All morning Allison had been burning the newsletters. Each and every page, stacks of them, the room choking with smoke despite the overhead fan set on high, all four windows flung wide. Burning every reminder, every relic from that life, that mindless crusade she'd been on for seven years. It had murdered her own daughter. Killed Bronson too.
Burning every one. Destroying it all.
Finally, when the last page twisted and warped into flame, curled into black smoke, she set the Zippo aside, closed her eyes, propped her forehead against her palm. She was spent. Weary beyond anything she'd known. Across from her desk the blinds were drawn against a bright afternoon sun. She could hear the dull static of traffic from Coral Way two blocks off. The bedroom faced north toward the golf course, and caught a draft just then that rattled the Venetian blinds, billowed the curtains.
Those first cool breezes of the fall. Temperatures finally drifting into the seventies. A time of year she usually loved, that energized her. Feeling the humidity dying back, a hint of Canadian pine in the air, that wash of blue-tinged arctic air. The first tourists beginning to trickle in.
She sat at her desk and listened to the distant traffic, felt a current of air pass across her. She listened to the mail truck making its stop-and-go tour of the neighborhood. She smelled the garlic and onions sauteing in Mrs. Casines's skillet next door. Inhaled the last blooms of confederate jasmine climbing the trellis on the north wall of the Farleighs' house.
Maybe if she gave herself over to her senses, drank in every whisper of scent, each sound vibrating through the air, let each new sensation replace the last, savoring each one, focused completely on the pastel light filtering through the jacaranda, the stumbling flight of a moth against the far wall, kept her mind sharp and utterly fixed on each second as it unfolded, then just maybe the images wouldn't resurface, she would not see Winslow's wounded face, feel her daughter's slender body growing cold in her arms, would not remember every second of the long night battling the creatures of the jungle. Maybe she wouldn't become mired again in the insufferable gloom.
In the distance she heard the squeal of tires, horns honking over on Alhambra, then with absolute clarity she heard the two-tone squeak of the hinges on the kitchen door downstairs. The door opening, and the soft click of its shutting.
She sat up straight.
Two-thirty in the afternoon, far too early for Harry to be home. And Allison had no friends who would think of entering without knocking first.
She listened as the intruder took several careful steps on the oak floor in the hallway, heading toward the front of the house. Then she lost track of their direction, the footsteps obscured by a passing car with its radio up full volume. A siren out on Coral Way, an aggravated blue jay in the jacaranda.
She heard Mrs. Casines's phone and then Mrs. Casines answering it, shouting in her half-deaf Spanish. Then heard, just beyond her bedroom door, the seventh step on the stairway. That old oak step crackled and screaked, the noise it had been making for almost twenty-five years. The seventh step up, seven to go.
CHAPTER 13
Allison bolted the bathroom door and stood for a moment holding her breath, listening as someone squeaked open the door to her bedroom. She brought her eyes to the mirror above the sink and stared at herself as the intruder prowled the room. She was wearing a cotton nightgown, lace embroidering the collar. Her face was gaunt and had lost its color, dead flesh against bright red hair. It was not Allison in the mirror, but a papier-mâché likeness, a piñata filled with heavy vapor. The woman in the mirror no longer cared if she lived or died.
She pulled herself away. Stared at the doorknob. Someone was in her house, and the rage she felt freshening her blood had come unbidden. It had nothing to do with Winslow or Bronson. It was purely territorial. Someone was in her house.
Allison rubbed the focus back into her eyes, then turned and scoured the bathroom for a weapon. It only took a few seconds to see that that was futile. There was nothing sharp, nothing heavy.
Outside the door she thought she heard a voice, and then another replying, but she wasn't absolutely sure. It might've been someone passing by on the sidewalk, or even a random shred of conversation carried from the golf course by a gust of wind.
She could scream. Rape, fire. Though the only neighbor home during the day was deaf Senora Casines. In any case she doubted her voice would work. She was fairly certain the only noise she could produce would be a gargle, a strangled croak.
Outside the bathroom window was an oak, its largest branch sloping gently back to the main trunk. It was the tree Sean and Winslow had scaled as kids. Just below that window the two of them had constructed a tree house, and there with their cups and saucers they'd had tea parties. Good Housekeeping, Redbook in neat stacks. Allison standing in the bathroom, watching them play husband and wife. Hearing their sad reenactments of Harry and Allison.
She gripped the window frame and heaved upward, but it was sealed tight by layers and layers of paint. One more thing Harry had continually promised to fix.
She blew out an exasperated breath, then quietly turned from the window and opened the medicine cabinet, moved aside old pill containers, petroleum jelly, deodorant, searching for one of Harry's straight razors. The least she could do was come out slashing. Get in one good swipe before they took hold of her. But his razor was gone. A few months earlier Harry had moved all his things down the hall when they'd finally agreed to abandon the pretense, and had taken up new sleeping arrangements. Harry in the guest room now, Allison in the master, still using their old bed with all its bittersweet sags.
She heard the footsteps come to a halt outside the bathroom. She shut the cabinet, faced the door. The intruder tapped lightly. One time, two. Tried the knob. Paused.
Allison moved close to the door. She reached out, took hold of the bolt, made one last survey of the bathroom, seized the first thing she saw of any size, then turned back to the door, drew in a long breath, slid the bolt back, and yanked the door wide.
With a defiant scream she lunged out, and swung her half-filled bottle of mouthwash at her daughter's face.
***
"So what the fuck, Rayon? We going in or not?"
Ray said, "Someone's visiting her."
"Yeah, and how the hell you know that? You having a psychic experience?"
"That car in the driveway," Ray said. "The Toyota Celica, it doesn't belong to the husband, it doesn't belong to Allison either."
They were parked a few feet off South Greenway on the rough of the golf course, the car idling in the shade of a banyan tree, some of the limb roots dangling to the windshield. Three or four houses to the east was the Farleighs' two-story Spanish-style home. A ritzy-titsy neighborhood in Coral Gables, right across from the country club. Red-tiled roofs, big lots — man, the houses had to start in the seven figures. Kind of neighborhood used to boggle young Ray White. He knew how goddamn hard his own mother worked, and look at the shithole they lived in. How in hell could anybody work hard enough to buy houses like those?
Now he knew the answer. One way or another, the people who lived in those houses stole that money. They'd found a way, legal or illegal, to fuck over their fellowman. They hired a hundred Darlene Annette Whites to do their stoop labor, paid them a nickel out of every dollar that crossed their desk, then they moved out of their own shitholes and alongside this golf course.
Orlon swiveled around in the bucket seat.
"Tell me, how is it you know what cars these people drive?"
"I've done my homework." Ray drummed his fingers on the glove compartment, stared out the windshield.
Orlon said, "Maybe what we should do, we should go on in there anyway, abduct them both, Allison and whoever's come to visit. If she's a friend of Allison's, she's gotta be another ape-kisser. We'll get two for the price of one."
"Listen to you, Orlon. Listen to what you're proposing here. Commit a home invasion, broad daylight, a double kidnapping, double murder."
"Oh
, yeah, yeah," Orlon said. "I forgot. Ray's gone soft. Ray's a peacenik."
Ray turned his eyes to his brother, gave him the megawatt stare. Took only a second before Orlon had to look away, probably feeling his corneas crinkling up at the edges.
"Look, man," Orlon said, "we got to do this broad. That's all there is to it. No choice. She's heard us, seen us. We gotta do it now."
"I know that. You think I don't know that?"
Ray stared at the house.
He was sure the two of them looked pretty conspicuous out there on the edge of the golf course, in Orlon's '79 black Vette with flames coming off the front wheel wells, big blower and airscoop jutting out of the hood. This part of town was full of BMW's, Jap luxuries, Mercedes sedans. Neighborhood with some serious old money. Everybody looked so law-abiding, churchgoing. But then, Ray knew better than that.
One morning about a year ago, some woman called up White Brothers Imports saying to Ray in a very thick Spanish accent that her boss instructed her to get in touch. He'd acquired their names from a very reliable source. Seems the guy had woken up that very morning and decided he couldn't live another day without owning a chimpanzee.
"Chimps are endangered," Rayon told the secretary. Playing cautious, not sure who the hell he was talking to. Could be one of the ape-kissers trying to lure him into agreeing to something shady on the phone, get him on tape.
The guy's secretary said, "Senor Robales doesn't care about that. In fact, he prefers things which are dangerous."
" 'Endangered' is what I said, not 'dangerous.' "
"I know what you said. And what I am saying to you, Mr. White, it doesn't matter if this animal is endangered or not. My employer is not a man who is restrained by the pitiable laws of this country. Do I make myself clear?"
Ray loved that. A guy who wasn't restrained by the pitiable laws of the country. Welcome to America, stay as long as you like, do whatever the hell you feel like, and come back anytime.
"I'd need to know who recommended us. Check your guy's references."
"Of course."
"And I'd like to meet this Mr. Robales," Ray said.
"Senor Robales will meet you when you deliver the chimp."
Ray ordered the chimp by phone from Djakarta, guy had the thing ready and waiting in a cage in one of the back stalls at the Pramuka Market. No ape-kissers over there, at least none with any clout. A week later White Brothers Imports received the ape, documentation papers saying he was captive-born, the head Fish and Wildlife guy not liking it a bit, but there wasn't a thing he could prove. So Ray went on and delivered the chimp a stone's throw from where they were parked right now.
Two blocks away, at this very moment, there was a year-old chimp walking around in his diapers in this guy's two-million-dollar house. Mr. Robales, dealer in dubious pharmaceuticals, was probably letting the hairy thing crawl all over him at that very second.
The day he delivered the chimp, Ray was standing there, trying to have a conversation with this guy, ascertain the exact nature of Mr. Robales's evil.
The man started out being very cool, dark glasses, silk clothes, little slipper things on his feet. Not saying a thing, letting his secretary handle the money part. But then Ray released the chimp and it waddled right over to Robales, reached up and yanked off the guy's sunglasses and tried them on himself, and instantly the bad guy changed into a slobbering idiot. Cooing, baby-talking, stroking the hairy fucking thing. Never ceased to amaze Ray the way some people turned to mush when they were exposed to the lower life forms.
Of course, in most cases what happened next was, the chimp would grow up in a year or two. stop being a cuddly little thing, and move into adolescence. One day it has a tantrum about something and bites its master on the finger. Bites down to the fucking bone, spits out a knuckle or two. Cute little Bonzo's chewing away on human flesh. That's when the White brothers get the call. Come take this fucking ape back, it bit the shit out of me. No, sir, sorry. We don't do trade-ins. After that the ape either winds up wandering around in the Everglades, alligator bait, or takes a trip a couple of feet under Senor Robales's backyard.
Ray turned the air conditioner down and glanced over at his brother. Orlon was concentrating on that Toyota Celica like he was Superman trying to vaporize it.
"So tell me about this homework you been doing, Rayon. This is the first I heard of that."
"Nothing special," Ray said "I made Allison a little hobby of mine, that's all. Weekends, evenings. I cruise by a few times, or park awhile, watch who's coming and going. I believe in acquainting myself with my enemies."
"Since when?"
"Since she took an interest in our comings and goings last winter."
"A couple of articles in her crummy newsletter — shit, that's nothing. That indigo snake case, hell. Nobody takes that woman seriously."
"I wanted to find out who she was, that's all."
"Well, I gotta say, Rayon, maybe you got more testicular energy than I been giving you credit for."
Ray watched a gang of golfers go by in their carts. Bunch was dressed up like a flock of amazon parrots. Man, if he were running things, he'd make it a federal crime to dress that way. Instruct the FBI to arrest anybody wearing madras of any kind, or white belts. Any clothing you can see from more than a hundred yards away.
Ray turned around, touched the gunnysack lying on the jump seat. The bag boiled and bumped. Pythons were getting more and more pissed the longer they had to stay knotted up like that looking at each other.
"Mary Astor," Orlon said. "I just thought who it was the dead girl looked like. Mary Astor with red hair."
"Mary Astor."
"That's right. Played Brigid O'Shaughnessy in The Maltese Falcon. Always out of breath because of John Huston, the director, running her up and down a flight of stairs before every take. To make her sound like she was lying, out of breath all the time. You know, tall, skinny, had that same blue-blooded face as Allison's little girl. A dead ringer." Orlon smiled, rubbed a hand over his bald head. "A red dinger."
"Let's go," Ray said. "Get the hell out of here."
"I always liked Sydney Greenstreet in that movie. Great part, laughing all the time. Fat Man, very jovial. Looked like Santa, but turns out he's Satan. I liked that guy. Felt a karmic harmony with him."
"Get going, Orlon. We'll come back later. Do what we have to do when there aren't so many people around."
Orlon slipped the car into gear.
"Santa, Satan," Orlon said. "You know, when you think about it, what if those two guys are really the same guy? Santa Claus and the devil. Guy spends his whole year in hell, gets to go out one night a year, like part of his plea bargain. He has to deliver presents to the poor kids."
"It's two different guys, Orlon."
"How do you know that for sure? Where's it written down it's gotta be two guys?"
"It's written down everywhere," Ray said. "Good's good. Bad's bad. Satan's the devil. Santa's a saint. You start mixing them up, you're fucked."
"Well, maybe I'm fucked then."
He revved the Corvette's big engine.
"Yeah, maybe you are, Orlon. Maybe you are."
***
The orangutan's cage was four feet square. Just enough room to make one swing before reaching the other end. Or hang from his toes and play with the straw on the floor of the cage. Also, he could force his nose between the grid of his cage and smell the feet of the sick orangutan in the cage next to him.
The sick one's feet didn't smell like the jungle anymore; they didn't smell like the orangutan's mother either. Now they smelled like the inside of the airplane cargo hold. They smelled like gasoline fumes and vomit.
Many years ago the orangutan's mother had been a captive herself. When she was only a year old, she was abducted from the jungles of Sumatra, and eventually sold to a small research center in Arizona.
A linguistics professor wanted an ape for his project in animal intelligence. He wanted an orangutan so badly, he was willing to over
look the suspicious paperwork that accompanied the animal. The papers stated that the orangutan was a captive-born animal raised in a wildlife refuge outside Kuala Lumpur. Because Appendix II of the CITES international treaty allowed for sale and shipment of captive-born animals but not wild ones, it had become common practice for poachers to create fictitious zoos or refuges in order to obtain the necessary documents to get the animals past customs.
For over a year the Arizona professor taught the young female orangutan sign language. She learned sixty-eight signs in thirteen months. But then, through an oversight, the professor was late in filing his grant applications and the federal money his facility had been surviving on for years was cut off. He was forced to shut down his lab, and all the research animals were put on the market.
The orangutan's mother was sold to a woman in Tucson who cared for primates on her ranch and tried to find good homes for them. After a few months, the Tucson lady sold the ape to a trucker and his wife from Texas. But when it bit the trucker's wife on the cheek, the couple contacted a man in Cincinnati who'd been advertising in a pet-trading magazine for months, seeking an orangutan or chimp. The man paid the Texas couple twenty-eight thousand dollars for the ape.
He owned a bar and poolroom along state highway 744 outside Cincinnati. To provide for his new attraction, he dug a pit in front of his bar, poured a concrete floor, put bars over the top, and then settled the orangutan inside.
The orangutan was a hit. It drew more drinkers to the bar. Some of the patrons got in the habit of stopping at the pit on the way in or out, where they amused themselves by offering the ape cigarettes and beer. After a while the mother orangutan developed a taste for Colt 45 and Marlboros. She ate the cigarettes.
Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4) Page 13
