Читаем Blood Test полностью

“Shit.” She looked everywhere but at me. “It’s probably not even important and I’m just shooting off my mouth for nothing but I keep thinking about Woody and wondering how long it’ll be before the metastases start popping up — if they haven’t already — and I want to do something, to stop feeling so damned helpless.”

I nodded and waited. She winced.

“Augie Valcroix knew the couple from the Touch who came to visit the Swopes,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I saw him talking to them, calling them by name, and I asked him about it. He said he visited the place once, thought it was nice. Peaceful.”

“Did he say why?”

“Just that he was interested in alternative lifestyles. I know that’s true because in the past he’d spoken of checking out other groups — Scientologists, Lifespring, a Buddhist place in Santa Barbara. He’s Canadian, thinks the whole California thing is fascinating.”

“Did you ever detect any collusion between them?”

“None. Just that they knew each other.”

“You said he used their names. Do you remember them?”

“I think he called the guy Gary or Barry. I never heard the woman’s name. You don’t really think this was some sort of conspiracy, do you?”

“Who knows?”

She squirmed as if her clothes were too tight, caught the waiter’s eye, and ordered a banana liqueur. She sipped it slowly trying to appear relaxed, but she was jumpy and ill-at-ease.

She put the glass down with a furtive look in her eyes.

“Is there anything else, Bev?”

She nodded, embarrassed. When she spoke it was barely a whisper.

“This is probably even less relevant but as long as I’m blabbing I might as well spill it all out. Augie and Nona Swope had a thing going. I’m not sure when it started. Not too long ago because the family was only in town a couple of weeks.” She fiddled with her napkin. “God, I feel like such a shit. If it weren’t for Woody I’d never have opened my mouth.”

“I know that.”

“I wanted to tell your cop friend about it right there, at the motel — he seemed nice enough — but I just couldn’t. Then I got to thinking about it later and I couldn’t let go of it. I mean, what if there was a way to help that little boy and I let it go by? But I still didn’t want to go to the police. I figured if I told you, you’d know what to do with it.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I wish doing right didn’t feel so wrong.” Her voice broke. “I wish I could be sure that my telling you has any meaning.”

“All I can do is let Milo know. At this point he’s not even convinced a crime’s been committed. The only one who seems sure of that is Raoul.”

“He’s always sure of everything,” she said angrily. “Ready to assess blame at the drop of a hat. He dumps on everyone but Augie’s been his favorite scapegoat since he got here.”

She dug the nails of one hand into the palm of the other. “And now I’ve made things worse for him.”

“Not necessarily. Milo may brush it off completely or he may choose to talk to Valcroix. But he doesn’t care what Raoul thinks. No one’s going to get railroaded, Bev.”

That was meager balm for her conscience.

“I still feel like a traitor. Augie’s my friend.”

“Look at it this way, if Valcroix’s sleeping with Nona had anything to do with this mess, you did a good deed. If not, he can endure a few questions. It’s not like the guy’s a total innocent.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way I hear it he makes a habit of sleeping with his patients’ mothers. This time it was a sister, for variety. At the very least it’s unethical.”

“That’s so self-righteous,” she snapped, turning scarlet, “so damned judgmental!”

I started to reply but before I knew what was happening she got up from the table, grabbed her purse, and ran out of the restaurant.

I pulled out my wallet threw down a twenty and went after her.

She was half-running, half-walking north on Westwood Boulevard, swinging her arms like a foot soldier, heading into the crush and commotion of the Village at night.

I ran, caught up, and took her arm. Her face was wet with tears.

“What the hell’s going on, Bev?”

She didn’t answer but let me walk with her. The Village seemed especially Felliniesque that evening, litter-strewn sidewalks clogged with street musicians, grim-faced college students, squealing packs of junior high kids wearing oversized clothes pocked with high-priced holes, empty-eyed bikers, gawking tourists from the exurbs, and assorted hangers-on.

We walked in silence all the way to the southern edge of the UCLA campus. Inside the grounds of the university the pandemonium and bright lights died and were replaced by tree-shadowed darkness and a silence so pure it was startling. Except for an occasional passing car, we were alone.

A hundred yards into the campus I got her to stop and sit on a bench at a shuttle stop. The buses had stopped running for the night and the lights near the stop had been turned off. She turned away and buried her face in her hands.

“Bev—”

“I must be going nuts,” she mumbled, “running out like that.”

I tried to put my arm around her for comfort but she jerked away.