by Dixie Lyle
“I believe so. You paid a little visit to the cabana at some point.”
He gave his head a single, careful nod. “Well. Junior out there does bear a certain resemblance to myself, there’s no denying that. Same carefree attitude, lack of moral inhibitions, and a certain flair for the inexplicable. But my lawyers tell me I really must insist on a DNA test to be sure.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m not going to like your explanation of why you said that, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t. Care to join me for a late breakfast of tea, a picture of some toast, and more tea? The toast is optional.”
“Maybe later. First, you’re going to change into some warmer clothes, and then we’re going to take a little tour of your masterpiece.”
He groaned. “But it’s bloody cold out there. I’m English, love; my blood’s as thin as the ethics of a music executive. I go out there, I’ll develop little icicles in my arteries. I can feel them forming already.”
“The only thing forming in your bloodstream is a picket line of antibodies demanding overtime pay and better working conditions. Besides, you were fine while building the thing.”
“Then I was riding a rocket ascending into the heavens. Today I’m lying in a smoking crater and trying to disentangle myself from the shredded remains of a parachute. That’s not the right frame of mind to go traipsing round the hinterlands.”
“You’ll be fine. Fresh air is the best thing for you right now.”
“No, an iron lung in a sensory deprivation chamber is the best thing for me right now. Preferably one filled with warm tea, whiskey, and just a touch of morphine.”
“Quite a contraption. Sort of like the ones out there.”
He gave a huge, eye-rolling sigh. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
“I covered for you last night at dinner. You owe me.”
“Ah. Well, when you put it like that—”
“I’ll give you twenty minutes. Don’t make me come back there and play ‘Crazy Love’ again.”
“You are a cruel taskmaster, Foxtrot Lancaster. I shall be very cross with you later, when I have the energy.”
“No, you won’t.”
He got to his feet. “I might. Just a bit.”
“Off you go.”
He shuffled off, muttering and trying to look as pathetic as possible.
“And don’t forget your mittens!” I called after him. “It’s kinda cold out there!”
I’m not sure what his reply was, but it sounded fairly obscene and very British.
[Do you think he’ll actually come back?] Whiskey asked.
“I predict he’ll be about forty-five minutes, which is fine with me. We have to give him something.”
[Agreed. How about euthanasia? He’d probably thank us.]
As I expected, Keene was back in three-quarters of an hour. I spent the intervening time answering messages on my phone, making a list of things to check on once the contractors started work, and tweaking the maids’ schedule to accommodate Consuela’s upcoming trip to visit her mother.
When Keene finally showed up, he was showered, shaved, and dressed. His attitude wasn’t exactly buoyant, but he gave me a grudging smile as he came down the stairs.
“Happy?” he asked. “I’m vertical, mobile, and reasonably lucid.”
“I’ll give you the first two. Number three you’re gonna have to prove.”
I handed him a down-filled parka and slipped my own on. “Come on, English. If you start to turn blue, we’ll send Whiskey back for … well, whiskey, probably.”
“Bit early in the day for that, don’t you think? Straight, anyway.”
We trudged outside. The grass was crunchy with frost underfoot, but it hadn’t snowed yet.
“I see Oswald got loose again,” said Keene, eyeing the two-toed gouges in the lawn. “Silly bugger. He’ll freeze his tail feathers off in this.”
“Oswald shares the twin attributes of cunning and blind optimism. He has absolutely no idea what he’s going to do once he’s out, but he’s equally sure it will be something wonderful and worth all the effort. Kind of inspiring, in a lunatic sort of way.”
Keene glanced at me sidelong. “Do I detect an undercurrent of not-so-subtle insinuation? A possible comparison, even?”
“Between you and a deranged ostrich? I don’t know … could an oversized, legally insane turkey have made this?”
We stopped in front of the first installation. A dozen or so hula hoops, all of them wrapped in iridescent tape, were stretched around the frame of an electric treadmill, as if the machine itself had decided to get some exercise but hadn’t figured out where its hips were.
“Interesting,” Keene said. “It makes a statement, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, that statement is giffnetz the floogle spring, and that’s only a rough translation.”
“Sparking any memories?”
He frowned in concentration. “Perhaps … no, no, that’s a memory from a ski trip in Jamaica.”
“You can go skiing in Jamaica?”
“You can go skiing anywhere—it all depends on how much time you’re willing to spend getting to the bottom of the hill. Also, you may be interpreting the word trip incorrectly.”
We walked to the next one. “Ah,” Keene said. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“You remember?”
“Not at all. But I do recognize my style. The rake lashed to the wheel of the overturned mountain bike—that’s me all over. And the birdbath with the miniature trampoline on top? I might as well have signed it. Wait, what’s this?”
He stooped and picked up something from beside the birdbath: a wooden ball with a red stripe. “I … think I recall something. Something about … croquet.”
He walked back to the bike and placed the ball on the inside curve of the rake’s tines. Then he gave the bike’s pedal a quick turn with his hand; the rake, lashed to the wheel, spun halfway around and stopped, flinging the ball toward the birdbath. It hit the trampoline and bounced, landing a few feet away.
“It’s not an obstacle course,” Keene said. “It’s a croquet field.”
“Extreme croquet?” I said.
“No, that’s something else. This is more like … enhanced croquet. That’s the phrase that just bubbled up from the murky depths of my mind.”
Whiskey sneezed. Since he’s an ectoplasmic being that’s not technically alive, he’s immune to colds, allergies, and just about anything else that might make you sneeze; I’m pretty sure he does it on purpose, and it’s the approximate equivalent of rolling your eyes and swearing at the same time. He claims it’s just an instinctual reflex, but I have my doubts.
I looked around the grounds with a new perspective. “I think I’m starting to see the pattern here. Where would you say the start is?”
“Um. Over there?” We walked to one corner of the lawn and examined the structure present; it was the one with the inflated walrus, as well as several empty flowerpots and two garden hoses laid out side by side. “Yeesssss,” Keene said slowly. “The tusks are the wicket. Then it goes between the garden hoses, which form a roller-coaster track of sorts going over the flowerpots…”
“Eventually heading toward the second wicket, over here.”
We traced the route around the yard, figuring it out as we went. “Congratulations, Keene,” I said. “You’ve invented a brand-new sport that nobody has ever conceived of before, ever. But for some reason, I’m convinced it’s missing something. Hmmm, what could it be … wait, I know! A windmill! For some bizarre reason, I’m convinced this course needs a miniature windmill.”
He gave me a look. “Yes, yes, we have mini golf in Ye Olde Englande as well, though we usually call it something else.”
“Something erudite and sophisticated, no doubt. Putt-ing on The Ritz, maybe? Or the Delicate Application of Force to a Small Ball in Order to Propel It Through an Intricate Maze of Preposterous Objects?”
“Crazy Golf.”
“I like mine better.”
Whiskey whined. I noticed he was staring fixedly at the wooden ball Keene still held in one hand, his eyes following it as Keene idly tossed it from one hand to another. “Keene,” I said. “Either throw that thing or put it down. You’re making my dog crazy.”
[I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. JUST THROW IT, ALREADY!]
Keene looked at the ball in his hand. “Oh. Sorry.” He gave it a good toss and Whiskey took off after it so fast I thought he was going to catch it before it hit the ground.
“Working dogs,” I said. “Smart as all hell, but they’re bred to do stuff. Showing them a ball and not throwing it is like waving a small coastal village at a Viking and then not letting them plunder it.”
Whiskey was already back with the ball, which he dropped at Keene’s feet before sitting back with an expectant look on his face. [Again?]
“An obsessive-compulsive Viking, with boundary issues,” I said. “Whatever you do, don’t pick it up. You could be here all day.”
[That is a scurrilous lie. I am under no compulsion whatsoever to repeat that performance and OH GOD, YES, THANK YOU!]
I gave Keene a pitying look. “Now you’ve done it. He’ll follow you around for the rest of the day.”
Keene shrugged. “I know a bit about compulsive behavior. Consider this a down payment on my karmic debt.”
“I have enough on my plate without doing metaphysical bookkeeping for your soul, thank you very much.”
I paused, thinking about what I’d just said. “On the other paw, who knows? Maybe Whiskey’s Catholic. He could put in a good word for you with Saint Francis.”
[You’re not seriously suggesting I communicate with a being that may or may not exist at the behest of a drug-addled YES YES YES YOU’RE THE BEST I LOVE YOU]
“Yeah, you’re definitely racking up the karmic points, there. If the regular place won’t have you I’m sure you can find a spot in doggy heaven.”
[Foxtrot! You are coming perilously close to violating our strict oath of nondisclosure YES! AGAIN! I HOPE THIS NEVER STOPS WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF]
I giggled. “Man, is he having a good time. I think I’ve finally found the canine equivalent of catnip. Dognip.”
Keene smiled. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Truth be told, one of the reasons I love visiting here is because of your animals. Can’t have any of my own, of course; wouldn’t be fair. I’m hardly ever home and you can’t drag a cat or a dog along on tour. The road’s no place for a pet.”
We strolled toward the next installation, Whiskey continuing his manic dash-and-return, Keene continuing to throw the ball.
“There are other options,” I pointed out as we walked. “Something small and portable?”
“Nah. Rodents and birds are too high-strung. Fish are out of the question. About the only thing that fits the bill is some sort of lizard or snake, and my repertoire doesn’t have enough heavy metal in it to justify either.”
“Hmmm,” I said. We’d come to what seemed to be the last wicket, if we were interpreting the course correctly. It abutted a hedge, and in fact seemed to extend into it. “The menagerie is on the other side of this hedge. Did your inspiration extend itself all the way into an animal enclosure?”
“I honestly have no idea. But yes, it does seem to go in that direction. Shall we?”
“I suppose we should.”
We went around the hedge as opposed to trying to go through, Whiskey trotting alongside us with the ball in his mouth and a hopeful look on his face, and found ourselves behind a building. “Speaking of reptiles, this is where we house ours,” I said. There was a ladder propped up against it, one of those extending aluminum ones that you can adjust the height on. The reptile building was only one story high, so the ladder wasn’t fully extended.
“No,” said Keene, staring at the ladder. “It’s not.”
“Excuse me?”
“Snakes. This is the building that houses the snakes, right?”
“Well, yes. Snakes are reptiles, so they’re in there, too.”
Keene shook his head and looked mortified. “Oh, you ridiculous lump of quasi-intelligent protoplasm. A night of epic overindulgence, and this is what you choose to remember? This is what qualifies as worthy of our memoirs?”
[What is he babbling about?]
“What,” I said, “are you babbling about?”
“Snakes and ladders, Foxtrot. This was to be the last wicket, the ultimate goal of the game. An existential pun, of sorts. Snakes and bloody ladders.” He looked dejected. “It’s not even properly British. We call it chutes and ladders, which makes a lot more sense. I mean, you slide down a snake’s gullet you’re not coming out the other end, are you?”
“You’re sure? You actually remember doing this?”
“In a blurry, memory-of-a-dream sort of way, yeah. Much as I hate to admit it, this deformed mutant is my offspring. I throw myself on the mercy of whatever legal entity presides over croquet-related desecration of property.”
“That would either be the Red Queen or the groundskeepers. Personally, I’d hope for the Red Queen—all she’ll do is chop off your head.”
[Well, I’m glad we arrived at a logical conclusion to our endeavors. Now, is he going to throw the ball again or not?]
It didn’t look like it. Keene walked over to the ladder and sat on one of the lower rungs, looking glum. “I’m no fan of blackouts, Foxtrot. What good is having fun if you don’t recall any of it? Plus, there’s the horrible uncertainty that goes along with the experience. I always worry that I’ve done something unspeakable that will come back to haunt me later…”
I wanted to reassure him that wasn’t true, that nothing he did during his blackout could be that bad.
But I couldn’t.
9.
Keene, Whiskey, and I went back to the house. I had Consuela bring us some tea and a plate of the biscuits Keene likes. Whiskey reluctantly left the croquet ball outside and sprawled at my feet looking morose.
Get that expression off your face, I thought at him. You had your fun, didn’t you?
[I am an ectoplasmic being. I do not require fun.] He looked up at me with sad puppy eyes to see if I was falling for it. I wasn’t.
“So you were out there all night,” I said to Keene. “I’ll give you this much—for a decadent sybarite, you sure have a strong work ethic.”
Keene was staring out the window at his handiwork again, apparently deep in a morose-off with Whiskey. “Blue-collar upbringing,” he said distractedly. “My parents wanted me to make something of myself.”
“Well, you definitely made something. And now that you know what you were trying to accomplish, is anything else coming back to you?”
He frowned. “Perhaps. There was a great deal of rushing around, I remember that much. A sense of purpose, and a certain amount of glee.”
“What about people? Do you remember seeing anyone else awake at that hour, or talking to anyone?”
His brow furrowed. “… Yes. I do. That woman you’re always chatting with, the one with the braids. I remember seeing her.”
Catree? She wasn’t staying on-site, she was bunking at the motel in town. “Are you sure?”
“Not entirely, no. I didn’t speak to her or anything, not that I remember. But I do have this image of her with a great bulging backpack, striding along in the moonlight; I think I was hauling flowerpots at the time.”
“So it is coming back to you.”
He rubbed his chin with one hand. “Bits and pieces. Coming across that ladder jarred something loose, somehow. I also remember seeing a flashing blue light and not knowing what it was … I’ll have to do some thinking, see if anything else shakes out.”
“All right. Call me if you do, all right? I’ve got to get going—got a million things on my to-be-done-already list.”
He stopped me as I was getting up. “Trot. You don’t think I had anything to do with—well, any of the nastiness of the last few days?”
>
“In the sense of causing any of it? Of course not. But you might have seen something important, which is why I’m being so persistent about this. Now sit there, drink your tea, and don’t think too hard. It’ll come to you.”
And that’s where we left him, still staring out the window, his tea growing cold in front of him.
* * *
I wasn’t terribly surprised when Lieutenant Forrester called.
“Ms. Lancaster. I was wondering if you would do me a favor.”
“That depends, Lieutenant. While I’m definitely in the favor-granting business, I do expect a little quid pro quo. What do you need?”
“Your organizational abilities. I require a little sit-down with everyone who was on the grounds the night before the explosion. I could just show up and start barking orders, but I thought things would go a lot smoother if you’d introduce them to the idea first.”
“Oh, you want me to do some scheduling for you? Why, Lieutenant—are you flirting with me?”
A short pause, during which I wondered if I’d gone too far. Then: “No. But I will if that’ll get me a little cooperation.”
“Oh, you silver-tongued devil. How can I resist a line like that? All right, I’ll set them up for you. Half an hour each okay?”
“That’ll be fine. Please let them know this is strictly routine, none of them is being singled out, and we’re just gathering data.”
“Don’t spook them, right. Now, here’s what I want in return: information.”
“You know I can’t comment about an ongoing investigation.” He sounded more amused than annoyed.
“Please. I’m not a reporter, I don’t care about anything juicy. I just want an idea—a general idea—how much longer the daily routine is going to be disrupted around here.”
“The bomb squad wrapped up their investigation this morning. Homicide is releasing the crime scene later today. When that’s done you can start putting everything back in place.”
“Thank you so much. That’s really all I needed to know.” This, of course, was a lie.
People lie all the time. Good people, bad people, smart people, dumb people. People lie on purpose and by accident. People lie by omission, addition, and fudging. People lie for the best of reasons and the worst of reasons, and often don’t even realize what they’re doing. Lies are the bugs hiding in the cracks of the world; universally present, mostly despised, and utterly necessary. There’s also the whole reproducing-like-crazy angle, but that leads into the what-a-tangled-web-we-weave metaphor, which brings spiders into it and they’re technically not even insects, so let’s just put down the analogy and back slowly away, all right? No one needs to get hurt, though some of you are probably annoyed by now with this long, rambling digression.
