Chapter 11

Before he drove off, Kettering stood beside the Camaro and took a last look at the modest California ranch house that had been his home. There should be some kind of emotion involved, he thought. Loss, regret, nostalgia. Relief, even. But he felt nothing. No, that was not true. He felt a deep, grinding anger. Not at his wife, not at their failure to make a marriage, not at the wasted years. His anger was focused on the mocking red figure that defaced his front door, and whatever agency was responsible for putting it there. Doomstalker.

One day, Kettering sensed, he and his spectral enemy would stand face to face. And, as they used to say in Western movies, only one would walk away.

"Come and get me, you sonofabitch," he muttered.

He climbed into the car, slammed the door, and drove off without looking back again.

***

The building into which Kettering moved his sparse belongings was the last of its generation on a street of new, cheap apartments that had mushroomed during the building boom of the 1960s. It was a three-story wooden-frame structure, painted an unhealthy yellow, which dated back to a time before the freeway sliced through the Valley. When the building went up, the area was still dominated by orange groves and bean fields. As the Valley shifted emphasis and mutated to a cluster of suburbs with clots of light industry, the building somehow escaped the general razing of old structures and stood like a relic of another time among the stucco and plaster boxes that were its neighbors.

A rickety flight of wooden stairs zigged up to the second-floor landing and zagged to the third. Kettering had picked up the local throwaway paper this morning and started at the bottom of the for-rent column, where the cheapest rentals were listed. This was the only place he looked at, and he surprised the owner by taking it with barely a glance.

He was surprised to see the silver-gray Mazda parked on the street as he pulled up. He parked his own car on the other side and walked back toward the Mazda. Charity Moline looked up at him through the rolled-down window as he approached.

"You didn't call me," she said.

"Was I supposed to?"

"I was hoping."

She smelled fresh and good as she smiled out at Kettering. He said, "How did you find me?"

"I went to the Police Building looking for you. Your lieutenant told me you're taking a few days off."

"Did he tell you why?"

"Nope. He didn't tell me why you moved out of your house, either."

"I needed a change of scenery."

"It wasn't because of the other night, was it?"

"Not the night you're thinking about."

"You mean you were doing it with somebody else?"

"I mean 'doing it' has nothing to do with me moving."

"Well, that's good." She looked across at his car. The carton and suitcases were visible through the back window. "Need any help with that stuff?"

"It's just a couple of suitcases and a box."

"I can carry something. I'm very strong."

"Come on, then."

She got out of the car, giving him a flash of silken leg as her apple-green skirt hiked up. They crossed the street together and Kettering gave her the carton. He saw she wasn't kidding about her strength as she carried it effortlessly up the stairs ahead of him. He put the two bags down when they reached the landing and keyed open the door.

The apartment was one room - an efficient layout where you lived, ate, slept, without walking more than a few feet. The kitchen alcove was more or less screened from the rest of the room by a hanging curtain. Behind it was a rust-stained sink, two-burner gas range, and small refrigerator.

There was a tiny separate bathroom with sink, toilet, and a curtained shower stall. The furniture - chrome and Formica table, mismatched chairs, convertible sofa - bore mysterious stains and cigarette burns from the forgotten butts of anonymous former tenants.

"Nice place," Charity said.

"All the comforts."

She set the carton down on the kitchen table and poked through the contents until she found the Wild Turkey bottle.

"Are you saving this for a special occasion?"

"I guess this is it. I'll see if I can find some glasses."

He located a pair of mismatched tumblers in the cupboard and a tray of ice cubes in the refrigerator.

"All the comforts," he repeated, offering Charity a glass.

She nodded toward the sofa. "Does that thing make into a bed?"

"Damned if I know."

"Let's find out," she said.

It did.

***

Two hours later they lay side by side on the uneven mattress of the folded-out sofa bed. Charity propped herself up on an elbow and brushed a hand through the graying hair on Kettering's chest.

"I missed you," she said.

"It's been what, two days?"

"I don't mean since the last time I saw you, I mean just now. You weren't exactly totally involved, were you?"

"You're telling me the earth didn't move?"

She smacked him hard on the stomach. "Will you quit doing shtick from Moonlighting? Something's bothering you, isn't it? I mean something more visible than the trouble at home."

"Okay," he said. "Something's bothering me." He waited. "So, aren't you going to ask me what?" he said at last.

"Nope. I figure if you want to tell me, you will. If you don't, I'm not going to drag it out of you."

"Since you insist," he said, "I'll tell you about it."

And to his surprise, he did. He told her about the shooting on his doorstep of the child who wasn't there. When she made no comment, he went all the way back to the church picnic and started over with the strange conversation he'd overhead, and the mental curtain that had dropped over what he'd seen in the house on Bailey Street. If he'd really seen anything. He told her about his life after his father died and the coming of the Greasers. He even found himself telling her about Uncle Art and his story of Doomstalker and how it haunted him. When he stopped talking he was exhausted.

He rolled over in the sofa bed and looked at her. "Do I sound like a nut case?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Thanks."

"But you know what?"

"What?"

"I think your Doomstalker is real."

"You're kidding me."

She ignored this. "And you know what else?"

Kettering sat up and looked down at Charity. Her eyes were clear, her expression grave.

"Tell me," he said.

"I think he's found you."