Every Wickedness Read Free Page A

The same streetproofing tips you’ve taught your kids will help your loved ones sleep more easily.”
    Then the presentation was over. Kearns looked bagged. The audience seemed to organize itself into protective clusters — those going to underground parking lots assembled in one corner, those taking the Powell cable car behind the hotel congregated at another exit, and on it went, until everyone seemed to have a partner or ten to escort them from the hotel.
    Be smart. What a joke.
    It made no difference. Too bad that clown Kearns couldn’t understand that. It was already too late.

6
    F or some time, many native San Franciscans had begun to think of their city as seedy, equating its decline to the arrival of the hordes of transients seeking warmer climates and generous social assistance programs. In spite of the growing number of homeless, San Francisco was, to Beth, a transplant from Eureka Springs, Arkansas, still the most beautiful city in the world. The sight of the Golden Gate Bridge cloaked in mist still thrilled her, as it had the day she’d arrived, eight years ago.
    Tonight, driving home from the Fairmont, Beth was struck by the sensation that indeed, something had changed. On Lombard, the city’s motel row, the sidewalks were empty. Friday evening, and not a tourist in sight. Reflexively, she checked that her car doors were locked, then realized she’d already done so. Twice. When Beth steered onto Chestnut Street, with its generally thriving village atmosphere, she spotted a bit more life. Still, the cafés, boutiques, and two Art Deco cinemas didn’t burst with the usual tgif crowd. The deli, where Beth stopped to have a salad, was nearly empty.
    It wasn’t until she reached her own street in the Marina district that Beth relaxed her grip on the wheel. Her shoulders sunk back into place. The Marina wasa safe neighbourhood, not like the areas south of Market that the cabbies warned the tourists away from. “Respectable,” her parents had said when they’d come out for their first visit.
    Beth’s automatic exterior lights were on, as was a table lamp in her living room window. The alarm system, installed scarcely a month ago, provided a measure of security, though there were still the last few steps to climb at the top of the tunnel entrance that rendered Beth’s front door invisible from the street. Anyone could be lurking there, waiting for her. A sub-zero shiver skimmed her spine.
    She dismissed the fear with a furious shake of her head, ashamed at the hysterical thoughts she’d been having lately. Sondra Devereaux had done her job well.
    Seeing her pale yellow Mediterranean house with its clay-tiled roof usually cheered her, but now the view of the blackened second-storey windows filled her with dread. Just a few short months ago she’d joked with Ginny about how ideal it was having a flight attendant for a roommate. Anne was hardly ever home.
    Anne Spalding had come to San Francisco to begin a new life. She had fled from an abusive ex-husband and hoped, once the dust settled, to explore the city like a tourist. Months after her arrival, Anne was found in one of the most touristy areas, Golden Gate Park, her body having been hoisted over a railing near the Academy of Sciences, then droppedonto a path about twelve feet below. The bitter irony made Beth want to scream. Anne, who wanted to fade into the woodwork, made the front page of the
Chronicle
. FLIGHT ATTENDANT SPIDERMAN’S FOURTH VICTIM. Beth felt a lump lodge in her throat.
    Anne had occupied Beth’s furnished guestroom and was thrilled with it. She had brought few possessions. Her clothes, which had barely filled the closet, had been donated to charity. Beth kept the half-dozen paperback novels Anne had owned. Within days, the few tangible traces of Anne Spalding had disappeared. Beth swallowed hard, shut off the ignition, and stepped out of the car.
    The wind had picked up. She had always loved the wind, preferring it and the West Coast