Baptism in Blood(66)

“You know,” Gregor said, “it might have nothing to do with persecution. It might be a simple case of opportu­nity. It’s very secluded out here.”

“It’s very secluded in half a dozen places in Bel­lerton. Murders aren’t happening there.”

“From what I understand, the first murder didn’t hap­pen here.”

“Ginny said it did. Not that I have much respect for Ginny, because I don’t. But she said it did.”

“That doesn’t make it so.”

“It does make for a lot of trouble, Mr. Demarkian. Police all over the grounds. Everybody’s privacy being in­vaded. I don’t think half of this would have happened, half of this poking and prying and fussing, if we had been some more respectable organization, like Henry Holborn’s church.”

“A murder investigation is a murder investigation, Ms. Meyer. There are procedures that must be followed. There are things that must be done.”

“I don’t believe the same procedures have to be fol­lowed when the suspect is O. J. Simpson instead of some nobody street hood hanging out on Hollywood and Vine.”

“I’m not saying there are no inequities in the sys­tem,” Gregor said. “I’m simply saying that there’s a bot­tom line here. There are certain things that have to be done, no matter who you’re dealing with. There are certain ques­tions that have to be asked. There are some things, Ms. Meyer, that just can’t be gotten around.”

Zhondra Meyer flicked imaginary lint off the bottom of her silk T-shirt. She hadn’t been looking at him through most of this conversation. She wasn’t looking at him now. She was staring into the clearing at the circle of stones and the men doing their work around it.

“You know,” she said, “most people think gay people are marginal. Especially lesbians. They think we have no money, and no clout, and no resources. That’s why they think we’re easy targets.”

“Ms. Meyer, I don’t believe a single person in the entire state of North Carolina thinks you have no money or no clout or no resources. Who and what you are have been shouted through every media outlet from North Carolina magazine to 60 Minutes. That was you, I think, that I saw profiled once on 60 Minutes.”

“That was me,” Zhondra said. “But I think you’re wrong anyway. I think it becomes something worse than a habit. It becomes a conviction in the blood. I think I’ve put up with it for as long as I have any intention of putting up with it. If Clayton or any of the rest of them are looking for me, you can tell them I’ve gone back up to the house.”

“What are you going to do?”

Zhondra Meyer smiled her little cat smile. It made her face look feral. “I’m going to do what I should have done in the beginning, Mr. Demarkian. I’m going to call my lawyers in New York and make sure they get somebody down here to raise holy hell. There are very few things that are more satisfying in this world than being extremely rich when somebody is trying to push you around. I think it’s time I took advantage of my advantages.”

“Somehow,” Gregor said, “this doesn’t sound like the Zhondra Meyer of the American Communist Party.”

“It’s called the Communist Party U.S.A. And you’re wrong, Mr. Demarkian. This is very much the Zhondra Meyer of the Communist Party. But that is hardly the point. Tell Clayton that if this place isn’t cleaned up when he goes, I’ll sue him for what it costs me to get it cleaned. Good afternoon, Mr. Demarkian. I’m in a hurry.”

It wasn’t afternoon yet. It was barely eleven o’clock in the morning. Gregor didn’t mention it. Zhondra was walk­ing away from him, down the path and out through the clearing. A couple of the media people started toward her and then stopped. Even the reporters could sense that she wasn’t going to be gracious and forthcoming this morning. The photographers didn’t care so much. Gregor counted three separate minicams aimed in Zhondra’s direction. He felt every flash that went off in the dark of the trees.

Zhondra Meyer disappeared into the shadows. Gregor looked back at the knot of women and noticed that none of them was talking. They all looked pasty and a little ill, each and every one of them, whether they were wearing makeup or not. Gregor felt cold. The air was nippy. He should have worn his sweater.

He got his mind off his sweater, picked Clayton Hall out of the crush of police officers standing around the stone circle, and headed in that direction.





2


CLAYTON HALL LOOKED NOT only tired, but exasperated. The corpse was gone, the tech men were doing their jobs, but everything still seemed to be confusion. Gregor picked up the air of chaos as soon as he got in the middle of the uniforms. Nobody challenged his right to be there. He would have been flattered, but he had a feeling that the explanation was not what he would want it to be. These policemen didn’t recognize him. They just knew by looking at him that he was not a reporter—mostly, of course, be­cause he was so obviously too old.