I kneeled. Something crawled up my leg and I slapped it away.
The patina was moss. Not copper, gold.
A gold bullet-shaped tube with a white-gold clip.
The cap of a fountain pen.
Etched in the head: MBL.
I pocketed it and kicked at the loose, fragrant dirt. Nothing else in the cabin.
Lucy hadn’t followed me in. Through the window hole, I saw her make her way to the water’s edge and stare across the pond.
Two trees on the far bank.
Giant, lush, weeping willows, their surface roots worming into the pond.
Branches of knife-blade, golden-green leaves, looping to the ground, then bending and resuming in a relentless horizontal growth.
Sentries.
Diamonds of light shone through the wispy foliage.
A baby-blue network, ethereal as lace.
I ran out of the cabin.
Lucy’s eyes were fixed on a spot between the trees, a bare, sunken area.
She took the shovel from me and began circling the pond clockwise. Awkward, almost hesitant, toeing along the bank, inches from the water’s edge.
Her eyes closed and she slipped. Before I could catch her, one leg went into the water, up to the ankle. She pulled it out. Her jeans were soaked. She shook her leg and kept walking. Stopped in the bare spot, tears dripping down her cheeks.
Cradling the shovel like a baby.
Inspiration.
Lowell’s private spot.
Burying Karen here . . . for company?
He needed company—the adulation of fans and disciples and, when that dried up, the worship of young women.
Send me someone good-looking.
Had other women been buried here?
My initial thought upon hearing the dream was that he’d molested Lucy. There’d been more than a nuance of sexuality in his approach to her just now: comments about her legs and her toilet training. Flaunting his infidelity with her aunt.
Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that with Lucy he was after something different.
Stick with me and I’ll show you the world, kid.
Body failing, fame withered, he wanted a family.
He’d stopped coming here a long time ago.
No more inspiration.
Lucy stood up.
Without a word, she began digging.
CHAPTER
44
She wouldn’t let me help her.
The first foot of soil was forgiving, but after that she hit compressed clay and cried out in frustration. I wrested the shovel from her. Each second weighed on me as I excavated a hole six feet long and three feet deep, getting in the pit and pitching out dirt like a manic paid by the shovelful. My arms felt leaden and detached from my body.
No signs of any bones. The smallest chip and I’d yank her the hell out of here. Even without progress, I’d give it five more minutes.
She got in and said, “My turn,” but when I shook my head she didn’t argue. Tears had washed her face clean.
The sun was sinking and the pond had grayed. It had been over an hour since we’d come up, but the day seemed timeless.
Each shovelful mixed with the blood rush in my head.
I dug and dug, till my breath grew short and harsh. Then I heard something else.
Another voice—a woman’s—from across the pond.
Both of us turned.
Nova was standing near Inspiration. A man had one arm around her waist. His other hand held a pistol to her head.
She looked frightened to death. The man’s fingers touched one of her breasts and spidered their way up in a manner that couldn’t be accidental.
I pushed Lucy down and ducked. The man’s gun arm snapped, as if he was throwing the weapon.
The shot knocked loose a chunk of dirt a yard from my right hand. No marksman, but we had no cover.
Trapped.
I crouched low in the pit, keeping my hand on Lucy’s back. Her mouth was open but her breathing was silent.
No sounds. I raised my head for a peek.
The man put the gun back to Nova’s head and prodded her with one knee. The two of them slow-danced around the pond till they got within fifteen feet of us.
Her left cheek was scraped raw and her left eye was swelling. I ducked and peeked, ducked and peeked. Finally seeing his face.
His right hand gripped her narrow waist. Manicured nails. The jeans were pressed. His sweatshirt said Sausalito. He looked like an executive hanging loose.
Exactly what he was.
Christopher Graydon-Jones.
“You’ve made some nice progress,” he said. “Pity we don’t have more spades. Well, get to work. We’ll need it a good deal deeper to fit all of you. Go on, will you?”
“She’s still his daughter,” I said. “When he called you, he didn’t expect you to kill her.”
“No, I suppose not.” He gave a split-second smile that raised one corner of his mouth. “Actually, he had this tart call, and look what happened to her. Expectations are so seldom met.”
Nova moved, and he kneed her hard in the back.
“True,” I said. “You wanted to be a sculptor.”
His lips drew back and he did something with his free hand that made Nova cry out.
“Though there is a continuity,” I said. “Molding form, shaping limbs. Big-time power needs—that’s what got you into trouble with Karen, isn’t it?”
He dug his fingers into Nova’s middle. She gasped and shivered and a wet stain spread at her groin.
“Please,” she said.
“Start digging or I’ll kill this bit of fuzz right now and make you chop up her body with the dull edge of that spade.”
I picked up the shovel. He backed out of swinging range.
Nova was nearly limp, straining his grip. Aiming the gun at Lucy, he shoved down on Nova’s shoulder, forcing her to her knees, then prone, her face in the dirt. She ate some, gagged, managed to turn her head to the side.
Graydon-Jones put his foot on her spine. Trophy hunter.
But his eyes were jumpy.
“Come, come, faster, faster, or I’ll have to finish both these tarts.”
I jammed the shovel in the clay. Pulling it out was like towing a barge. My whole upper body felt encased in concrete. The lace pattern through the willows was pewter-colored now. I managed to dig.
He said, “Not that it matters, but I didn’t get into trouble with Karen. Karen did it to herself.”
“Drugs?” I said, stopping.
“Don’t slack off—yes, yes, drugs, what else, don’t you watch your public-service commercials? I wasn’t even the one to give them to her.”
“Who was?” The shovel hit the ground again. I pretended to dig deep but got only a few grains of soil on my blade. He was too far away to notice, his gaze leveling off at my elbows. If I stroked rapidly and grunted a lot, that might pass for a while.
“Who gave her the drugs?” I said, faking another hard chop. “App?”
No answer. One of his big hands caressed Nova’s rear.
“You were just along for the party?”
I saw Lucy from a corner of my eye. Sitting, knees up. Frozen. Powerless again.
“Yes, a party. There was no crime,” said Graydon-Jones. “She was the life of it. Coming on to all of us, crawling up in our laps, telling us she was going to be a film star and live in Beverly Hills.”
“What kind of drugs did App give her?”
“What’s the difference: grass, hash, quaaludes. It was the ’ludes that got to her. No tolerance. Out like a light.”
He looked down at Nova, then his gaze shifted to Lucy.
“What are you staring at? Make yourself useful. Dig with your hands—go on.”
Lucy got down on all fours and began scooping up clay.
I said, “Two parties, then. Friday night and Saturday.”
He blinked with surprise. Covered it with a laugh.
“The police know, too.
”
“Is that so? That sounds right out of a telly script. Go on, dig.”
I faked some more. “So she came on to you?”
“All saucy talk and meaningful glances, quite a piece. A virgin, though you’d never have known it.”
“She didn’t stay one Saturday night, did she?” Chop. Grunt.
“Oh,” he said. “Are we being politically correct? Are we saying a saucy little piece who crawls up on your lap and puts her tongue in your ear doesn’t want it? We treated her like a lady—ill-deserved. She was totally stoned, unbuttoning her blouse, singing Jefferson Airplane songs. Then she vomited. All over me.”
His mouth twitched. “But I cleaned her up anyway. Dressed her and combed her hair. Curt even put makeup on her—are you slacking, Ms. Daughter? Get those hands working.”
Lucy scooped and tossed dirt. Her eyes were dry and her thoughts were impossible to read. Nova’s cheek was squashed against the earth, her swollen eye totally shut, her lip split.
I breathed conspicuously and gave him another few shovel strokes. “So what went wrong?”
“What do you think? She didn’t wake up—but how did you find out?”
I didn’t answer. He put the gun to Nova’s head.
“I remembered it,” said Lucy.
“You?” Graydon-Jones was amused. “What were you back then, a fetus?”
Lucy started to say something. I shook my head at her.
“The old idiot told you,” said Graydon-Jones. “Fucking bloody fool. Well, as usual he’s screwed up.” Giggles. “You’ve missed the spot completely.” Letting his gaze coast over us, toward the larger of the willows.
Lucy made a soft, catlike sound.
I said, “Who was at the party besides you and App and Lowell?”
“Not Lowell,” he said. “Thankfully. He was always such a bore. Friday night, he had her on his lap, sad tales of the writer’s lonely life. But Saturday he was too busy for that—Caligula in his toga.”
“So why’d he get involved in burying her?”
“Because he’s such a kind man.” Laughter. “He dropped in to pick up some papers and found me trying to revive her, and panic, panic, panic. All that blood-and-gore verse; turns out he had soft-boiled guts.”
“Did he drop in alone or was he with Mellors and Trafficant? How big of a private party was—”
“Shut up. I want you finished well before dark.”
I pantomimed more effort. “So the party was right over there?” Glancing across the pond.
He said nothing.
“Far from the madding crowd,” I said.
“Far from the meddling crud.”
Graydon-Jones pushed his foot on Nova. Her eyes had stopped moving and her jaw was being pushed down in an unnatural position, the scars compressing. . . .
I said, “App’s got a good thing going. Sits on the beach and you do the dirty work.”
“Wrong,” he said. “You do the dirty work.”
Aiming the gun at the center of my nose.
I kept on faking, moving dirt from place to place. Lucy had caught on and was doing the same. Her hair was caked into dreadlocks. The hole was at least five feet deep. I wondered how much longer we’d be able to avoid the next foot.
Graydon-Jones must have been thinking the same thing.
He grabbed Nova by the back of her collar and dragged her closer to the pit. The gun moved back and forth from her head to Lucy and me. Nickel-plated automatic. Plenty of bullets for everyone.
Nova tried to shield her face. Her shut eye was purplish, ballooning, and the gun barrel had made red circles on her temple.
Graydon-Jones stopped six feet from the rim, letting her drop, again, and putting his foot on the back of her neck. It wouldn’t take much pressure to snap her cervical vertebrae.
He looked down.
“Bloody hell. Playing games, are we?”
Training the gun on Lucy, he started to squeeze the trigger.
I dove to push her away but she was up, screaming, throwing a clump of hard dirt at him. Direct hit on his chest. The gun fired somewhere up in the air. Nova seized the moment to arch her back and grab his foot. That diverted his gaze downward as he kicked at her and tried to tighten his grip on the gun.
I drew the shovel back like a javelin and fired it at his legs, blade first, as hard as my sandbag arms could muster.
The tip slammed into his left shin and he yelled in pain and surprise.
Nova managed to break free. Graydon-Jones aimed at her. She ran toward Inspiration as I vaulted out of the hole.
I threw myself on him. As we went down together, I felt the gun pinned between our chests, digging into my sternum. The arm holding it twisted in an unnatural way. I slammed the other down as he tried to bite my nose. He was out of shape but adrenaline had powered him, too, and he pitched and rolled, managing to slide the gun arm out.
Then something came from the left in a brown-white blur, striking him hard in the cheek, quick as a snakebite.
His head whiplashed. Another blow, and his eyes rolled back. He went loose.
I twisted the gun from his fingers.
Lucy’s muddy sneaker kicked him again. Unconscious, he started to drool, then vomit. I jumped free of the trickle of filth.
Standing over him, I trained the automatic on his head.
His Sausalito sweatshirt a putrid mess.
Breathing but not moving, the left side of his head muddy, starting to balloon.
I was panting. So was Lucy.
She reached down toward Graydon-Jones, then stopped herself.
I put my arm around her. She looked over at the larger willow.
The shovel lay on the ground, not far from Graydon-Jones.
“You okay?” I said.
She held her chest and nodded.
Movement across the pond. Nova had made her way into the tall grass and was running toward the forest, the tints in her hair bright as fruit among the green stalks.
“Call the police!” I shouted.
She gave no indication she heard.
CHAPTER
45
I needed binding. Thought of something.
I gave the gun to Lucy. The way she took it told me she’d never held one before.
“He probably won’t stir, but don’t get any closer. Keep it aimed at his head and watch him. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Taking the shovel, I followed Nova’s flight into the forest, running hard until I came to the knotted, viney plant that had blocked our way. Bent back now, and trodden—Graydon-Jones following the path we’d laid out for him.
Chopping off several long tendrils, I ran back and trussed him in a loose hogtie. He was breathing fine and his neck pulse was strong and regular. He’d have a badly bruised shin, a monster headache, maybe a concussion, but he’d survive.
We left him there and returned to the lodge.
Lowell’s Jeep was still there but the Mercedes was gone. A brown van with a rental sticker sat between Lucy’s car and the Seville. The doors were unlocked and I looked inside. Rental form made out to Mr. Hacker. Cash transaction. In back were shovels and a pickax, a hacksaw, a spool of rope, and several boxes of heavy-duty garbage bags. The keys were under the driver’s seat and I pocketed them. Fresh tire tracks and oil spots traced the Mercedes’ exit.
We went inside the house.
Lowell was in bed, eyes closed.
Breathing very shallowly and slowly.
Ghostly white.
Two halves of an ampule glinted from the floor, just under the bed. I found the hypodermic needle a few feet away, half concealed by the yellowed corners of an old New York Times Book Review. A fresh red dot in the crook of his left arm.
Lucy was behind me, at the doorway. I heard her walk away.
I picked up the old black phone and dialed.
Sheriffs and technicians swarmed. Lowell stayed asleep and he seemed to have lost even more color. One of the deputies opined, “He doesn’t look too g
ood.” Paramedics came a half hour later and carted him away.
Milo was still out of the office, but I asked for Del Hardy, and he arrived right after the first carful of deputies. I hadn’t seen him in a while. His hair had turned almost completely gray and he’d gotten heavier. His arrival rescued Lucy and me from the knee-jerk suspicions of cops who didn’t know us. As it was, we were stuck answering questions till after midnight.
Del came over. “How you guys doing?”
“Owe you another guitar—oh, yeah, no time. How about dinner?”
“I can always eat.”
He asked Lucy if she was okay; then he walked off to drink coffee with a sheriff’s homicide investigator. People kept heading back toward the forest.
Lucy’d been back there an hour ago, pinpointing the spot as technicians created a string-and-post perimeter.
Now the two of us were sitting on folding chairs in front of the Seville. Lucy was covered with a blanket. She’d managed to eat half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
At 12:45 someone shouted, “Bones!”
Milo showed soon after.
He looked at us and shook his head. “Doctor and patient, perfect match. And I set it up.”
He bent and kissed Lucy’s cheek. She held his head and kissed him back. When she let go, he shook my hand and squeezed it.
“Del filled me in over the computer. Sorry I missed the cutting of the cake, but I was obstructing a helicopter.”
“Whose?”
“App’s.”
“Leaving town? How’d you know?”
“I didn’t. I was watching his office all day, followed him to lunch at Mortons, then over to Bijan to buy a nine-thousand-dollar leather jacket. Then back to his office, but instead of getting off at his floor he continued up to the heliport. Blades whirring, the whole bit. He tried the indignant citizen bit, claimed it was just a back-and-forth to Santa Barbara, tennis with some other shitbag producer. But his stretch limo was packed up with Vuitton luggage, and his chauffeur was carrying paperwork for a private charter to Lisbon out of the Imperial terminal.”
He smiled. “Big guy, the chauffeur, but very low pain threshold. Anyway, App’s not going anywhere for the time being. Got a suite at County jail.”
“What charge?” I said.
Self-Defense Page 36
