over the phone. Itreally would be helpful if you could come here tomorrow."

"I simply can't. There's no usebadgering me. I have a terribly important meeting tomorrow afternoon. Severalstate officials will be here from Sacramento, and it will probably go on intothe evening."

"What about the morning?"

"I have to prepare for them in themorning. We're shifting over to a new state-county welfare program."Latent hysteria buzzed in her voice, the hysteria of a middle-aged spinster whohas to make a change. "If I walked out on this project, I could lose myposition."

"We don't want that to happen, Miss Jenks. Howfar is it from there to Pacific Point?"

"Seventy miles, but I tell you I can't makeit."

"I can. Will you give me an hour in the morning,say around eleven?"

She hesitated. "Yes, if it'simportant. I'll get up an hour earlier and do my paperwork. I'll be at home ateleven. You have my address? It's just off the main street of IndianSprings."

I thanked her and got rid of Alex and wentto bed, setting my mental alarm for six-thirty.

chapter11

Alex was still sleeping when I was readyto leave in the morning. I let him sleep, partly for selfish reasons, andpartly because sleep was kinder to him than waking was likely to be.

The fog was thick outside. Its watery massoverlay Pacific Point and transformed it into a kind of suburb of the sea. Idrove out of the motel enclosure into a gray world without perspective, cameabruptly to an access ramp, descended onto the freeway where headlights swam inpairs like deep-sea fish, and arrived at a truck stop on the east side withoutany real sense that I had driven across the city.

I'd been having a little too much talkwith people whose business was talking. It was good to sit at the counter of aworking-class restaurant where men spoke when they wanted something, or simplyto kid the waitress. I kidded her a little myself. Her name was Stella, and shewas so efficient that she threatened to take the place of automation. She saidwith a flashing smile that this was her aim in life.

My destination was near the highway, on aheavily used thoroughfare lined mainly with new apartment buildings. Theirfaddish pastel colors and scant transplanted palms seemed dingy and desolate in

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009