“Probably.”
“People are such slobs. It’s like they’ve never heard the word pollution.”
She was right. He’d planned on retrieving it sometime. But just now something even more interesting had claimed his attention.
Paw prints. Recent ones.
Taking off his sunglasses and crouching down for a better look, he could tell right away that they didn’t belong to a bobcat. Or any cat at all. The tracks were canine. Could they belong to a dog who’d been abandoned in the canyon, like Tripod?
On closer inspection, it didn’t look that way to him. Dog prints showed more widely splayed toes than these, and a more oval than oblong shape. The nails, too, usually registered as bigger and blunter than these.
Heidi came up behind him and bent down. “Are they coyote tracks? Is it Frida?”
“Could be Diego,” Rafe said, still puzzling over them. “But coyotes are pretty damn aerodynamic—they have tight toes that register deeper than the palm pad. It’s because they trot along very purposefully, very alert.” It was one of the many things that he admired about his charges—they knew exactly what they were doing at all times, and didn’t get distracted or wander aimlessly the way that domestic dogs did. And unlike dogs, their nails were small and sharp.
These prints, however, were wider than most coyotes would leave. Most coyotes were around four feet long and weighed less than sixty pounds; even Diego, the leader of the pack, was no more than five feet long. This animal, judging from the deep impression and spacing of the prints, was bigger than that. And when Rafe compared the front prints to their mates, he noted another discrepancy.
Standing up, he put his hiking boot next to a rear print, and then, putting his own shoes toe to heel, he walked several steps.
“Are you checking to see if he was too drunk to walk a straight line?”
“Nope. I’m gauging its size, and this fella is easily close to six feet long if you throw in some tail.” Rafe could hardly believe its size, but there were the tracks to prove it.
“That’s big?”
“Too big. Bigger than any of the coyotes I’ve been studying.”
“So it’s an interloper?”
“Maybe.”
“What else could it be?”
He was reluctant even to say it, since they had been ruthlessly hunted to extinction in all of Southern California. All he needed now was for this kid to go running back to the Land Management office, shouting that the descendants had somehow made their way down to Topanga Canyon. But the last time he’d seen prints like these had been in the Blue Mountains of southeastern Washington.
And they’d belonged to a wolf.
22 November, 1881
‘The drawing that you are passing around amongst yourselves’, Symonds said from the lectern in the grand salon of the Belvédère, ‘is, as you will surely recognize, a rendering of “The Rape of Ganymede”.’
The picture, framed, was circulating from hand to hand among the members of the audience. Randolph Desmond and Constance Wooldridge were bending their heads over it in the row ahead. I had made sure to keep our ardent swain Lloyd a suitable distance from his inamorata.
‘And this,’ an elderly French gentleman asked, ‘it is the original?’ And Symonds scoffed.
‘Would that it were. The original is held by the papal curia. The eagle in the picture is, of course, Zeus transformed, the better to abduct Ganymede, the most beautiful of all mortals. Zeus wanted the boy to serve him on Mount Olympus.’
The picture had made its way to Fanny on my left, and we marvelled at its exquisite detail and line and shading. Lloyd, making no secret of his boredom, hardly bothered to glance at it.
‘The picture, one of four, was a gift—what has been aptly called a “presentation drawing”—to a young Italian nobleman. Unlike mere sketches or studies, these drawings were completed works meant as gifts. In this case, it was for Tommaso dei Cavalieri, whom Michelangelo believed to be the masculine ideal of beauty. The artist called him “the light of our century, paragon of all the world”.’
Fanny, nudging me gently, whispered, ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘But these drawings were not his only gift to the handsome young aristocrat. Although it is seldom remarked upon, Michelangelo was more than a great artist with chisel and brush—he was also a poet of the first water.’
At this, Symonds raised his baleful dark eyes to the chandelier glowing overhead, and recited several stanzas in Italian. My understanding being rudimentary at best, I was able to glean only that the poet was expressing a wish to be a worm—a silkworm—and thereby make a garment gorgeous enough to clothe the young man’s supple limbs.
‘Can you make it out?’ Fanny said.
‘A bit,’ I replied, ‘though I will tell you later, when young ears are not so close.’
‘No need. You just answered my question.’
‘Of the three hundred poems Michelangelo penned in his lifetime, at least thirty were dedicated or addressed to Cavalieri. Most were sonnets, though occasionally he would compose a madrigal or quatrain, all of which were later altered by Michelangelo’s grand-nephew, who elected to publish them in 1623. Before doing so, he took the unconscionable liberty of changing all the pronouns so that the verses would appear to have been written to a woman.’
He stopped to let that sink in. Although it was no secret in society that Symonds was a Uranian himself, I was nonetheless surprised that he should express his indignation so publicly. Perhaps, I surmised, it had something to do with the venue—a remote mountain clinic, inhabited chiefly by the dead or dying. Mortality has a way of lending perspective, I have found.
‘I am now changing those pronouns back’, he declared, ‘in an English translation. They will be incorporated into the biography of Michelangelo that I am writing.’
The lecture continued for well over an hour—Symonds was among the most eloquent extemporaneous speakers I had ever heard—but all the while, I felt my strength ebbing. The salon was warmer than usual, and though I put my shortness of breath down to the close quarters, in my heart I knew otherwise. For several days, I had been experiencing haemorrhages that had doubled me over at my desk in the clock tower. Lloyd had witnessed one while we were huddled on the floor, making a map of an island where a buccaneer’s sunken treasure lay. My purpose there was twofold—to engage Lloyd in a pastime that might channel his thoughts in a more healthful direction, and at the same time to employ his youthful mind in the construction of a story aimed at an audience of similar age. Henley had informed me that he had found for me a magazine, called “Young Folks,” that would be happy to entertain such a story from me. ‘The pay is poor,’ he’d written, ‘but writers can’t be choosers.’
Lloyd and I were just plotting out the necessary landmarks that the story would require—I have learned through experience that it is wise to have a clear and defined sense of the geography in a tale, lest the reader become lost or confused—when I felt a pain sharp as a dagger slipping between my ribs. I slumped forward, and Lloyd at first imagined me to be playing at some game. So did Woggin, who had been snoring softly on his old pillow in the corner.
‘We haven’t figured out where X marks the spot should be!’ he proclaimed. ‘We can’t stop now.’ Woggin had trotted over to see what all the fuss was about.
My face was pressed to the map, and I writhed in pain as the dagger was twisted into my left lung by some unseen but vicious hand. Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth, staining the outline of the mythical isle, and it was then that Woggin, smelling the blood, barked, and Lloyd became alarmed.
‘Louis!’ he cried. ‘Are you dying?’
It was a thought, I must admit, that had occurred to me, though I was less than pleased to have it introduced so promptly.
I tried to reply, but all that emerged from my mouth was a fragile bubble of blood, which caused Lloyd to leap to his feet and Woggin to wail piteously.
‘I’ll get help!’ he said,
but I managed to reach out and snag the hem of his trousers before he could go. If indeed I was to die, I preferred that I not be alone, and if I were to live, I did not want Fanny to be unduly alarmed.
‘Let go! I’ll be right back!’
But still I clung. The bubble popped, and I said, croaking more like a frog than a human, ‘Stay.’
‘Why? You need help. I’ll go get Dr Rüedi.’
‘My pills,’ I said. ‘In the drawer.’
I released him, and he yanked open the desk drawer, which was filled with enough bottles and vials to stock an apothecary’s shop.
‘Which ones?’
‘The silver pill box.’
Rummaging around, he found the box and gave it to me with a glass of brandy, the liquid closest at hand. I swallowed the pills—they felt like pebbles descending my strained throat—and waited for the relief they sometimes brought. Woggin, huddled at my side, watched me anxiously, his tail thumping hard on the floor.
‘Can I go now?’ Lloyd asked. ‘I still think you need help.’
I shook my head. The dagger felt as if it were being withdrawn. The pain abated, but with it came a discomfiting flapping sensation, like an unsecured sail, in my chest. I did not need to guess what it was.
Breathing as calmly and steadily as I could, I waited for the flapping to slow, then lifted my cheek from the soiled map.
‘We will make a new one,’ I said to Lloyd, whose face was as white as chalk but whose eyes were riveted on the glistening bloodstains.
I was able to sit up, and after several minutes, hazarded standing and returning to my desk chair.
‘Do you want to keep working on the story?’ Lloyd asked timidly.
‘Not today,’ I said, and without turning round—I did not want to see again the horror I had inflicted upon the boy—added, ‘Please don’t tell your mother about this.’
‘Shouldn’t she know?’
‘It is enough that I tell Dr Rüedi. Tomorrow.’
What he would then recommend, I dreaded. As these standard measures were proving ineffective, he would surely advocate again for more radical steps.
Symonds, at the lectern, was asking now for any last questions, and several hands and fans were raised. The voices came to me as if from a great distance. Even the lights in the wall sconces and chandelier seemed hazy and dim. There was a round of applause, and Fanny gathered up her skirts and stood.
‘Your friend did an admirable job,’ she said. Having studied art in France and Holland, she would have enjoyed a further discussion of the lecture. ‘Shall we go and congratulate him?’
Nodding, I rose, hoping she would not notice that to steady myself, I held on to the back of the chair before me. It was foolish to have thought so.
‘Louis,’ she asked, ‘what’s wrong? Are you all right?’
‘I just need some fresh air.’
Desmond had approached me from the other side. ‘That talk might have created a scandal in Mayfair,’ he said, ‘but here, it will be forgotten by breakfast. I say, old man, you don’t look quite well.’
‘He’s not,’ Fanny said. ‘Help me get him to the balcony. It’s too warm in here.’
Hands were placed beneath my elbows, and I was escorted to the French doors, which Lloyd threw open. As I leaned upon the balustrade, I took a deep breath and felt again that loose sail luffing in my chest. I would not have been surprised if the others had heard it flap.
‘What is going on out here?’ I heard from the doors, in the doctor’s distinctive English flavoured with both an American and a Swiss accent.
‘Louis was feeling faint,’ Fanny said.
‘Pale as a ghost,’ Desmond put in.
‘I think he’s running a fever,’ she added.
‘I am not surprised to hear this,’ he said, coming close. Producing the ever-present stethoscope from around his neck—he wore it the way some men might sport an ascot—he pressed it to my chest and listened for several seconds. ‘It is just as I thought,’ he said, removing the instrument. ‘It is time we took more determined measures.’
I could see his pince-nez glittering in the moonlight. I opened my mouth to respond—to protest—when that old familiar dagger punctured my chest, obviating any need or use for further discourse.
TOPANGA CANYON—CALIFORNIA
Present Day
After several hours of taking down coordinates and figuring out where the pack was going, Rafe was heading back to the jeep, a weary Heidi trudging close behind—right on his heels, in fact. He wondered why that was bothering him, until he realized that it reminded him of having his little sister dogging his steps, all her worldly possessions stuffed into a pair of plastic Little Mermaid shopping bags from a county-sponsored trip to Disneyland. He’d wanted to protect her, but he was ashamed, too, because he secretly wished he didn’t have to worry about her. If it hadn’t been for Lucy, he could have run for it, scaled any wall, slipped out of any shelter, made his own way in the world.
“How long before the sun sets?” Heidi asked.
“What difference does it make? We’ll be back at the jeep in ten minutes.” They were already skirting the lake.
“I think we should get that trunk out of the water.”
“That trunk really gets to you, doesn’t it?” he said, though truth be told, he shared her curiosity.
“It’s a hazard. We should do whatever we can to clean up the lake. We should get rid of that old bike frame, too. One day, maybe this lake will be beautiful again.”
It was a lovely thought, but not one that he saw coming true in the immediate future.
“Look, we’ve even got a boat,” she pointed out.
The rowboat, lying upside down on the shore, looked about as seaworthy as a sponge.
“It’ll take no time at all,” she said, already trying to rock the old boat right side up.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he said. What if the trunk contained something truly horrific? That was all he needed, to traumatize his first trainee on her inaugural venture into the canyon.
“Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.” She’d actually managed to roll the thing over and was inspecting its insides. “I don’t see any holes.”
“We’ll find out when we get out there, you know.”
“And there’s an oar in it.”
“It generally takes two of them.”
“We’re not going very far.”
Rafe guessed it was about a couple of hundred yards off.
“Maybe we could just wade there, then,” she said, shielding her eyes from the late-day sun. “It looks shallow enough.”
But that idea was even worse. In some spots, the lake was actually deeper than she knew, and besides the turtles and frogs, there were snakes to contend with.
She was tugging at an old rope attached to the bow of the boat, but it hardly budged. Her tan ranger hat, so neat and trim at the start of the day, was sweat stained, and the wide brim was flopping down. She was a pain in the butt, but he had to hand it to her—she stuck to her guns.
Dropping the radio antenna and his backpack onto the ground, he took hold of the rope and helped her drag the boat into the water, where it bobbed from side to side. They watched to see if it would sink, but it didn’t. Apart from a little water seeping in through a seam, it looked okay.
Heidi climbed in, and sat on a thwart. “Shit!”
“What?”
She reached under herself and pulled something out. “A splinter.”
He handed her the oar, then pushed the boat farther into the lake. When the water rose to the top of his hiking boot, he jumped in, and once the rocking subsided, said, “Okay, you can give me the oar now.”
Standing like a gondolier, legs spread as wide as possible, he rowed the boat through the pale-green sludge of the lake. The bottom was only a few feet down, and half the time, he was just pushing the boat along like a raft. He could see amid the mud and rocks, broken coolers, bent fishing rods, soda cans. He wonder
ed if the Dr Peppers belonged to Seth and Alfie.
Not a fish in sight, though.
Heidi, facing the bow, said, “We’re in luck.”
“We are?”
“It looks like it’s sitting on an underwater ledge.”
Steering the boat toward the trunk, he saw that it was standing, however improbably, on one end. Even when the lake had been several feet higher, the trunk must have been barely submerged.
“How should we do this?” Heidi asked, starting to get to her feet, which threatened to capsize the boat.
“Just sit down.” Using the oar as a pole, he maneuvered the stern of the boat around until it was within easy reach of the trunk. He dropped the paddle into the boat and said, “Take hold of both sides of the boat and counterbalance it.”
The trunk was just a couple of feet away, and when he touched it, his fingers blazed like he’d touched a match. Why wouldn’t they, he thought—it was an old green metal trunk that had been baking in the sun.
“Use this,” she said, tossing him her sweaty hat. Her hair frizzed around her head like a corona. “It’s gonna need washing anyway.”
Folding the hat around one hand like a glove, he reached out again and managed to tilt the trunk toward the boat, but as he did so, its bottom started to slip off whatever rock it was resting on and down into deeper water.
“Damn,” he muttered, and grabbed it with his other hand, too, the one that had no protection. The metal seared his palm, but he held on long enough to haul the trunk over the stern and plunk it with a wet and resounding thump into the bottom of the boat. Water streamed off its sides, joining the thin rivulet that was still seeping through the hull. He shook his hand to cool it off.
“Was it heavy?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“So it’s got something inside it?”
“Could just be water.”
“Or maybe it’s gold bullion.”
He had definitely heard, and felt, something shift inside the trunk, but he doubted it was gold bars. His own thoughts went in darker directions.
Glancing at the bottom of the boat, where the water seemed to be creeping in faster than before, he said, “I think we’ve taken on too much weight. We’re gonna sink if we don’t start back. Better give me that oar again.”
The Jekyll Revelation Page 6
