Ecstasy

by Beth Saulnier

  I didn’t argue with her, just got off the phone and wrote up my piece on the impending lawsuit. To be charitable, I included a line about how Melting Rock organizers thought it was all just a big misunderstanding. Then I turned my attention back to Deep Lake.

  It was at the afternoon editorial staff meeting, in fact, that somebody pointed out that although we now knew what was in the cooling pool, nobody seemed to be talking about how it got there.

  To be specific, how exactly did the so-called Mohawk Warriors break into the facility—a relative fortress by Gabriel standards—to dump it in? And come to think of it, how do you haul around enough powdered Jell-O mix to muck up fifty thousand gallons of water?

  This, by the way, is not a question I ever anticipated having to consider in my lifetime.

  When it came to trying to address such issues, there was only one place I could think of to start. I was reasonably well acquainted with several members of the anti–Deep Lake lunatic fringe—as opposed to the calmer types who seemed content with legal action. One of them was about to go up the river on drug charges; I went out onto the Green in search of the others.

  I found one sitting on the pavement outside Café Whatever, strumming a guitar with what could either be described as artistic passion or extreme hysteria. He had a paper cup with the coffee shop’s logo on the ground beside him, stained around the edges and containing what looked to be less than a buck in change.

  I can’t really say whether he had much musical talent. His playing and singing sounded to me like somebody was strangling a monkey—but based on my Melting Rock experience, I was fairly sure I wasn’t the target audience.

  He didn’t seem to notice me standing there, just kept strumming and howling. Then I dropped a dollar in his cup, and he acknowledged my existence with a solemn nod, like I’d just paid proper tribute at the temple gates. After what seemed like several hours, the song ended with a yowl that (I think) translated into Oh, girl, come back to meeeeeeeee. Before he could start singing again, I offered to buy him a cup of coffee.

  “Whatcha want?” Axel said, looking at me warily from his cross-legged pose.

  “Fine. If you don’t want any coffee, I’ll just—”

  “Nah. Hold on. I’d dig some, yeah. Just… what gives?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  He seemed, if it was possible, even warier. “ ’Bout what?”

  “Deep Lake.”

  “Oh.” He sprang to his feet in one fluid motion. “That’s cool.” He picked up his guitar and the meager cupful of change and followed me into the coffee shop, where he ordered an extra-large mug of the strongest stuff they had. I was just about to pay when I noticed him staring at the pastry case with something beyond longing.

  “Axel,” I said, “when was the last time you ate something?”

  He shrugged and looked down at the dirty toenails sticking out of his Birkenstocks. “Got no dough,” he said.

  “You want a bagel?”

  “Really?” He turned a pair of pleading eyes on me, and I was instantly reminded of Cindy Bauer. “You mean it?”

  “Sure.”

  He asked for a pumpernickel bagel with extra cream cheese, and I got one of the café’s signature cookies for myself—a chocolate-frosted question mark known as a “Whatever.” The place has some tasty treats, but sometimes it’s too cute by half.

  I expected him to want to sit in the back, but he went straight for a table in the window. We’d barely sat down, when he jammed half the bagel into his mouth and kept pushing and chewing until it was all gone. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and guzzled down most of the coffee—never mind that it was still steaming.

  The calories and the caffeine had a downright transformative effect on him. When he finally said something, he no longer sounded like a Dickensian waif; the confident fellow from Melting Rock was back with a vengeance.

  “So… lady,” he said, speaking in a funny singsong voice that was probably supposed to sound supercool. “So…newspaper lady …”

  “Um, yeah?”

  “Why does newspaper lay-dee want to talk to little old Axel Robbee-nette?”

  “She’s wondering how the hell somebody dumped a ton of strawberry Jell-O into the Deep Lake Cooling pool.”

  He started laughing so hard he grabbed his gut and doubled over. His greasy hair trailed into the other half of his bagel, so when he finally sat up there was cream cheese on his head.

  “Cool, huh?” he said. “I bet those corporate dopes never even knew what hit ’em.”

  “Axel, Benson is a university, for chrissake. It’s nonprofit.”

  “Ooh, nonprofit,” he parroted back at me before biting off a quarter of the remaining bagel slice. “Like big business doesn’t run the fuckin’ show up there.”

  “Look,” I said, “I’m doing a story for tomorrow’s paper on the Jell-O thing. I’d really like to be able to say how you did it.”

  “Hey, lady, I never said I did anything,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t go misquoting me, or I’ll sue your ass.” More chuckles. “I’ll sooooo…”

  “Fine, let me rephrase the question. I’d really like to know how it was done. I mean, the heat-exchange building is like a fort—big fence, barbed wire, the whole thing. So did somebody let you in or what?”

  He smirked at me. “More than one way in there.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning why should I tell you?”

  “Because whoever did it is probably dying to brag about it.”

  He chewed on that for a while. “So why should I tell you instead of ”—he looked up to make sure I was paying attention—“Mr. Gordon Band of the New York Times?”

  That got me. “Gordon called you?”

  “Talked to me on the Green yesterday. I got no phone.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “Guess he got my name from that cool-ass story you wrote. Wanted me to tell him what got dumped in the fuckin’ pool, ya know?”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him, ‘You want to know the dope, you gotta show me the green, man.’ ”

  “Huh?”

  “He wants the facts, he’s gotta pay up. A guy’s gotta eat, ya know.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “He offered me one thousand dollars, baby.”

  “He did not.”

  “Did so.”

  “Axel, Gordon Band is a friend of mine. And although he may be the most competitive reporter who ever lived, there’s no way he’d ever pay off a source to get a story. It’s what you’d call a big ethical no-no.”

  “Well,” he said, “them’s the facts, Jack.”

  He squirmed in his seat and stared at the tabletop. Axel Robinette was, in short, a very bad liar.

  “Look, Axel, if you’re not going to tell me the truth, I’m just wasting my time here.” I started to stand up.

  “Aw, come on, lady. Lighten up.” I sat back down. “Besides, what’s the big deal? You’re sittin’ here bribin’ me with eats, right? What’s the problem with slippin’ a guy a little cash?”

  “Buying you a snack during an interview and giving you money for information isn’t the same thing.”

  “Yeah, well…” He did a little twisty dance in his seat; this, apparently, was supposed to represent moral relativism. Then he ate the rest of his bagel. As he chewed, Guinevere the Psychic walked by the window and waved at us.

  “Come on,” I said, “you don’t have to get your name in the paper or anything. I’m not trying to get you busted. I just want to know how it was done.”

  He shrugged and favored me with another smirk. So I focused my attention on the cookie, which was shaping up to be a much more charming companion. When I finally looked up again, the expression on his face was, of all things, blatantly lascivious.

  “You’re kind of a fiery little bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He raised a guitar-callused ha
nd. “Hey, no offense meant, baby. I’m just saying, you’re kind of a hottie. For an older chick, I mean.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “So, come on… Can you spot me some dough?”

  “No.”

  “But I really need it.”

  He stretched both arms out for emphasis. Unfortunately, the reptile tattoos snaking their way around both biceps didn’t exactly inspire charity.

  “Have you thought about maybe getting a job?”

  He gave me a smile that probably would’ve made me swoon, if I had a crew cut and my name was Dorrie Benson. “But then,” he said, “I couldn’t have any fun.”

  “Poor baby.”

  I’d meant it sarcastically. This clearly escaped him.

  “Hey, you wanna hear a secret?” He leaned in like I was his unindicted coconspirator. “Well, do ya?”

  “Sure.”

  “Minute I get some cash together, I’m gonna blow this town.”

  “Really? Where are you going?”

  He winked at me. “Santa Cruz, man. It’s warm there twenty-four seven. Besides, I gotta get closer to L.A. if I’m gonna get me a music deal, right?”

  “Well…good luck.”

  “So will you spot me some dough?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Aw, come on…”

  “Look, if you don’t want to talk about Deep Lake, how about you tell me a few things about your friend Rob Sturdivant?”

  He shook his head, the pseudocharming smile still intact. “No way, baby.”

  “Were you surprised he made bail? I mean, fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  “His folks’ve got it, so he got sprung. Good for him.”

  “Axel, the guy got charged with possession with intent. He’s under investigation for selling the drugs that killed those kids. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Ain’t no business of mine.”

  “Did you know he was dealing?”

  Another shrug. “Who gives a fuck?”

  This was starting to get tiresome. “Look, Axel, I gotta get back to work. If you’re not gonna tell me anything about Sturdivant or Deep Lake…”

  He laid a tattooed hand on my arm. “Come on, baby. Don’t go getting all huffy, okay?”

  “Are you gonna tell me how it was done or aren’t you?”

  He ran a dirty finger up and down my wrist. “Play your cards right, and I’ll do more than tell you.”

  I yanked my hand away, quelling the urge to run to the ladies’ room for a hefty dose of antibacterial soap. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Meet me at Deep Lake tomorrow night,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”

  IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING that I shouldn’t have done it. I mean, meeting some scuzzy street kid in the middle of the night? Going alone, without even telling anybody what I was up to? Trespassing?

  Well, okay—I do that last one on a fairly frequent basis. But the rest of it was downright moronic.

  Still, there I was—hiking to the cooling facility at quarter after midnight, hepped up on caffeine and dressed like a goddamn cat burglar. I was running late, in fact, because I’d gone home after deadline to change into an all-black outfit: boots, turtleneck sweater, and my new low-rise Guess? jeans. If I made a fool of myself, at least I was going to do it in style.

  So I’d parked the car down the road and walked back to the heat-exchange building—slowly. I figured inching my way by flashlight was better than tripping on something and tumbling into the lake.

  I’m not sure what I’d expected; I guess I thought Axel would be waiting for me out front. But when I got there, I saw nothing resembling a tattooed guitar player. Just a barbed-wire fence, with its front gate ever so slightly ajar.

  There was just a sliver of a moon out that night, and the whole place was incredibly dark. Actually, it was unnaturally dark; it took me a minute to realize that the outside lights weren’t on.

  “Axel?” I whispered into the void beyond the front gate. No answer.

  I tried shining my flashlight through the chain-link; the beam was broad and bright, but I couldn’t see anyone. “Axel?” I said, a little louder this time. “Hey, Axel. Are you here?”

  Still nothing.

  I ventured forward, shining the flashlight beam around the parking lot. There were no cars except an official Benson service vehicle, which may or may not park there all the time. Still, the possibility that someone might be there made me hesitate for a few minutes. Then I figured that even if I ran into a Benson facilities worker, I could probably talk my way out of it—that’s always been a particular talent of mine—so I kept going.

  I crossed the parking lot to the main door, a reinforced-steel affair that didn’t exactly invite one to come in and stay a while. Then I noticed that, like the fence gate, it was slightly ajar. I reached for the handle but—after several years of covering crime and one of sleeping with a cop—it occurred to me that maybe I didn’t want to leave any fingerprints. So I used the butt of the flashlight to open the door, and found that the building was just as dark inside as out.

  “Axel?” I whispered again. Zippo.

  But the fact was, even if he was there, he probably couldn’t have heard me. The Deep Lake Cooling system was on, and the cavernous room was filled with the whooshing of water through pipes and the thumping hum of pumps forcing the chilled liquid back up the hill to Benson. The whole place felt alive, like you were standing inside some gigantic body, lungs breathing and heart pumping blood in an endless circuit. I half expected to feel the ground shift, like I was trapped in the gut of some sci-fi monster.

  If you’re wondering if I was scared, well… the answer would be hell yes. I’m generally terrified by campfire ghost stories; poking around a deserted industrial building in the pitch dark had me more than a little freaked out. I was glad for the weight of the flashlight in my hand. The hefty red Maglite was Cody’s idea of a Valentine’s Day present; it takes four D batteries and could work nicely as a bludgeon, should the need arise.

  I shone the light across the room in a slow arc, and the beam illuminated the far wall a good hundred feet away. Huge teal blue pipes emerged from the darkness like tentacles—an analogy that immediately struck me as counterproductive to my own peace of mind. The light glinted off innumerable dials and other assorted gizmos that kept the place running, but it revealed not the slightest bit of Axel Robinette.

  Cursing myself for being sufficiently idiotic to be there in the first place, I forced myself to do a sweep of the entire floor. I paced around doing some lame impression of bravery, trying not to jump every time the light cast creepy shadows off the twisted piping—and, for the record, not having a whole lot of success.

  I knew from my tour at the open house that the heat-exchange facility had three floors: the main one I was on, an upper gallery with an office and a lot of computer equipment, and a lower level housing the huge pumps and the intake pool. Because the upstairs struck me as less icky, I opted to check that out first. The office was locked up tight, computer screens and other monitoring equipment blinking through a long window; otherwise nothing.

  So I went back down to the main floor and made my way to the narrow metal staircase that led to the bottom level. The temperature dropped after just a couple of steps; the air was cold and clammy, like the inside of a cave. On the tour Shardik had told us that because the water was drawn from deep at the bottom of the lake, the pool was a constant 38 degrees.

  “Don’t fall in,” he’d told us, leaning out over the waist-high metal railing. “Unless somebody fishes you out, you’ll die in three minutes.”

  Shardik had been laughing when he said it, like he was enjoying giving the shiny-suited dignitaries a little scare—you’ll die in three minutes, har-har-har—and we’d all laughed along with him. But his little joke didn’t seem so funny as I inched down the stairs, one hand on the flashlight and the other on the chilly metal railing. When I got to the bottom, I swept the light across the ro
om. Unless somebody was hiding behind the massive pumps—and I really hoped no one was—I was all alone down there.

  I was just about to go back upstairs when the sensible part of my brain said, Look in the pool.

  Hell no, said the rest of me.

  Come on, you big chicken. Just turn around, aim the goddamn flashlight, and look in the pool.

  So I did.

  And guess what: I immediately wished I hadn’t.

  CHAPTER17

  The body was facedown, arms and legs floating freely in the black water. Because I spend way too much time at the movies—and, more to the point, because I was in the process of flipping out—my brain flashed the opening scene of Sunset Boulevard, when William Holden is lying dead in Gloria Swanson’s pool, but he goes ahead and narrates the whole rest of the movie anyway.

  Now, I’m sure a more normal person wouldn’t have thought of that. In fact, a sane human being might very well have had the presence of mind not to go to an empty industrial building alone in the middle of the night in the first place.

  But there I was, standing there in the dark, my flashlight trained on a corpse lolling in the jet-black water. My first instinct, in case you’re wondering, was to get the hell out of there as fast as was humanly goddamn possible. But I managed to ignore it; I even talked my foot into taking half a step toward the pool.

  Was it Axel? That seemed the most likely thing, didn’t it? I took another half step forward to get a better look at the body, but I couldn’t see much. The waterline was about four feet below the floor, and the face was completely submerged. Since he—or, I suppose, she—was wearing a baseball cap, I couldn’t even tell what the hair looked like.

  I was just steeling myself to go all the way to the edge of the pool when I heard something. In retrospect, I think it was just some ventilation system going on, but anyway it scared the hell out of me. I turned tail and ran up the stairs—flashlight bobbing every which way, boots clanking on the metal steps, fight-or-flight instinct set firmly on flight.

  I ran up the stairs and out the front door, suddenly terrified that the fence gate was going to be locked. If I hadn’t lost it before, I sure as holy hell did then.