by David Gordon
88
WE SET OUT THE NEXT morning after a breakfast that only Lonsky and Milo could eat. Nic and I were too nervous, just as we’d been too keyed up to sleep, lying together and talking all night. Lonksy had pancakes, eggs, bacon, ham, and biscuits. Milo had half that then went to rest by the pool. Lonsky wanted Nic to stay behind too, but she insisted, and we still needed her to drive.
It was only seven thirty and the air was still cool. Birds called to each other from out of sight. A jackrabbit looked us over then bounced into the scrub. We headed down the highway and turned in at the Joshua Tree National Park. No guard was on duty yet, but at Lonksy’s insistence I stopped and paid, putting the cash into the envelope provided and sliding it into a slot. The park was empty and silent in the morning, the rocks and ridges shading and shining in the shifting light, changing form and color like the depths of the sea I’m told this once was, a fresh world where everything was still alive and aware, stone, sun, wind, a world free to start again from nothing. As she drove, Nic put her hand out and touched mine. I held it tight.
Lonsky, who held the map, told us where to turn and we began a steep climb, arriving at a lookout point atop a high cliff, a flat tablet overlooking the landscape. We parked. At first we were alone. We sat in silence, as if at a drive-in, too tense to speak.
“There,” Lonsky said, just as Nic and I saw it too, a black sedan, tiny from this height, winding along the road like a bug. It vanished from view then reappeared over the far ridge. It made its way toward us, raising dust, windshield flaring in the light. We got out as it approached and stopped, facing us, about twenty yards away. The door opened. Buck emerged, holding a gun. His sunglasses flashed and his shirt flapped in the hot wind.
“I said come alone, Lonsky,” he called.
“Preposterous,” he answered. “I can’t even drive.”
“OK,” Buck said. “Send the writer with the cans. The girl waits in the car.”
“Show us the hostage first,” Solar said.
Buck opened the back door and reached inside. He pulled out a woman, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Her wrists were bound behind her and a white linen sack was tied around her head.
“Here she is. Now the film canisters.”
“How do we know that’s her?” I asked. “Mona!” I yelled. Her head perked up and she began to twist around. Buck yanked her close and pushed the gun to her head.
“How do I know there’s film in those cans?” Buck answered. “We’ll just have to have faith, and if doesn’t work out, kill each other later.”
I glanced at Lonksy. He nodded.
“Sounds good,” I called. Lonsky handed me the cans. “Be right back,” I said to Nic. I realized there were tears in her eyes. She grabbed me tight.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
“Hey, don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll see you in a minute. Don’t go soft on me now, hard ass.” She sniffed, and I whispered in her ear. “I’m glad you turned out to be you and not anyone else.”
She smiled. She kissed me.
“Let’s go,” Buck yelled. “It’s getting hot out here.”
Nic got back in the car. I held out the cans like a pizza I was delivering and started walking.
“Slow, slow, take it easy, writer,” Buck said, holding Mona in front of him, gun on me now. “You know, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think our film project is going to work out after all.”
“I figured that,” I said, stepping steadily, balancing the cans in my bandaged hands, trying not to tremble or let my voice break.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he went on, I was about a dozen yards away now, “I fed your manuscripts to my shredder. I’m a big recycler.”
“No problem,” I said. They were the only copies left. Three novels. A lifetime of labor. I shrugged.
“Let’s face it,” he said. “No one was ever going to read them. People need hope and comfort. Real stories that give them a sense of meaning. Boring books like yours just upset and confuse people. Life is already confusing and upsetting enough.”
He had a point. There were a thousand, a hundred thousand great books already, sitting unvisited in libraries that were closing down every day, and what did it matter? Most would soon be forgotten, crumble to dust, and blow away. How many great masterpieces were already lost, written in languages no one read any longer, for people no one remembered?
Yet one had to do something to fill one’s time on this planet. If by some chance I survived till lunchtime, what was I going to do? Paint houses? Sell cars? Cure cancer? Run for congress? Fuck it. I would really, really suck at all those things. I might as well write Perineum. Maybe if I was very lucky someday some heartbroken house painter or suicidal car salesman or lonely oncologist or congressman in an existential crisis, or even some angry poetry major, would come across something I wrote in a dusty, bankrupt used book shop, and recognize the message I left just for them, written in the secret tongue that you thought no one else spoke, that you almost forgot yourself, until you found it there, crushed like a whisper between the pages of a book.
“Sam, look out!” It was Nic, yelling. I turned. She was out of the car and running toward me, pointing and shouting. Russ had emerged from behind a boulder, aiming a rifle at me. I jumped as a bullet smacked the ground at my feet, throwing up a handful of dirt. Russ swerved and fired again, blowing a hole through Nic’s chest. I rushed to her side, but she was already gone, a look of wonder on her face. What did she see? I hope not just dirt and a tire. I hope she saw some angel she would never stoop to believe in, or my face, at least. I hope she heard my voice, as I whispered, I love you, only then realizing it might be true.
“Down,” Lonsky yelled, pushing me aside. He had that cannon in his hand. I dropped and he fired, one shot. The top of Russ’s skull blew away. Lonsky whirled, gracefully, like a dancer, and aimed at Buck next, but it was too late. Buck fired and a red flower burst open on the meaty part of Lonksy’s upper leg. He fell and his shot went wide, shattering the sky reflected in Buck’s windshield.
“Run, Mona,” I yelled and threw the cans at Buck, frisbeeing them toward his head. He ducked and the girl broke away, running blindly. I caught her in mid-flight and half-led, half-dragged her behind Buck’s car. “Get down, get down,” I said.
Peeking around under the car, I could see that one of the cans had popped open. Film was unspoiled in the dust, stirring like a snake in the wind. Buck picked up the other canister. I could see Lonsky crawling, dragging his huge body through the sand like a wounded monster, like a bloody bull, but he was on the wrong side of my car to take a clear shot. I knew I’d have to try and maneuver Buck into range. Mona sat up and Buck fired, shattering the side windows as her white, covered head popped into range like a target. I threw her down in the dirt and lay beside her.
“Get down, stay down,” I told her, fumbling at the cord around her wrist. I loosened it a little. “Listen, Mona, you don’t know me but I’m here to help. Get under the car, and don’t come out till the shooting stops, OK?”
The white gauze head turned to me, like a ghost.
“Sam, is that you?”
“Lala?” I pulled the hood off. It was my wife. Alive. She screamed. Buck was there, over us, holding the film in one arm, pointing the gun with the other.
“Story over,” he said. “You should thank me. Snobs like you hate happy endings.”
I grabbed Lala’s hand and she squeezed it. Buck smiled. Then I smiled back and he turned, just in time to see what I saw, Zed emerging from behind the scrub and running straight at him. Zed hit him hard, tackling him, and the two men stumbled, gripping each other, like boxers in a clutch or weary lovers, clinging together through one last dance. They went over the edge together with their film.
89
A HELICOPTER ARRIVED FIRST, and the medics patched up Lonsky, but decided it might be wiser not to try to airlift him. He agreed. “I assure you my vital arteries are well insulated. I will be fine.” He was
right, as usual. When the cops and ambulances showed up he was taken to a local hospital where the bullet was quickly removed with no major damage. He then had Milo drive him straight to another hospital, Green Haven, where he intended to take a very long rest.
“I’m sorry that you couldn’t save your Mona,” I told him as a team of rangers and medics loaded him.
“Yes,” he said. “But we saved yours. And I suppose even I must be wrong once in my life.” He blinked, and for a second I thought I saw a feeling flicker through him. Then he fixed his gaze on mine and shook my hand firmly. “Despite a few early missteps,” he said, “your conduct throughout this case has been quite competent, generally speaking. You have the makings of a good detective.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”
He nodded as they shut the door.
The bodies of Russ and Nic were bagged and removed. It took longer to recover Buck and Zed but when they did they found Zed had an empty bottle of morphine tablets. His cancer was far gone and he had to have been in great pain.
The news story that they eventually put out suggested that Buck Norman had died while scouting locations when he was attacked by bandits or would-be kidnappers who shot his bodyguard. Some suggested he’d even died trying to save his “unknown companion,” the nameless blond woman who was also killed. Others said she was an actress whom he was about to transform into a star. America’s storyteller would be remembered the way we knew him and everyone involved seemed happy to let it rest there. The film was damaged beyond repair, hung in a long, tattered strip down the side of the mountain.
90
FINALLY, AFTER THE QUESTIONS, the bandages, the hydration, the cops and ambulances, the promise to be reachable when needed, they finally told Lala and me that we too could go. Everyone cleared out and we found ourselves alone, standing in front of our old station wagon, in the middle of the desert, on top of a tower of rock. The sun beat down like a hammer on a nail head. The only sign of human life within sight was our car and the road beneath it.
“Well,” I said. “Here we are. This is kind of awkward.”
“Nice tooth,” Lala said.
I smiled. “Thanks.” Instinctively, I walked toward the driver’s side and she to the passenger’s, as we had every day for years.
“Wait,” I said. “I can’t drive.” I held up my hands. We walked around, passing each other, and got in. I gave her the keys.
“What happened to your fingers, anyway?” she asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said. My eyes flicked down, then up to meet her eyes. I looked at her. “Actually I have a confession to make.”
She looked back at me.
“So do I.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to express my immense gratitude to my editor, Ed Park, for first adopting this book and then making it so much better, as well as to his entire championship team. I am also eternally grateful to Doug Stewart for continuing to make it all possible and to everyone at Sterling Lord Literistic, especially the amazing Madeleine Clark. I want to thank Eric Kosse and William Fitch for endless reading, encouragement and comfort; Rivka Galchen, my first and favorite responder; and Jennifer Martin for everything, always. I wish particularly to thank Irene Donoso for checking my Spanish. As usual, all errors of grammar, spelling, taste and judgment are my own. Lastly, I want to thank my family, who put up with the most for the longest, for their endless supply of patience and love.
DAVID GORDON was born in New York City. He attended Sarah Lawrence College and holds an MA in English and comparative literature and an MFA in writing, both from Columbia University. His first novel, The Serialist, won the VCU Cabell First Novel Award and was a finalist for an Edgar Award. It was also the first novel to win all three major foreign mystery awards in Japan, where it is currently being made into a film. His stories have appeared in the Paris Review, Fence, and elsewhere. He has worked in film, fashion, publishing, and pornography.
