Startled, Michael came to a halt. Shriller than any siren, that shriek penetrated every pore on his skin. It seemed to make his flesh swell, his bones crumble. For a heartbeat, he lowered the stake.
Meanwhile, Bull rose up to his feet. He stood there, clinging to the crag, arms spread, as if to protect not only his outdoor sculpture but also the scarps around her.
“She’s beautiful,” said Michael. “I’ll be gentle with her. I promise. I will spare her wings.”
Bull dropped down his hands.
“But,” said Michael, now with a threatening tone, “let me test just how deceitful her balance is!”
His arm gave the most violent of thrusts and let go of the wooden stake. What happened next was such a shock that afterwards, he could bring it back only along with a wild pounding of his heart.
The stake propelled high in the air, towards the bluff. It bounced off a nipple, hurled up and wedged itself under the sculpted chin, where there was a flaw in the way the head rested on the neck. There, something opened: the beginning of a crack. The stone head gave a shadow of a shiver. Then came a rumbling sound. It was faint at first, so faint that Michael nearly ignored it.
Bull fell to his knees, hands stretched up towards the bruised surface around the nipple.
That was the last thing he did.
Just then—as his lips started stretching over the yellow teeth, and his jaws opened, perhaps to utter a sigh of relief—the stone overhead gave a loud jolt. It toppled over, turning in midair.
Rock collapsing upon rock, sculpted chin bouncing over breast over ribs, temple fragments clobbering the body once or twice, until—crush!—there, amidst the dust, stood the Angel of Death. With a loud rupture, its head came tumbling down upon Bull.
❋
Bright flashlights came at Michael, blinding him for a second—one from above and one from below. He squinted, trying to see the figures that were coming at him.
“There he is!” called one cop, pointing at Michael.
“You, stop! Hands above your head, where I can see them!” the other yelled.
Michael felt the cop’s hand tightening hard upon his left wrist, bringing it down behind his back, then, his right wrist.
And at last came the handcuffs.
The moonlight diminished from one second to the next, until finally it died out. It became so dark that for a while, all you could see were two yellow circles of light flashing to and fro, scanning through the darkness. By now the rocks had come to a rest, one fragment buried under another. A sudden burst of sparks lit the scene, where dust was still settling.
“Look! Down there!” called one cop.
And the other said, “What? What is it?”
Both circles of light doubled over one spot. There, the open palm of a hand came twisting out from under the rocks. The fingers quivered for a few moments. Then, they froze.
On the backside of the hand was a scar of a chisel mark. But on the other side, deep across the lined texture of the palm, a bite wound bled open. At the center of its curve, one tooth-mark was missing.
“Call paramedics,” said the first cop.
He stepped back and came to face Michael. His eyes were stern. “You have the right,” he said, “to remain silent.”
Chapter 20
At the police station, the interrogation went on and on. It stretched over three long days, each day in three successive sessions, and so far, there were no signs the cops were getting anywhere close to wrapping things up.
They simply did not believe what Michael Morse had told them. Instead, they waited for him to slip up, to offer some detail that might somehow incriminate him. There was nothing the cops wanted better than to debunk his account, not only of events leading up to Bull’s death but also of those leading up to the death of his model, Lace. In both cases, they had a prime suspect fixed, quite firmly, in their minds. If you were to ask them, it had to be Michael.
By the end of the third day, Michael sensed that they were tired of asking the same questions, only to get the same answers.
“Why don’t you check Bull’s studio?” he asked. “Who knows, you may find some clues that support what I’ve been saying all along.”
“Yeah right,” said the cops.
But on the morning of the next day, they accepted his advice, for lack of a better lead, and took him along for the ride.
The door was unlocked. It creaked open with the familiar squeal, revealing a place that looked remarkably clean, and nearly empty. Not one stack of sketches was left on the floor, and not one clay figurine remained in the corner.
They were surprised—no, alarmed—by the sound of heavy footfalls inside. Drawing out his concealed Glock 17 full-size double-stack 9mm, the first cop charged in, followed by the second, only to find Mr. Armstrong there. Cowering behind one of the partitions, he seemed startled to find himself staring at the end of a barrel.
“Oh, hello there,” said one cop, tucking his semi-automatic pistol back into his belt holster.
And the other one demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Mr. Armstrong cleared his throat a few times and wiped the sweat off his upper lip. The straight scar, resulting from the old paper cut on his hand, had nearly healed by now.
“Well, it falls to me, at this sad occasion, to go through my nephew’s remaining possessions,” he said. Then, his face turned hot at seeing Michael. “What’s he doing here? I thought you caught him red-handed. Didn’t he admit to causing Bull’s death?”
“He did.”
“So? Can’t you arrest him already and throw away the key?”
“Not so fast. We’re still working on the case, Mr. Armstrong. Please, don’t touch anything.”
“Why? This is not the murder scene—the beach is!”
“True, it is, for two deaths in one week.”
“You implying they may be connected?”
“They may well be!”
“Let me be clear,” said Mr. Armstrong. “I had nothing to do with that woman, what’s her name, even though she claimed to be my daughter.”
“Sir,” said the first cop. “We know that you’ve paid Lace some cash to hush her up.”
“Out of pure pity, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Unfortunately, that was a complete waste of money, because soon after, she died.”
“Sir, I didn’t even know her, but I’m sorry for her death. Aren’t you?”
“Sorry I am, mainly because of the publicity surrounding her case. It’s costing me more than you can imagine. My entire career as the president of the company is in question. I’ve been forced into an indefinite leave! How ridiculous is that? And I can’t even claim that it’s meant for spending time with my family!”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because,” said Mr. Armstrong, in an exasperated tone, “I’ve just been served divorce papers from my wife, and my kids aren’t talking to me.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said the first cop.
And, glancing over his shoulder at Michael, the second one said, “Still, her murderer may still be on the loose.”
Mr. Armstrong shook his head, utterly in dismay. “As everyone knows—there are fliers about it, all over town—I’ve announced a reward for any leads that’ll help catch him.”
“That’s nice, sir.”
The president’s voice shook with self-righteousness. “It’s the least I can do to restore my reputation, after it became known that my name came up, at some point, as a suspect.”
“By now, you’ve been cleared, sir. We know, by the testimony of two divers, that you were aboard your sailboat during the time of the murder.”
“The damage to me has already been done.”
“Too bad, sir. Now step aside, sir.”
Paintbrushes and chisels were still in place, arranged—perhaps too neatly—in their metal containers, but the bottle of wine was nowhere to be found. The stage had been wiped clean. The paint drips on it had been scraped
off down to the wood grain.
It was not until the cops were faced with the horned bronze figure twisting around itself, that they started to raise their eyebrows and nudge each other, perhaps because of its resemblance to Bull, or because of those two bruised pearls, glued inside its eye sockets.
Coming a step forward, Michael asked, “Don’t they remind you of the necklace the victim wore, the night she was killed?”
“Ah, nonsense! You’re making this up as you go along.” Mr. Armstrong waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, just as both cops straightened their backs and exchanged glances.
“Oh yes! These do look like the same pearls!” said the first cop. “We talked to a couple of boys that night, and both of them said they saw someone tear off a necklace from a young woman’s neck.”
“And their sister, a freckled five-years old girl, picked up a lot of pearls scattered at that area,” said the other.
To which Michael added, “The next day, she offered to sell me the string of pearls. As I recall, it had a gap, just enough for two more.”
“No way,” said Mr. Armstrong, this time with a bewildered look. “You must be kidding me!”
Michael shook his head. “I wish I were.”
“And I wish you’d just shut up!”
“Two pearls were still missing—”
“Missing or not, what do pearls prove? It’s all just women’s vanity! There’s no connection. None. It just can’t be—”
“Can’t it?” said the first cop. “I bet it was your nephew—”
“No way,” cried Mr. Armstrong. His voice shook, this time with doubt. “I don’t want to believe it!”
“Clearly,” said Michael, “Bull was the one to tear the necklace off his victim’s throat. How do we know it? Because afterwards—talk about vanity!—he picked up these two pearls from the ground, and with them, adorned the eyes of his own twisted figure.”
The second cop began scratching his head for a few moments. Finally, he slapped a pat on Michael’s shoulder. For a change, it felt like a friendly pat.
“Mr. Armstrong, sir,” he said, “didn’t I hear you say something about a reward? In your opinion, does killing a murderer count as catching one?”
❋
The first thought Michael had that morning, after the cops had let him go, was this: time to return to work. It was followed immediately by a second one: no.
This was as good a time as any to hand in his resignation and leave the corporate environment, in which he felt uncomfortable from the beginning.
Michael was overcome by a sudden urge to embark on a new challenge. Dr. Foreman’s dream, to develop virtual systems to diagnose brain damage and compensate for it, excited his imagination. Such systems could one day help someone in coma, someone unable to come back to life on her own, the way Ash had managed to do.
He called Dr. Michael Forman to thank him for the invitation to the conference in San Diego. “I’ll be there,” he promised.
“That’s great! I’m looking forward to bounce ideas off you,” said Dr. Forman, sounding upbeat. “Now, on a different note, I’ve touched base with Rachel Foreman, my cousin. She says she’d be happy to talk with your girlfriend. Tell her to call any time she needs a shoulder to cry on, any time she needs someone to listen.”
“Oh,” said Michael. “I sure will.”
“Also, our mutual friend, Ralph Guthrie, says hello.”
“How is he? We haven’t spoken in ages.”
Dr. Foreman chuckled. “Childlike as ever! There’s a new role-playing game in town and Ralph’s eager to play it.”
“Oh really? What the name of the game?”
“Virtually Undead.”
“Haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s new,” said Dr. Foreman. “Still a prototype. According to Ralph, the player wears a powered armor, which gives him increased strength, speed and a level of protection against attack. The goal is to get to past the attackers, using an assortment of weapons, and retrieve a virtual notebook, one that contains information necessary for the survival of mankind. From what I understand, it’s loosely based on old concepts. Dungeons & Dragons, you know.”
“Oh!” cried Michael. “I’d love to hear from him how this prototype compares with my old version! Come to think of it, I may learn a thing or two from playing it myself. Tell Ralph to call me.”
“I will. He says that venturing into this new world may be his last journey. He’s joking, of course.”
“Of course,” said Michael. “Playing is addictive. Not one of us will ever stop.”
“True,” said Doctor Foreman. “In some sense, we’re all Virtually Undead.”
❋
Michael drew in a deep breath. The sweetness of creek milkweeds and Belladonna lilies blossomed in the air. It was, after all, the beginning of May.
He stopped at the nearest grocery store to buy fresh strawberries. Their smell was arousing. It stopped him from thinking about Bull, Mr. Armstrong, and the cops. In place of these thoughts, he recalled the time he and his sweetheart had prepared dinner, just a few days ago. Their kiss had lasted no more than a minute, a lingering touch of his lips to hers, before he had eased away.
How Ash knew he would be coming home for breakfast he had no idea. He didn’t know it himself, until crossing the threshold. But there she was, setting two plates on the kitchen table.
The mouthwatering smell of strawberries started permeating the entire place. Ash came over, swaying her hips ever so slightly, and gave him a luscious smile before brushing her lips over his.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he said, half-jokingly, “I’d think you’re trying to seduce me.”
Her voice was ever so velvety. “Who’s trying?”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so hungry.”
“So am I.”
On the cutting board, bread slices had just been cut out by a heart-shaped cookie cutter. He dipped them into the shallow bowl, where she had whisked together eggs, milk, and a bit of almond extract. Ash melted some butter in the large skillet, and when it started to bubble, she toasted the dipped bread hearts in it until they turned golden brown.
Meanwhile, he combined confectioners’ sugar and the remaining butter and extract, to create his own concoction: almond butter, which she spread over each slice of the French toast. He caught her hand, playfully, and licked off the buttery tips of her fingers, one by one.
With a side of plump strawberries, their breakfast smelled absolutely scrumptious. He was just about to sit down, when Ash said, “You know, when I was growing up, my mom told me never to eat in bed, or there would be trouble.”
“So did mine,” said Michael.
They looked at each other and could not help but bursting in a little giggle, like children being caught thinking of a forbidden act, which made it doubly as delicious to dare doing it.
“My mom warned me about spills between the sheets,” he said. “She called it the oops factor. Is that what your mom said?”
She whispered into his ear, “Neither one of them is here now.”
And he whispered back, “I’m hungry for trouble.”
“Me too.”
“Shall we?”
Chapter 21
Ash shimmied out of her dress and stood there, wearing just her black bikini panties and a black bra. She released the hook from the eye fastener in the front of her bra, slipping its straps off her shoulders, left and right, letting its two cups peel away from her breasts. Her nipples hardened as she leaned in to undo his tie, and the skin around them began pebbling with gooseflesh.
At the sound of the tremble in her breath, Michael pulled the woolen cover off his bed and wrapped it tightly around her, pulling her closer to him.
“You crazy girl, you.” He bit into a strawberry and passed another one to her. “What were you thinking, going to Bull’s studio, to model for him?”
“I was thinking of one thing,” she said. “Revenge.”
“For whom, sweetheart?”
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“Not for me, because I don’t know the name of the man who’d done it to me. But for that beautiful dancer, who lost her life, all because of him.”
His eyes popped in amazement. “How did you know?”
She smiled. “I just did.”
“How?”
“I saw sketches of her all over his studio, just as I expected. They told me the whole story.”
“How could you possibly take revenge,” he wondered, “when you were in such a vulnerable position, getting ready to pose in the nude?”
“Oh,” she said. “But I had a plan.”
“Which was what?”
She bit into the strawberry. “I programmed my cellphone to place a distress call to police at the sound of a cry from me. Because of the blaze in Laguna Beach, the cops were already at the house next door, so I thought they’ll come to me rescue in no time.”
He gulped. “I hate that you take a risk, even with the most sure-fire plan.”
“Unfortunately, Bull must have guessed it. He destroyed my cellphone before turning on me.”
“You know how close you came to losing your own life?”
She shrugged. “Oops.”
He shook his head. “Sweetie, you may not care about your life, but I do.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again, or else—”
“What?”
“Or else, I’ll never, ever, make love to you.” He tugged playfully at the edges of the blanket to turn her this way and that.
Ash hopped away from him and into his bed. “I’ve gone through it a million times in my head.”
“Gone through what?”
“Love making. I’m ready, I think.”
“Stop thinking.”
He unwrapped her carefully, as if she were a fragile gift. With every fiber in him, he could not wait to reach in, to touch the silkiness of her skin.
His body came hot and pressing over her, to the point that she began to sigh. It was then that Michael realized something. Even though they were alone in his bedroom with no interruptions, no bars whatsoever, she might not be ready for love, not as ready as he was.
Virtually Lace Page 13
