“Are you okay?” she asked, a little breathless.
“I’m sorry, but I just realized what’s going on with this creature.”
“That’s what you were thinking about?” Yes, her feelings were definitely hurt.
“No, not during. It came to me in a flash right after. Somehow the creature can attract mammals with lower than normal serotonin levels. And you’ve got, what, a third of the population running around in antidepressant withdrawal?”
She was pissed now, not hurt. She dumped him off her onto the floor, stood up, pulled her skirt down, and stepped away. He scrambled into his pants and looked around for his shirt, which lay in shreds behind the couch.
He had a tan that ended at the neckline and just below the shoulders; the rest of him was milk white. He looked up at her from the gap between the couch and the coffee table with a pleading in his eyes, as if he were looking up from a coffin in which he was about to be buried alive.
“Sorry,” he said.
He wasn’t looking her in the eye, and Val suddenly realized that he was talking to her exposed breasts. She pulled her blouse closed, and a battery of insults rose in her mind, ready to be fired, but all of them were mean-spirited and would serve to do nothing but make them both feel ashamed. He was who he was, and he was honest and real, and she knew that he hadn’t meant to hurt her. So she cried. Thinking, Great, crying is what got me into this in the first place.
She plopped down on the couch with her face in her hands. Gabe moved to her side and put his arm around her. “I’m really sorry. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”
“You’re fine. It’s just too much.”
“I should go.” He started to stand.
She caught his arm in a death grip. “You go and I’ll hunt you down and kill you like a rabid dog.”
“I’ll stay.”
“No go,” she said. “I understand.”
“Okay, I’ll go.”
“Don’t you dare.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him hard, pulling him back down onto the couch, and within seconds they were all over each other again.
That’s it, she thought, no more crying. It’s the crying that does it. This guy is aroused by my pain.
But soon they lay in a panting sweaty pile on the floor and the idea of crying was light-years away.
And this time Gabe said, “That was wonderful.”
Val noticed a wineglass overturned by her head, a cabernet stain bleeding over the carpet. “Is it salt or club soda?”
Gabe pulled away far enough to look into her eyes and saw that she was looking at the stained carpet. “Salt and cold water, I think. Or is that blood?” A drop of sweat dripped off his forehead onto her lips.
She looked at him. “You weren’t thinking about that creature that doesn’t exist, were you?”
“Just you.”
She smiled. “Really?”
“And a weed-whacker, for some reason.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Uh, yes, I’m kidding. I was only thinking of you.”
“So you don’t think I’m a horrible person for what I’ve done?”
“You were trying to do what you thought was right. How could that be horrible?”
“I feel horrible.”
“It’s been a long time. I’m out of practice.”
“No, not about this. About my patients. You really think something could be preying on them?”
“It’s just a theory. There may not even be a creature.”
“But what if there is? Shouldn’t we call the National Guard or something?”
“I was thinking of calling Theo.”
“Theo isn’t even a real cop.”
“He deserves to know.”
They lay there in silence for a few minutes, staring at the spreading stain on the carpet, feeling the sweat run down their ribs, and listening to the beat of each other’s hearts.
“Gabe?” Val whispered.
“Yes.”
“Maybe we should go to couples’ counseling.”
“Should we get dressed first?”
“You were serious about the weed-whacker, weren’t you?”
“I don’t know where that image came from.”
“There’s supposed to be a good couples’ guy in San Junipero, unless you’d rather go to a woman counselor.”
“I thought we were going to call the National Guard.”
“Only if it comes to that,” Val said. Thinking, When we tell the shrink about this, I’m leaving out the part about the wine spilling.
Theo
Is there anything more irritating than people who have just been laid? Especially when you have not. Not for a long time.
Oh, it was obvious as soon as they came through Molly’s front door, waking Theo for the second time that night: Gabe’s grin looking like the oversized grill on an old Chrysler, Val Riordan wearing jeans and almost no makeup; the both of them giddy and giggling and blushing like children. Theo wanted to puke. He was happy for them, but he wanted to puke.
“What?” Theo said.
Gabe was obviously amped and trying not to show it. He put his hands in his pockets to keep from waving them around. “I”—he looked at Val and smiled—“we think that this creature, if it exists, may be attracted to prey with low serum serotonin levels.”
Gabe bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for his statement to sink in. Theo sat there, staring at him, with no discernible change in expression from the weariness he’d worn since they came through the door. He guessed that he was supposed to say something now.
“Molly was here,” Theo said. “The creature exists. It ate Mikey Plotznik, and Joseph Leander, and who knows who else? She said it’s a dragon.”
Gabe’s grin dropped. “That’s great. I mean, that’s horrible, but it’s great from a scientific point of view. I have another theory about this species. I think it has some specialized mechanism to affect its prey. Have you been horny lately?”
“There’s no need to be arrogant, Gabe. I’m glad you two had a good time, but there’s no need to rub it in.”
“No no, you don’t get it.” Gabe went on to explain about Val Riordan’s decision to take her patients off antidepressants and how the lowering of serotonin levels could lead to increased libido. “So Pine Cove has been full of horny people.”
“Right,” Theo said. “And I still can’t get a date.”
Val Riordan laughed and Theo glared at her. Gabe said, “The rats I found alive near this trailer, where we think the creature might have been, were mating when I found them. There are some species of carnivorous plants that give off a sex pheromone that attracts their prey. In some species, the behavior of the male—a display, a dance, a scent—will stimulate the ovaries in the female of the species without any physical contact. I think that’s what’s happened to us.”
“Our ovaries are being stimulated?” Theo rubbed sleep from his eyes. “I gotta be honest with you, Gabe. I’m not feeling it.”
Val turned to Gabe. “That’s not very romantic.”
“It’s incredibly exciting. This may be the most elegant predator that the world has ever seen.”
Theo shook his head. “I have no home, no job, no car, there’s probably a warrant out for my arrest, and you want me to be excited over the fact that we have a monster in town that makes you horny so he can eat you? Sorry, Gabe, I’m missing the positive side of this.”
Val chimed in, “It may be the reason that you’ve been able to quit smoking pot so easily.”
“Pardon me? Easily?” Theo wanted to jump off the couch and bitch-slap them both.
“Were you ever able to go this long before?”
“She could be right, Theo,” Gabe said. “If this thing affects serotonin, it could affect other neurotransmitters.”
“Oh good,” Theo said. “Let’s open a detox clinic. We’ll feed half of the patients to the monster and the other half will recover. I can’t wait.”
�
�There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Gabe said. “We’re just trying to help.”
“Help? Help with what? Bar fight? I can handle it. Skateboard theft? I’m on it. But my law enforcement experience hasn’t prepared me for dealing with this.”
“That’s true, Gabe,” Val said. “Theo’s little more than a rent-a-cop. Maybe we should call the sheriff or the FBI or the National Guard.”
“And tell them what?” Theo asked. Rent-a-cop? I’m not even that now, he thought.
“He has a point.” Gabe said. “We haven’t seen anything.”
“That old Blues singer has,” Val said.
Theo nodded. “We need to find him. Maybe he’ll…”
“He’s living with Estelle Boyet,” Val said. “I have her address in my office.”
Twenty-four
The Sheriff
Sheriff John Burton stood by the ruins of Theo’s Volvo, pounding the keys of his cell phone. He could smell the cow shit he’d stepped in coming off his Guccis and the damp wind was blowing cowlicks in his gelled silver hair. His black Armani suit was smudged with the ashes he’d poked through at Theo’s cabin, thinking there might be a burned body underneath. He was not happy.
Didn’t anybody answer their goddamn phone anymore? He’d called Joseph Leander, Theophilus Crowe, and Jim Beer, the man who owned the ranch, and no one was answering. Which is what had brought him to Pine Cove in the middle of the night in a state of near panic in the first place. The second shift of crank cookers should be working in the lab right now, but there was no one around. His world was falling down around him, all because of the meddling of a pothead constable who had forgotten that he was supposed to be incompetent.
Crowe’s line was ringing. Burton heard a click, then was immediately disconnected. “Fuck!” He slammed the cell phone shut and dropped it into the pocket of his suit jacket. Someone was answering Crowe’s phone. Either he was still alive or Leander had killed him, taken his phone, and was fucking with him. But Leander’s van had been parked at Crowe’s cabin? So where was he? Not at home, Burton had already checked, finding nothing but a sleepy baby-sitter and two groggy little girls in nightgowns. Would Leander run and not take his daughters?
Burton pulled out the phone and dialed the data offices at the department. The Spider answered.
“Nailsworth,” the Spider said. Burton could hear him chewing.
“Put down that Twinkie, you fucking tub of lard, I need you to find me a name and an address.”
“It’s a Sno Ball. Pink. I only eat the marshmallow covers.”
Burton could feel his pulse rising in his temples and made an effort to control his rage. In the rush to get to Pine Cove, he’d forgotten to take his blood pressure medication. “The name is Betsy Butler. I need a Pine Cove address.”
“Joseph Leander’s girlfriend?” the Spider asked.
“How do you know that?”
“Please, Sheriff,” the Spider said with a snort. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
“Just get me the address.” Burton could hear Nailsworth typing. The Spider was dangerous, a constant threat to his operation, and Burton couldn’t figure out how to get to him. He was immune to bribes or threats of any kind and seemed content with his lot in life as long as he could make others squirm. And Burton was too afraid of what the corpulent information officer might really know to fire him. Maybe some of that foxglove tea that Leander had used on his wife. Certainly, no one would question heart failure in a man who got winded unwrapping a Snickers.
“No address,” Nailsworth said. “Just a P.O. box. I checked DMV, TRW, and Social Security. She works at H.P.‘s Cafe in Pine Cove. You want the address?”
“It’s five in the morning, Nailsworth. I need to find this woman now.”
The Spider sighed. “They open for breakfast at six. Do you want the address?”
Burton was seething again. “Give it to me,” he said through gritted teeth.
The Spider gave him an address on Cypress Street and said, “Try the Eggs-Sothoth, they’re supposed to be great.”
“How would you know? You never leave the goddamn office.”
“Ah, what fools these mortals be,” the Spider said in a very bad British accent. “I know everything, Sheriff. Everything.” Then he hung up.
Burton took a deep breath and checked his Rolex. He had enough time to make a little visit to Jim Beer’s ranch house before the restaurant opened. The old shit kicker was probably already up and punching doggies, or whatever the fuck ranchers did at this hour. He certainly wasn’t answering his phone. Burton climbed into the black Eldorado and roared across the rutted ranch road toward the gate by Theo’s cabin.
As he headed out to the Coast Highway to loop back to the front of the ranch (he’d be damned if he’d take his Caddy across two miles of cow trails), someone stepped into his headlights and he slammed on the brakes. The antilocks throbbed and the Caddy stopped just short of running over a woman in a white choir robe. There was a whole line of them, making their way down the Coast Highway, shielding candles against the wind. They didn’t even look up, but walked past the front of his car as if in a trance.
Burton rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
“What are you people doing? It’s five in the morning.”
A balding man whose choir robe was three sizes too small looked up with a beatific smile and said, “We’ve been called by the Holy Spirit. We’ve been called.” Then he walked on.
“Yeah, well, you almost got to see him early!” Burton yelled, but no one paid attention. He fell back into the seat and waited as the procession passed. It wasn’t just people in choir robes, but aging hippies in jeans and Birkenstocks, half a dozen Gen X’ers dressed in their Sunday best, and one skinny guy who was wearing the saffron robes of a Buddhist monk.
Burton wrenched his briefcase off the passenger seat and popped it open. False passport, driver’s license, Social Security card, stick-on beard, and a ticket to the Caymans: the platinum parachute kit he kept with him at all times. Maybe it was time to bail.
Skinner
Well, the Food Guy finally got a female, Skinner thought. Probably because he had the scent of those mashed cows on him. Skinner had been tempted to roll in the goo himself, but was afraid the Food Guy would yell at him. (He hated that.) But this was even better: riding in the different car with the Food Guy and his female and the Tall Guy who always smelled of burning weeds and sometimes gave him hamburgers. He looked out the window and wagged his tail, which repeatedly smacked Theo in the face.
They were stopping. Oh boy, maybe they would leave him in the car. That would be good; the seats were chewy and tasted of cow. But no, they let him out, told him to come along with them to the small house. An Old Guy answered the door and Skinner said hi with a nose to the crotch. The Old Guy scratched his ears. Skinner liked him. He smelled like a dog who’d been howling all night.
Being near him made Skinner want to howl and he did, one time, enjoying the sad sound of his own voice.
The Food Guy told him to shut up.
The Old Guy said, “I guess I know how you feel.”
They all went inside and left Skinner there on the steps. They were all nervous, Skinner could smell it, and they probably wouldn’t be inside long. He had work to do. It was a big yard with a lot of shrubs where other dogs had left him messages. He needed to reply to them all, so each could only get a short spray. Dog e-mail.
He was only half-finished when they came back out.
The Tall Guy said, “Well, Mr. Jefferson, we’re going to find the monster and we’d like your help. You’re the only one who has seen it.”
“Oh, I think you’ll know him when you see him,” said the old guy. “Y’all don’t need my help.”
Everyone smelled sad and afraid and Skinner couldn’t help himself. He let loose a forlorn howl that he held until the Food Guy grabbed his collar and dragged him to the car. Skinner had a bad feeling that they might be going to the place where ther
e was danger.
Danger, Food Guy, he warned. His barking was deafening in the confines of the Mercedes.
Estelle
Estelle was fuming as she cleared the teacups from the table and threw them into the sink. Two broke and she swore to herself, then turned to Catfish, who was sitting on the bed picking out a soft version of “Walkin‘ Man’s Blues” on the National steel guitar.
“You could have helped them,” Estelle said.
Catfish looked at the guitar and sang, “Got a mean old woman, Lawd, stay angry all the time.”
“There’s nothing noble in using your art to escape life. You should have helped them.”
“Got a mean old woman, Lawd, Lawd, Lawd. She just stay angry all the time.”
“Don’t you ignore me, Catfish Jefferson. I’m talking to you. People in this town have been good to you. You should help them.”
Catfish threw back his head and sang to the ceiling, “She gots no idea, Lawd, what’s hers and what’s mine.”
Estelle snagged a skillet out of the dish rack, crossed the room, and raised it for a rocketing forehand shot to Catfish’s head. “Go ahead, sing another verse about your ‘mean old woman,’ Catfish. I’m curious, what rhymes with ‘clobbered’?”
Catfish put the guitar aside and slipped on his sunglasses. “You know, they say a woman was the one poisoned Robert Johnson?”
“Do you know what she used?” Estelle wasn’t smiling. “I’m making my shopping list.”
“Dang, woman, why you talk like that? I ain’t been nothin but good to you.”
“And me to you. That’s why you keep singing that mean old woman song, right?”
“Don’t sound right singin ‘sweet old woman.’”
Estelle lowered the pan. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“You can help them and when it’s over you can stay here. You can play your music, I can paint. People in Pine Cove love your music.”
“People here sayin hello to me on the street, puttin too much money in the tip jar, buying me drinks—I ain’t got the Blues on me no more.”
“So you have to go wreck your car, or pick cotton, or shoot a man in Memphis, or whatever it is that you have to do to put the Blues on you? For what?”
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove pc-2 Page 19
