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“No,” she said quietly. “It just never worked out.”
She fell into silence and we listened to the scrape of the razor across her flesh, then the watery sound of the blade being cleaned. The razor felt heavier than it looked. Then I told her more about the Yarnell case.
“I feel like there’s something fundamental I’m missing,” I said. She had a dark brown freckle just above her left knee.
“It’s a lot of strands,” she said. “Maybe you have to choose one and pull it, see where it leads.”
“Why would someone be killing the Yarnells now, over something that happened more than half a century ago?”
Gretchen leaned back and the tips of her hair brushed into the water. “You know the past is never past, David.”
Then it was my turn in the tub. She brought us both glasses of chardonnay as I slipped down into the near-scalding water of the big old tub. It had been years since I’d taken a bath instead of a shower. My muscles yawned and stretched in the hot water.
“Now it’s my turn,” she said. She mixed new shaving cream and dabbed it on my face. Then she pulled a little strap out of the medicine cabinet and ran the razor against it several times. The blade shimmered in the light.
“Relax,” she said, kissing me and gently easing my head down against the lip of the tub. “After legs, this is a breeze.”
I barely felt the pressure against my neck, but I could hear the sound of blade against beard like it was on loudspeaker. “You have nice, taut skin,” she said. “Did you ever think about growing a beard?”
“I had one when I was teaching.”
“I love beards. But they take a lot of work to keep neat.”
I didn’t say anything. I just gave in to the experience: the pressure of her stroke, the muted grating-ripping sound of the stubble falling before the sharpness of the blade.
“My first lover had a beard,” she said. “His name was Will.”
I could hear a train whistle out the window, long and mournful.
“I really loved him. We were both smoke jumpers. We thought we were invincible. I guess everybody does when they’re young. Anyway, we had this romantic notion of living out in some national forest for the rest of our lives.”
She swept on fresh shaving cream, the soft bristles of the barber’s brush the very opposite sensation of the blade. I closed my eyes. I felt her fine hair brush my cheek as she leaned down to resume shaving me.
“We went on a fire in northern California. It was outside Susanville. Just a little lightning strike that got out of hand. I went down a ridge with some fusees—those are ignition flares—to start a backfire. And when I turned around there was just this wave of fire rolling down the mountainside. It looked like it was ten stories tall. There wasn’t any time to run, to d
o anything. I pulled out my Shake ‘N Bake—they issued us these little individual tents made of aluminum, but we didn’t really believe they’d work. And I got under it and just drove myself into the ground. God, I can still taste those pine needles.”
I didn’t open my eyes. I just listened to the alto melody of her voice, felt the confident rhythm of the razor in her hand.
“Well, the fire jumped over me. It was an amazing feeling of being in the stomach of this thing, but I was alive. I couldn’t believe it. But when I went back up the hill, I found Will.”
She stopped shaving and I opened my eyes.
“He had fireproof boots.” She spoke more slowly now. “And that’s about all there was.”
She had the razor poised in front of me, and then there was a drop of water on the blade. Just big enough for a tear.
Chapter Thirty-two
Monday. Exactly a month had passed since I had fallen into the elevator shaft of the Triple A Storage Warehouse. The Yarnell twins had been identified. But otherwise, as my friend Lorie might say, police were baffled. I didn’t care. I had shaved a beautiful woman’s legs with a straight razor.
The phone was ringing as I walked down the hall to my office. I unlocked the door, bounded to the desk and grabbed the receiver.
“Mapstone.” It was Hawkins: “It’s all over. You got something to write on?”
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into an old gas station, where Buckeye Road crossed Nineteenth Avenue. Buckeye was the old highway west. Today it was populated with the ruins of small motels, coffee shops, and filling stations, most encoded with gang graffiti. Some forlorn street vendors operated from vacant gashes of land where a crack house had been bulldozed. Bleak concrete warehouses intruded every few blocks. It was a rough neighborhood.
Peralta was sitting with Hawkins in an unmarked car. Both of them were wearing flak jackets. I parked the BMW and climbed in the back seat of the cop car.
