Toll Call Page 8

  It was perverse and egotistical, my reaction, akin to the unfeeling assumption men frequently exhibit that women who are raped have somehow brought it on themselves. I wasn’t proud of myself, but I wasn’t able to be proud of Peggy, either.

  “I need specifics,” I said roughly. “How did he start out? What did he ask you first?”

  Peggy shook her head, but it was a rejection of her predicament more than a refusal to engage my question. “Just personal things,” she murmured. “Age. Marital status. Children. The first call wasn’t so bad, except when I told him I was going to hang up. That was the first time he frightened me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He threatened to do various things to me, most of them having to do with disfigurement. He mentioned acid, for example. And I don’t mean LSD. Burns. Blindness. I have this terrible fear of burns. I always have had, since I was little. It’s almost as if he knew that.”

  “Could he be a scientist? A chemist who uses acid in his work? Does he use a lot of jargon?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. No more than normal.”

  “Okay. What else? The first time.”

  “That was it.”

  “What was it?”

  “The first time. He wanted to know all about the first time I had sex. How old I was, where we did it, who the guy was, how it felt, whether I wanted it to happen or was forced to do it, whether I had an orgasm, what we did in foreplay, whether we took precautions or assumed the risk of pregnancy. It was a real case study on a one-night stand. He’s probably writing it up for Penthouse.”

  “And you told him what he wanted to know?”

  There was still a stain of anger in my voice, and a stain of something else as well. Peggy heard it and was insulted by the implication that she had not resisted. “Not at first I didn’t,” she protested. “Not till after I hung up and he called back and threatened me. And not even then until he kept pressing me for details, demanding more and more, until all of a sudden it seemed easier to tell him what he wanted.… I was sixteen when I first had sex, Marsh. Almost thirty years ago. And I remember it as if it were yesterday. Amazing, isn’t it? He had a birthmark on his thigh. It looked just like a football. He was very embarrassed about it. Much more embarrassed about that than about what he was doing to me in the back seat of that rattletrap car.”

  Life is awesome at times, revealing, shocking, tantalizing in its sly suggestion that there is much more to it than we know, that the past has splashed us far more thoroughly than we suspect. Peggy was awed by her life at the moment, amazed at memory, surprised at significance. The possibility occurred to me that her reactions to the spider and his calls were so complex and deep-seated I could inflict psychological harm by probing for the details, that my questions, if at all, should be asked by someone trained to cushion psychic blows. But when I looked at Peggy’s purpled ankle I resolved to press ahead.

  “Does he ask for specific names? Of your first lover, for example?”

  “Yes. Always.”

  “Has he ever indicated he knows any of the people you mention?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. What else happened the first time?”

  She frowned to remember. “I think that’s all. Then the next night he started asking me what I like in men. General stuff at first—short or tall, fat or thin, dark or blond, hairy or smooth. Then the sexual stuff. Size of penis was a big subject. We got down to some fairly precise measurements. Is there a calculus that covers phallic displacement, Marsh? At one point I felt my mathematics was inadequate to the discussion.”

  Once again her effort to lighten the weight of the event agitated me unreasonably. I was reacting personally, not professionally—my relationship with Peggy had so dislodged my normal reactions I could no longer trust my instincts. Which meant that from then on I was going to have to double-check the decisions I reached and the actions I took. Peggy deserved my best, but if I wasn’t careful I would come closer to giving her my worst.

  As she answered my questions Peggy had progressively relaxed, now seemed eager to make me understand the exact dynamic between her and the man I called the spider. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes and leaned back and let her talk.

  “And of course he wanted to know all about my marriage,” she went on, “why I’d married Jim, what it was about him that first attracted me, whether clothes were important, or his car, or how much money he had. What we did when we dated. What we talked about. Whether he always asked me out or whether I asked him sometimes. Whether I was honest when he asked me questions or whether I just said what I thought he wanted to hear. And, of course, whether we had engaged in premarital sex.

  “That was clearly important to him. He wanted to know how long it took us to reach that point, whether I resisted his advances or whether I wished he would make love to me before he actually did, how long after we started dating we first had intercourse, whether I really wanted to or gave in because Jim insisted, whether we planned the first time we actually did it or whether it just happened, whether I was drunk at the time, where we were, how it felt, whether we used birth control or were just lucky, whether we did it on every date after the first time or whether we tried not to for a while, whether we felt good about it or guilty that we’d committed a sin, whether it was the way I had always believed it would be or whether it was disappointing. He was very concerned about whether sex was a big part of my marriage, whether I told Jim the things I liked for him to do or just let him please himself, whether I ever got bored with it, and why.

  “And then I mentioned that I’d had an extramarital affair, so we went all through that, too. Who my lover was, whether he was married, too, where we went, how we covered our tracks, what I got out of the affair that I hadn’t gotten out of marriage, whether the impulse to cheat was sexual or something more, whether Jim knew, whether I was sure he didn’t, whether it would have made any difference if he had, whether having an affair necessarily meant the marriage was doomed, whether I felt like a sinner while it was going on, whether the affair had given me everything I thought it would, whether I would do it again knowing what I know now.”

  Peggy paused for breath, still entranced by recollection. I was about to break in but she began to speak again, this time more urgently. “I have to admit, Marsh, that those kinds of questions were interesting to me, or rather my answers were. As I said, it was therapeutic in a perverse sort of way, an ordering of all these jumbled thoughts and feelings I’d been carrying around for years, sort of like finally finishing a puzzle I’d neglected for too long. And he really and truly seemed interested in my answers, more interested than anyone else had ever been in what I had to say on the subject of human relationships. It sounds crazy, I suppose, but I’d even find myself wishing I could meet the guy, have a drink with him some night and continue the discussion face to face, exchanging impressions of reality or whatever. But then something would ruin it. I’d forget the rules and ask him a question about himself and he’d scream and order me never to do it again. Or he’d ask me something vulgar, like if I’d ever let a man fuck me in the ass.”

  The crudity was calculated, a belated attempt to provoke my disgust, to drive me away from the subject so that Peggy’s duet with the spider would remain a private rite, its parameters known only to the two participants. But I couldn’t leave it, not without some lead, not without someplace to go when I left Peggy behind with Ruthie Spring.

  “Do you think he’s married?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you think he’s a virgin?”

  “Possibly.”

  “A priest?”

  “No. No, of course not. Why do you think that?”

  “He sounds like a bit of a moralist.”

  “He is, I guess. But he can’t possibly be a priest.”

  “But he’s educated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea what he does for a living?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea wher
e he lives?”

  “No.”

  “Any indication he has a sexual fetish of some kind?”

  “Why?”

  “Because this town caters to every whim. If he’s into bondage, say, I can find out what establishments feature that particular service and maybe get a line on him in one of them. My police pal Charley Sleet is a veritable Baedeker of San Francisco perversion palaces.”

  I was suddenly prattling, feeling crazy myself, semidetached from my senses. Peggy was shaking her head while observing me closely. “He’s interested in all of it, Marsh, but not one thing more than another. He asked me once if I’d ever had a lesbian relationship, but I don’t get any hint that he’s gay himself. And we’ve touched on every perversion in the book, at least as much of the book as I know about, but I have no idea which if any of them he’s actually committed himself.”

  “Do you think he’s terrorized other women like this, or do you think you’re the first?”

  “I think I’m the first.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just think so.”

  “It sounds as if you’re proud to be the first.”

  Her smile betrayed a wound. “It’s happening already, Marsh. See? I told you it would.”

  I had no answer for her, at least not one that encompassed what seemed to be the truth.

  “I’ve had enough for now, Marsh. Please? I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  By that time I didn’t either.

  ELEVEN

  Our itchy silence was only interrupted when Ruthie rang the bell from down below. I buzzed her inside and went out in the hall to wait for her. She emerged from the stairwell moments later, as irritable as a cowgirl just thrown from her horse.

  For one of the few times in memory she didn’t smile when she saw me. “What the hell happened, Marsh?” she asked, her voice a rasp of concern. “It wasn’t rape, was it?”

  I shook my head. “He shoved her down the stairs.”

  “Shit. Is she hurt bad?”

  “Her ankle’s sprained and her ribs hurt, but I think she’s all right. She won’t let me call the doctor. Or the cops.”

  Ruthie’s angry eyes were comets in the dark hallway. “She know who did it?”

  “She says it was the spider.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “The guy who’s been hassling her on the phone every night,” I explained. “That’s what I call him: the spider. She told you about all that, right?”

  Ruthie nodded. “I hate the bastards who don’t have the guts to ask for it like a man. But she didn’t tell me he was tracking her, Marsh. She didn’t tell me the son of a bitch was liable to try some barnyard stuff. If she had I wouldn’t have let her out of my sight.”

  Ruthie’s fury warmed the hallway. I put my arm around her to cool her down. “You couldn’t have known, because Peggy didn’t know. She had him pegged for a talker and it turns out he’s something else. That’s why she’s so frightened. That’s one problem. The other is, the guy has obviously brainwashed her. I’m not real sure she wants him caught.” I looked at Ruthie closely. “She tells me she doesn’t have any idea who it is. Did she tell you anything different?”

  If Ruthie knew more than I did she disguised it behind a firm denial. “Nope. I tried to get at it every way I could think of, but if she knows the guy’s name she’s still sitting on it.”

  “If she did know his name there’s no reason not to tell you, is there?”

  Ruthie shrugged. “Maybe she’s just got a Texas hunch. Maybe she doesn’t want to rope him without being positive her loop’s around the right neck. You got any ideas, Marsh?”

  I took my arm from Ruthie’s shoulders and leaned back against the wall. “The only thing I can think of is maybe an old boyfriend. She’s gone out with some doughnut holes from time to time. Maybe one of them didn’t like the brushoff she gave him.”

  “Maybe,” Ruthie said dubiously. “Hard to believe she’d run with anyone that loco, though. From what she told me about the telephone talk, this spider guy would make a corkscrew look like a stiff dick.”

  I looked at my watch. “The first thing is to make sure he can’t get at her again. I can be back here at six, maybe a little earlier. Can you stick around till then?”

  Ruthie nodded. “No sweat. All night if you want. I got a date but I can break it. Do old Caldwell good to keep it holstered another night. Let the old mercury rise a little higher in the tube, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s all right, Ruthie,” I said. “I can handle it tonight, and the weekend, too. But tomorrow and Friday you might have to come over for a while, if you can.”

  “Whatever’s right, sugar bear.”

  Ruthie’s tone was careful and calculating, and I wasn’t sure why. When I asked if she’d brought a weapon, Ruthie patted the hand-tooled purse she always carried, the one made with saddle leather and trimmed in silver conchas, the one that weighed a ton even before she dropped her pearl-handled .44 into it. “I’d like to get something a little more aggressive working for us, Marsh,” she said. “Don’t like to sit back and give these perverted jaspers another free shot.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to check out the son-in-law. From what Peggy tells me he’s a tad provoked with her. Then there’s those boyfriends you mentioned. If you’re staying here with Peggy then I might just look one of them up this evening, to see how he stacks up. Plus there’s the folks in this building. If one of her neighbors had a mind to, he could scare the girl pretty damned easily, and keep track of her too.”

  I glanced involuntarily down the hall, then nodded. “I’d like for us to team up on this, Ruthie. Divide the duties, and hit it as hard as we can. I’m going to try to clear the decks today so I can free up as much time as I can.”

  “I’ve already done the same. And I’d be happy to have you as a sidekick, Marsh. Hell, we’d be just like Roy and Dale. That is, if that little filly in there goes along with the idea.”

  “I don’t think she’ll object. The guy got to her, Ruthie. I’ve never seen her frightened before. Of anything.”

  Ruthie’s lips thinned. “And remember this. She was damned frightened even before he decided to get physical with her. When she came to see me yesterday she was already half wild. She know you trailed her to my office, by the way?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe we can forget it happened.”

  Ruthie only smiled. “You like her a lot, don’t you, Marsh? Got a big old mushy spot in your ticker for Miss Peggy.”

  I shrugged. “I guess I do, Ruthie. Maybe more than I realized.”

  “Just don’t let that soft spot spread to your brain, sugar bear. Can land you in a cesspool full of trouble if it does.”

  I smiled. “I was just thinking that myself. So if you see me softening up, you just kick me in the butt.”

  “Oh, I’ll kick your ass, don’t think I won’t. Kick you somewheres else, too, if that’s what it takes. Give you gonads the size of Gibraltar.”

  I held up my hands in mock surrender, then looked at my watch again. “I’ve just got time to hunt up the building manager and ask if he saw anyone suspicious around here yesterday, then I’ve got to be off. Maybe you can get Peggy talking, see if something pops out that we can use. Otherwise, I’ll be back at six or so and we can plan our next step.”

  I started for the door but Ruthie held fast. “You spend the night here, Marsh?”

  I admitted I had.

  “You plan on spending it here again?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You sleeping with her, Marsh? You dropping your bucket down her well?”

  I started to say something a trifle nasty but Ruthie cut me off. “Not that it’s any of my business, usually, who you bed with, but when I got John Henry on me I always like to know the variables, and sex is the trickiest little old variable I’ve ever come across. I got me a two-inch scar below my left tit because during my deputy days I didn’t kn
ow one of my esteemed colleagues was sweet on a prisoner we were transporting to the county lockup and he give her the chance to cut us both before she was through. Love slows down the reaction time is what I’m saying, Marsh, know what I mean?”

  “I’m not sleeping with her, Ruthie. And I never have.”

  Ruthie nodded twice. “That’s good enough for me.” Then she smiled a sly stripe. “’Course the odds of you mounting her before all this flushes out are pretty damned good. Nothing like the scent of danger to activate the old artillery. Man I dated before I met Harry used to need me to shave him with a straight razor before he could get it up. Might keep it in mind, just in case that’s a kink you’d like to keep out of your rope.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I think.”

  Ruthie laughed. “Unless I miss my mark, that warning’s going to be about as useless as a condom on a canary. Well, you best get on your way, Marsh. I’ll ride herd on little Peggy till you make it back to the corral.”

  I ducked back in the apartment just long enough to get my jacket and say good-bye to Peggy, then trotted down the stairs to the ground floor. Someone had cleaned away the traces of Peggy’s fall, all except the lingering smell of raspberry preserves and the cloying scent of a pine cleanser. I opened the door to the lobby to see if the superintendent was in sight. Since he wasn’t, I opened the door opposite the one to the lobby.

  The garage was low-ceilinged and even darker than the stairwell. It smelled of oils and solvents and generated claustrophobia. The cars were dark hulks of uncertain function hiding behind thick supporting timbers. Still, it was cleaner than such places usually are and provided that most coveted of luxuries—a place to park.

  I crossed the slippery floor until I reached a row of doors along the far wall. The one to my left was labeled STORAGE, the next LAUNDRY, the next FURNACE/INCINERATOR. The one I knocked on was on the far right, the one marked SUPERINTENDENT.

  The door opened immediately. The man who looked up at me was short and wiry and suggested the harnessed energy of a coiled spring. He wore brown work clothes that were clean and pressed and black brogans that bore a shine more common to jump boots. His black hair and eyes and his caramel skin forecast his ancestry, and his bearing forecast his pride in it. “You are not a tenant,” he announced before I could say anything.