This Can No Longer Be Ignored

The cab's a neat little affair.

Stine is sitting in the driver's seat (Paul's in the passenger seat - again), ready to pick up his first fare of the night.


It's the intersection of Mason and Geary when they pick the man up.

(Paul still can't get a good look at his face.

The side mirror doesn't do much thanks to the dark.)


The man asks to be taken to Washington and Maple.

When they reach it, Stine drives one block farther.

(Cherry.)

Stine puts the cab in park.





He's shot once in the head.

The man takes his wallet and keys and tears off Stine's shirt tail.

He wipes down the cab before leaving.




It's only after Paul wakes up that he realizes he'd been holding his breathing the whole time.

The Blue Rock Springs Golf Course isn't that remarkable a place. Paul's sitting in the passenger seat of a car parked about four miles from Lake Herman Road, arm slung around the back of the driver's seat. In the driver's seat sits a petite young woman, her blonde hair cut short, hands in her lap rather than on the steering wheel.

"Darlene, right?" he asks, tapping the fingers of his other hand on the dashboard. (He doesn't actually have to ask. He knows this place and all the circumstances like the back of his hand.)

"Yeah," she says, and her voice is more a coo than anything else.

What is he supposed to say to her?




"You look nice."

(It's the only thing he can think of.)




He can hear the car coming before he sees it. It parks right behind them (he doesn't bother telling her to go, doesn't bother telling her to just drive and get away).

A man gets out, and Paul can hear his heart pounding.


(I want to see his face.)

He can see the Luger hanging at the man's side as he approaches.



When the man finally arrives at his window, he shines the flashlight directly in Paul's face.

(Godfuckingdammit.

I can't see worth shit.)



"I -- hey."

Three shots each.



She's dead.

Is it his blood?

It hurts.


It fucking hurts and there's blood everywhere and he couldn't even get a look at the sonofabitch's face.

He groans, teeth grinding as he places a hand on his chest, blood spreading through the fabric of his clothing.





Two more shots each and he blacks out.

(he never recalls actually falling asleep)


It's been a while since he's stopping thinking about the Zodiac case - in a manner of speaking, of course.

You never really let it go, do you? No.

You can't.



He still remembers sitting on Graysmith's desk, talking as the other man sketched a rough picture of a survivor's description (what - are you drawing), and he snorts to himself. The pier's relatively quiet, if he gets up early enough in the morning. Sitting on the edge of the dock, he swings his legs out over the water, hands grasping the edge.

(He has never had this much to lose before, and the thought of that?

Frightens him.)

Of course, the quiet makes it relatively easy to hear when anyone's coming. Paul hears the footsteps, and almost immediately he can feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck, and he knows what's coming.

Because he can hear the gun clicking, too.



He doesn't move. It'd be no use, anyhow.

He just keeps swinging his feet above the water, head bowed as he feels his heart begin to race, eyes fixed on the spot just above his right shoulder.

He knows what's coming.



And right on cue, the black mass appears, a hood with a white cross and circle, black jacket, black everything.

But something's wrong, and that's what bothers Paul more than anything else. The man standing behind him is too tall, too skinny, and he knows there were other murderers in the Bay Area (he wrote about them, for Chrissakes), but none who imitated the Zodiac killer this strongly.

His brow furrows, and part of him wants to laugh, because, dammit, what a way to die.




Slowly, a hand creeps up into the reflection - and the hood comes off.

At first, the other man looks grim, but a smile quickly establishes itself on his features as Paul feels cold metal pressed to the back of his head.






And Paul does laugh, voice cracking, partially out of frustration, partially out of he-doesn't-know-what.

"Son of a b--"

The houseboat is a cozy affair. Not too big for one person, not too small for two.

But right now?

It looks fit for maybe a rather unconcerned cat. There are papers everywhere, clothes thrown around haphazardly, and an obscene number of ashtrays and half-empty glasses. (There are also drugs, but these are the first things Paul takes care of upon returning. You saw nothing.)

There's one couch, an armchair, a coffee table, and a TV, which is currently playing PONG against itself (for who knows how long, really).

It's lived in, if nothing else. As much as Paul complains about it, home is home is home. It's where he's lived for ... some time, now, and he's grown used to its ups and downs. It's familiar, it's safe (for a given value of 'safe', anyway), and it's home.

Paul takes a moment to drink in the fact that he's back home and healed, and then turns to face Kate, holding his arms out to either side before dropping them again.

"Welcome aboard."

Somehow, he's not surprised, sitting slumped in one of the chairs at the doctor's office.

As for what they're asking (stop smoking stop boozing stop whatever else it is you're doing), he knows he isn't going to do any of it.

(And he knows he's going to destroy himself.


Well, get himself farther down the abyss than he already is, anyway.)




What follows the diagnosis is what shocks him.

They hand him a small oxygen tank, mask attached to it with a tube.

He takes it with a numb sort of horror, metal cold in his fingers. He holds up the plastic mask, looking at it through the light.

(They say he'll have to carry it with him wherever he goes.)




Shit.




Paul gets home and closes the door behind him, slamming his back against the door and sinking down against the wall.


He discards the tank on a couch, and heads immediately towards the Milliways door.




-- it leads to a simple closet.


oh god, no, please, please, no, no, no, no, no



He closes the door, opens it again.

Nothing.


And Paul Avery backs away from the door, stumbling towards the couch, and gropes for the oxygen tank.


One deep breath.


Two deep breaths.





And his heart is only beating faster and faster.


And he wonders if, maybe, the place was just a part of his case-addled imagination.

(it wasn't IT WASN'T)








But nevertheless, he gets the sinking feeling he won't be back for a very, very long time.

He grabs the closest slip of paper, and pulls a pen from his breast pocket.

In shaking script, he writes






He slips it under the door.




"At least do that for me."

Paul Avery is hired.

At the Sacramento Bee.

On the crime beat.

-- He promised he wouldn't. Wouldn't go back to writing stuff like this.

But as he sits, alone, in his houseboat, the memories come flooding back.

Trying to get Toschi to let him in on the details, trying to help -- hey, bullitt! you gonna catch this guy or not? -- getting that letter -- don't tell me that's a piece of bloody shirt-- shit! holyfuckingcrap -- trying to use Graysmith as a kind of working dog -- you go find the papers, i'm going to stand here and attempt not to vomit -- drinkingsmokingswallowing away a lot of his sorrows and finally walking out.

I AM NOT AVERY.

I AM NOT AVERY.

Walking out.

He almost doesn't remember why he did it, anymore. Why he gave that up. Why the fucking hell he gave that job up, when he knew, he knew it was (ironically) the only thing that kept him sane.

(He works, he goes insane. He doesn't, he gets even worse.)


I AM NOT AVERY.

He doesn't try to pretend that he doesn't scan the newspapers for reportings of the Zodiac. He doesn't try to pretend that he doesn't occasionally wonder if throwing out all of his Zodiac files was the right thing to do.


Sitting on one of his couches, surrounded by empty bottles and still-burning cigarette butts, he tries to collect himself. He tries to convince himself that he can do this, that he can return to working free from any stigma or guilt.



(He can't.)


He drinks, and coughs. God damn it all to hell and back again. He looks at the lapel pin in his fingers, and, after the briefest moment of hesitation, throws it against the opposite wall.







(He cries, for the first time in years.

Rage, desperation, sadness.

He feels everything and nothing.

He knows he's not complete without a story.

He knows he won't function for long with one.)



Paul Avery falls asleep as the sun rises, surrounded by empty bottles, glasses, and ashes.

Lost on the floor, the lapel pin catches slivers of the sun.

I AM NOT AVERY.

Nov. 12, 1969

It was no secret by now that Paul was a heavy, heavy drinker. He started drinking early in the morning and didn't stop until late into the night (or until he passed out, whichever came first). It also wasn't a secret that he'd developed a certain attraction to drugs and cigarettes. An ashtray was almost constantly at his elbow when it was allowed, and he made no effort to hide the fact that he'd perfected the art of chain smoking. As for the small tube of pills on his desk, people just pretended not to notice.

The editors tolerated his behavior, but only because Paul was a brilliant writer. If he had been a reporter of any less caliber than he was, he'd have been fired a long time ago.

However, for any measure of brilliance, people still have their limits.





"Paul. You wrote the Justice Department asking to be put in charge of the Zodiac investigation?" The editor was leaning across his desk, arms set on the table, Paul's letter in his hands. Paul, on the opposite side of the desk, was staring at the various papers on the desk, determined not to meet the editor's eyes. He was slumped forward, dark circles under his eyes. He looked much worse than he had just a couple of years ago.

"I... I merely suggested --"

"On our letterhead?"

"-- that those with intimate knowledge of the case create an information clearing house in order to exchange a free flow of ideas --"

"And that you run it?"

"Well, who better than me?"

Paul paused, turning his head to look off into the distance, then growling, "A marked man."

The editor leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Paul, if you wanna work here, I need three things: one, stop boozing. Two, stop... doing whatever else it is you're doing --" by this point, Paul had leaned back in his own chair, a cruel sort of sarcasm marking his features "-- and three," the editor enunciated, pointing at the paper, "Cut. This. Nonsense. Out."

"Sweetest of Templetons," Paul said gently, "if at any time you feel my excellent work is no longer in step with this trashy, provincial rag..." he got up, heading towards the door, tone still as even as ever, "I will more than happily, more than happily, decamp --" he opened the office door, already making his way out,  "-- for greener pastures."

"Paul, I mean it!"

However, Avery didn't even bother looking back, slamming the door shut behind him and raising up a fist.

Virtually everyone in the office turned as they heard the loud slam, some staring for longer than others. Paul, striding across the floor, made for his desk. Pulling a kleenex from one of the drawers, he picked up the bottle of pills, wrapping it up in a poor attempt to be inconspicuous.

"Paul?"

Avery looked up to see Graysmith, who was now hovering by his desk in a worried manner. Cocking an eyebrow, Paul wiped off his hands, tucking the pills in his jacket pocket.

"Yup?"

"What was that?"

"Ah, an editorial tete-a-tete," he replied, "Wanna grab a drink?"

"It's ten in the morning," Robert said slowly.

"Late... breakfast. Early luncheon --"

"Paul?"

Graysmith took a couple of steps closer, eying Paul in a wary manner.

"Are you okay?"

There was a single beat before Avery replied, "No."

He narrowed his eyes briefly, giving Graysmith a remarkably piercing look. For that single moment, he seemed sober, back to the razor-sharp reporter of old. No longer the druggie, no longer the alcoholic, no longer the smoker.

"Thank you for asking."

Patting Robert on the arm, he turned and began walking off.

"Shorty!" Paul called, to one of the men, "Let's go out for one."

"Paul, where're you going?"

Still on his way out, Paul put up his right hand in the direction of the editor asking the question, middle finger raised.


That was the last that most of the Chronicle staff would ever see of Paul Avery.