Out of nowhere, his older brother—a youngster no older than fourteen—rushed forward. “You hurt?”
“Ah-uh,” said the boy. Water was slinging from his arms. “Just wet to the bone, is all.”
“Sorry,” said Michael. “I didn’t see you in time.”
“What, you blind?” asked the youngster.
“Sorry,” Michael repeated. “Hop in, both of you. I’ll give you a ride to where you need to go.”
Once they did, he asked “Where to?”
The boy answered by shrugging. “We live over there, across the street. Don’t really need a ride.”
“Oh? Why did you get in, then?”
“Because,” said the youngster, “we wanted to see the inside of a Tesla. It’s way cooler than I thought it would be.”
While he was talking, the boy whispered something in his ear.
“Also,” said the youngster, “we got in because we know you.”
“You do?”
“You’re the guy we saw down at the beach the other night. Aren’t you?”
Suddenly, Michael recalled where he had seen them. They had been wrestling in front of him, just before he had separated them. It was a bit later that he had found the body.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
“Told you,” the boy said to his brother.
They fell silent for a moment. The only sound was the rain, pelting the roof of the car.
Then the boy said, “Hey Mister?”
And Michael said, “Yes?”
“Can I ask you one thing?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
The boy glowered at him. Something was obviously simmering inside his head. “Remember what you did, when you saw us?”
“I separated you boys.”
“Why? I mean, why did you pull at my arm, Mister?”
“I just wanted to break the fight—”
“And who gave you the right? You had no idea, Mister, what it was about—”
“I just thought,” said Michael, only to correct himself at once, “I just think boys like you should behave nice to each other.”
The youngster snorted a laugh as if to dismiss the value of such niceties, so Michael added, “Now tell me, who started the fight?”
“That man. All because of him.”
“Man? What man?”
“He was following a lady. Didn’t you see her? She wearing a white dress,” said the boy. “He ripped her necklace, ripped it right off her neck.”
“But we, we saved her!” bragged the youngster.
“Saved?” Michael stammered. “How can you say that? Don’t you know what happened?”
“Of course we do! She ran away from him, Mister. And that’s when we attacked. We punched the little thief, punched him real hard.”
At that, Michael turned pale. All the while he had believed there had been three boys fighting, because they seemed to be much shorter than him, and now, one of them turned out to be an adult.
The boy leaned forward to study his face in the overhead mirror. “You feeling all right, Mister?”
“Fine, fine, never mind about me,” said Michael. “It was a man, not a boy, that I saw there, under you?”
“Yeah,” said the youngster. His eyes beamed with unabashed pride. “We beat him real good!”
“You saw his face?”
“Not really,” said the boy. “He fell face down, straight into the dirt. We came at him from behind, you see. Why, he never knew what hit him!”
“So,” said Michael, “would you be able to recognize him? I mean, if you saw him again?”
The youngster replied at once, “No way.”
But the boy scratched his head for a minute. Then he said, “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Michael echoed.
“I won’t be able to tell him by his face, but as for his hand, it’s been marked,” said the boy. “I bit it as hard as I could. Sank my teeth in, you know?”
Dismayed at his bravado over inflicting a wound, Michael shook his head. “Great. I’m looking for a man whose face you can’t identify, and whose hand has a bite mark.”
“Sorry. But that was the only way I could bring him down.”
“By biting?”
The boy flashed his toothless grin at him. “You may think it disgusting. Ma thinks so, too. She tells me not to bite others, but being weak, that’s the only chance I have against someone stronger.”
They opened the car door and hopped off.
“Cruelty for cruelty,” said the youngster, in parting. “That’s all we can say.”
Once they disappeared, Michael changed lanes and drove off. He was intrigued by their description of a man, a mysterious man whose face could not be recognized, who had appeared on the scene so close to the murder. It was a presence he had to account for in his simulation model.
At the end of the day, there it was: a new starting point.
Chapter 15
Michael didn’t expect to see Ash when he got home. Since his visit with Bull earlier that evening, she had not answered his calls. But to his surprise, there she was, sitting at the small kitchen table, which had been draped with a floor length tablecloth and set up hours ago with white roses and sleek silverware for a romantic dinner.
With her cellphone in hand, she was staring listlessly at the two silver candlesticks. Their reflection glinted in her eyes, which were otherwise shadowed by a forlorn look.
Michael leaned in to kiss her forehead. Then, brushing his lips around her earlobe, he whispered, “So sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”
He was fully prepared to head off an angry response, but to his astonishment, none came. Ash laid her head on his shoulder and murmured back, “Oh, I was so worried.”
Michael wondered why, then, she had refrained from calling him back. For now, he held back from questioning her. Instead, he took the candlesticks to the sink and started removing the drips of wax that stuck to their bases. The melted remnants of candles smelled like warm vanilla, which was all that remained of their date, a date he had so foolishly missed.
Meanwhile, Ash went into the living room and crouched by the fire pit. Instead of logs of wood, it contained a heap of jewel-like glass rocks that sparkled brilliantly, even as the fire was dying.
From there she said, “You know, if you came in just a minute earlier, you would have caught me talking with your friend.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You mean, Bull?”
She tucked her cellphone into her purse. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because, I changed my mind.”
“About what, sweetheart?”
“I accepted his offer.”
He dropped the candlesticks into the sink, and to the sound of them clinking against each other, came over to peer into her eyes.
“Offer?” he echoed, without trying to understand his own sense of alarm. “What offer?”
“To model for him.”
“What?” Heat rose up in him. “I thought you disliked him!”
“I do.” Ash averted her eyes. “He’s weird. But a job is a job, all the same.”
“Oh.” Michael huffed. “You’re doing this to spite me.”
“Not at all.”
“With your brilliant mind, you can work anywhere! No need to use your body—”
“For me, modeling is just temporary thing. You make it sound like some dirty proposition. It isn’t.”
“Don’t do it, sweetheart. I beg you.”
Ash rose to her feet, casting a stubborn look at him. “Serving an artist of his caliber is more than a job. It’s a chance to see him in the act of creation. Besides, Bull told me that you’ve sat for him yourself, just this evening.”
“That,” he said, “was a mistake.”
“Give me the freedom,” she demanded, “to make mistakes of my own.”
“Instead, I can give you your job back.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Don’t roll your eyes. I’m dead serious.”
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“And how, may I ask, will you manage to do that?”
“The company can’t develop their virtual reality software without my knowledge. Mr. Armstrong knows it all too well. So, I’m going to put pressure on him—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want him forced into accepting me.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because, a salary isn’t everything,” she said. “My work should be not only rewarded but also appreciated.”
Michael had no comeback to that.
Over his silence, Ash went on to ask, “You told me earlier today about some argument with Mr. Armstrong. What was that all about?”
“Oh, that. I learned something from him.”
“Did you? About what?”
“About Lace. Despite not recognizing her as his daughter, he gave her some money, on condition she stops bothering him.”
“How did he pay her? Personally?”
“Of course not! He gave a hundred dollar bill to his nephew, earmarked for her.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Was the money delivered?”
Michael scratched his head. “That,” he said, “I don’t know.”
“That,” she said, “is why I must talk with Bull. We might learn something new about the case, something unexpected.”
Michael stepped forward and took her into his arms. “Please. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way.”
Ash rose to her tiptoes and kissed him. “You worry too much about me. Please don’t.”
“I do.”
“And I love you for it.”
He embraced her more tightly than ever. “Sweetheart. All I want is to stop you from taking unnecessary risks.”
At that, Ash released herself from his hold. “I can’t allow myself to give in to your worries, or else, I’ll stop living life to its fullest.”
❋
An hour before sunrise, Michael woke up to a startling sound. He rose to his elbows, perking his ears. What was that? An alarm, cut short? Or else, the beat of his heart?
Moonlight crept in stealthily through the window screen. Across the street, the windows in the neighboring houses were dark. All was quiet.
He seemed to remember that Ash had kissed him goodbye. Was that merely a dream? Had she not taken a cab, sometime around midnight?
Responding to an unexplained sense of unease, Michael leapt to his feet and went through the house, opening each door in turn. Surely, he was alone. Why, then, were there shadows crossing each other, flaring up in his garage?
He stepped into the space and was awestruck by the art piece, titled The Artist’s Hand, which Bull had carted into it. Michael was just about to move it to the corner, when the landscape of Laguna Beach started floating, ever so faintly, over the blue walls.
This time, there was something particularly strange about the simulation. It happened even before he put on the headset, and without him having to say a word to invoke it.
Was there some glitch? Or else, did his software learn, somehow, to react to his presence, his curiosity? Did it roam in search for answers, even before he formed his questions? Did it generate characters and name them, even before he knew enough to request their appearance? Was he even needed here—or was the investigation guided from within from now on?
There—right in front of him, up at the corner of Cliff drive—a young woman stepped forth. An incredible change had come upon her. At this point, she ceased to be a generic figure, made of wires. Now fleshed out in full color, Lace was virtually real.
Her lips seemed as though they were just about to open, like a bud touched by a warm breath of wind. Translucent shadows played under her lashes. Her cheeks were rosy. You could imagine that in a minute she might smile—and if she didn’t, it was only because you had nothing amusing to say.
Michael followed her at close range, careful to remain within a footfall of her shadow. Lace came dancing through the scene on the tips of her toes, her long arms extended. Around her neck hung a piece of jewelry, which the software dubbed String-of-Pearls. And just like in the photograph of the dancer, which he had found the other day in the white envelope, she was sprinkling a glitter of some kind all around her.
Meanwhile, First Diver and Second Diver came thumping about opposite her. Lace whirled her way in-between them, dusting their snorkeled, two-dimensional heads with pixels of glittering gold.
Michael stopped for a minute to perch on a bench. Next to him sat Fool, staring at the faraway, wriggling sailboat. Out there on deck was Mr. Strong. From time to time, he was swept off his feet by a simulated splash, only to climb back onboard, in a failed attempt to resist the following splash.
Meanwhile, crouched down in the shadow of a bush, waited someone altogether new. It had no face at all—not even a blank sketch of one. A short stump, denoting a neck, protruded upward with a slight twist between the wiry shoulders. In his hand, he gripped some round object, dubbed Wine Bottle. Location coordinates appeared next to him, along with his assigned name: Mysterious.
The divers gave a nod to Lace, which made glitter fly off their snorkels with a poof. Just then—crash!—sharp, glassy slivers scattered all over, scratching the surface as Wine Bottle broke. It spilled dark fluid into a stain on the photographed gravel. And there, rising slowly to his feet with a reddening neck, was Mysterious.
Lace leapt past him. Her agitation made String-of-Pearls sway and roll around her neck. Even in her flight, the tips of her toes went into her traces with perfect precision. At times, she glanced over her shoulder. At other times, she stumbled forward—until, at long last, she reached three new wire figures.
Freckles stood in a stiff, ruffled dress, twirling mechanically from side to side. With a two-dimensional smile that dimpled her face, she raised a wire basket as if to offer her wares. Boy and Youngster stood by her side. At first they were still, except for an occasional, playful kick at each other.
Meanwhile, somewhere from behind came a nearly soundless step. Mysterious kept coming, kept closing in.
At that, Michael cried, “Pause!”
At once Mysterious froze, his hands thrust forward, almost touching Lace, but not quite.
The position of his feet seemed inaccurate to Michael. Either that, or else there was something else in this suspended animation, something that resulted in his inability to see things where they were supposed to happen.
“Correct position. Mysterious should step off the trail. There were no traces left by him there.”
The wire figure stepped off into an uncharted area that was filled with images of bushes and trees.
“Play!”
This time, when Mysterious reached forward to Lace, his fingers closed with a crackling sound directly over her String-of-Pearls. He tore it with one violent pull, which caused each pearl to come knocking down against the surface with a metallic ping.
Startled, Lace clasped a hand over her mouth. Then she sprang off.
Meanwhile, Youngster and Boy turned upon Mysterious, pushing him face down—even though he had no face to speak of—against the coarse gravel. They caught the stump of his neck under their wiry knees and pressed it firmly down.
Boy flashed a viciously victorious smile, one that was missing a tooth, and bent over the hand of the prostrate figure. With no hesitation, he bit into it, hard.
It was then that Michael realized, at long last, what was causing the apparent impairment in his vision. All the objects in his garage had been draped in blue, which allowed the virtual environment to shine through them. All the objects—save one.
The Artist’s Hand.
Shining brightly, it stood there, in the center of the blue floor. It seemed to fight for attention against the wrestling figures, just as Boy’s mouth started spreading open to bite Mysterious’ hand.
“Pause.”
In a blink, he understood: the stone surface refracted the rays of simulat
ed sunset straight into his eyes, blinding him to the intricacies of the simulation.
Michael went to the corner of his garage, found a roll of blue fabric, tore out a piece of it, and turned around to drape it over the sculpture. Lit by a reddish glow, the art piece was simply magnificent to behold. Its stone fingers clasped a chisel, turning it in the wrong direction, aiming its sharp point at the pit of the palm, where a wound mark was scratched diagonally.
That, Michael knew, was by design. “The artist’s hand is really invisible,” Bull had explained to him. “It’s hovering from above, coming at the sculpture, coming at you.”
To focus on his simulation, Michael needed to cover this thing. Raising his arms to fling the fabric over it, he froze. A particular artistic detail on the sculpture, which he had ignored so far, arrested his attention.
The shape of the scar.
It had several segments in succession, each one curved ever so slightly. Together, they were not unlike marks left by teeth, if they were to be sunken into flesh.
Gasping, Michael wondered about Bull, about what he knew about the night of the murder. On The Artist’s Hand, one tooth mark in the center of the scar was missing.
Such a detail could not be explained away as some intuitive insight—or could it?
Chapter 16
None of the wire characters stirred from their assigned positions on the landscape. But despite being still, they emitted a slight rattling sound every once in a while, as if eager to spring into action. Even Lace seemed to have a vapor of cold breath trembling in the air just outside her mouth.
Staring at them, Michael felt as if he, too, were locked in suspended animation. He missed Ash. He missed hearing her voice. Was it too early to call her?
At any other time, he would not hesitate to wake her up and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. With every word, he would come closer to arousing her. But this morning, what he had to say wasn’t sugary, and it was far from intoxicating.
He had to share a clue with Ash, a substantial clue that sobered him. Michael had derived it from The Artist’s Hand. The scar on its palm could be explained in one of two ways: either Bull had an unusual intuition, which allowed him, somehow, to depict its shape—or else, he was the killer.
Virtually Lace Page 10
