Deceived (7 page)

“I don’t think Jesus is supposed to do that,” Geena said.

“Do what?”

“Spin your head around.” Geena giggled. “Like in that movie about the devil.”

“The Exorcist.”

“That’s the one. Eww.”

“You know what I mean,” Rocky said. “I’m happy for him and all, but I just don’t want him to be getting scammed. There’s lots of ways the church can get money out of you if they scream
Jesus
enough.”

“Is there anything you actually believe in?”

Rocky smiled. She held her half-filled glass up to the bar lights. Reds and yellows refracted through the glass. For a second it looked beautiful and fresh and clean. It made her think of fulfilled promises, like the time she was seven and her dad said they would all go to Magic Mountain and they did. At night, the colors were magic indeed, because they were all together in one place, happy. The last time she could remember them being happy.

Before that dog mauled her face. Before her father stopped looking at her with dancing eyes, like he once had.

When she thought of that — thought of her
after
Dad — the colors in the glass changed, too. They became ordinary and dull. Nothing but old bar lights hitting soda. She thought that unless something changed, and soon, these would be the kind of colors she would see from now on. No more promises, no more magic.

“Hey,” Geena said. “You all right?”

Rocky lowered the glass and put her head on her left hand and her left elbow on the tabletop.

“You left us there for a second,” Geena said. “Where’d you go?”

“To the center of the universe,” Rocky said. “The seat of all knowing. The power of the third eye. The secret of existence.”

“Oh yeah? And that is?”

“Friends don’t let friends go nuts,” she said. And found, to her surprise, that she was crying.

“Hey, hey,” Geena said. “What is it?”

Perfect.

It had all gone down without a single hitch. The sun was heading for the hills in the west and Liz had still seen no one.

Arty’s little canyon was perfect, the jewels’ hiding place was perfect, and now there was one last item to make this . . . what? The perfect crime?

No, she hadn’t committed anything. Arty’s death was not premeditated. And he’d brought it on himself, really. He’d gone off the deep end even though he knew she was not one to boss around.

He’d contributed to his death by forgetting that.

Liz was back near Arty’s body now. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she thought she might throw up. She couldn’t afford that.

She had to concentrate. She was so close.

One more thing to do.

She got on her hands and knees.

Make this a good one, she told herself. One time only, a little bit of pain, then all the rest gain. The old Arty would have understood. He would even have gone along because there was maybe a million, maybe more, at stake. Tax free.

Yes, the old Arty would have understood, though maybe not completely. Nobody could figure her out completely, and that was the way she knew it had to be. Ever since Jackson, ever since the night Miller Jones had tried to touch her.

Make this good, she repeated to her herself, then slammed her head into the rock.

“Mac, you home?”

Mac blinked awake. He must have dozed off for a few minutes there.

“Mac?”

It was Pastor Jon.

“Come on in,” Mac said. He felt like it would take him ten minutes to get out of his chair.

His pastor came in, dressed in off-Sunday casual. Today it was black jeans and a Boston College sweatshirt. Pastor Jon was a fifty-three- year-old African-American who tossed away a pro baseball career to go to seminary. He was the same height as Mac, six foot two, and they matched shoulders pretty much. But Jon still looked like he could stretch a double into a triple. Mac’s head and leg wounds were better fitted for strolling through a garden.

“I saw that water spot in the ceiling,” Pastor Jon said, “and with the rains coming, I — you okay?”

“Just one of my things,” Mac said.

“Has it passed?”

“Pretty much.” Mac started to stand up. Pastor Jon gently pushed him back to the chair. “You just hang on there, take it easy. Can I get you something?”

“Not anymore,” Mac said. “My PO came by.”

“Again? What’s with him?”

“Hell if I — I mean, I don’t know. Sorry. Man! What a mouth I’ve still got.”

“My friend,” Pastor Jon said, “give yourself some time.”

“I don’t have time.” Mac shot to his feet. “I’ve got to get better. I can’t mess up anymore. If I mess up, I go back. Slezak wants me to go back. I’ll never see my daughter again.”

“Easy,” Pastor Jon said.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of Arty. He’s not answering his phone.”

“He was going hiking today.”

“What?”

“I talked to him this morning. He said he and his wife were going out to the canyon.”

“Would have thought he’d take his phone,” Mac said.

“I can get somebody else to look at the ceiling.”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to — ”

“I do have to,” Mac said. “It’s my end of the bargain.”

“Mac — ”

“I need to keep my word. It’s something I have to start doing again.”

“Don’t try to be Cool Papa Bell.”

Mac looked at him. “You want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

“Cool Papa Bell, he was one of the great players in the old Negro Leagues. Fastest man in baseball. Satchel Paige said Cool Papa could turn the lights out and be in bed before the room got dark.”

“Okay . . .”

“So growing in grace isn’t like Cool Papa Bell going to bed. Takes time. Don’t try and get it all at once.”

“Then how about I try to stretch a single into a double?” Mac said.

3:36 p.m.

Ted Gillespie did not like being fat. Hated it, in fact. Hated the thirty-pound bag of lard that was his stomach, that he carried around with him like a toddler in a Snugli. Fat, creeping up on him for a decade, adding to itself like landfill.

The day he turned forty, a month ago, brought the hatred home, home being the little apartment in the old building at the edge of Topanga. It was the only thing he could afford. It had been eight months since he’d been canned from the insurance company, which was now outsourcing all of its IT.

Some birthday. No wife, no family, no job.

And when he stepped out of the shower that morning he got a good look at his gut in the mirror and it was an alive thing. An alien had found its host in his puffy body.

A body that, many moons ago, played a pretty mean first base for Pierce, the local community college, which was the full extent of his education.

He wondered what his life would have been like if he had married Nora. Why hadn’t he? She was willing. She was smart and selfless and great around people.

So what was it?

He knew. He thought he could do better in the looks department. He thought a woman with a “Hollywood face,” complete with blond locks — Nora’s hair was raven — was what he wanted, what he could land if he waited around long enough.

That plan didn’t exactly work out. Ted eventually gave up his gym membership and poured himself into his professional life, put on the pounds, and tried serial dating.

Then he stepped out of that shower on his fortieth birthday to realize that he wasn’t the pretty good-looking athlete of twenty years ago, but an out-of-work, out-of-money IT guy.

But it was the fat that got to him the most.

Which is why Ted Gillespie was walking vigorously through the late afternoon in Pack Canyon’s back country, trying to work up a good sweat.

He wore a green double-X T-shirt with Chuck Norris on the front. It showed Chuck in a Ranger’s hat and the caption said, “Only Chuck Norris can prevent forest fires.”

Ted loved Chuck Norris. Loved the
Walker
,
Texas Ranger
series. There was a guy who was in shape and could kick the living snot out of bad guys. If he could be anyone in another life, Ted would pick Chuck Norris.

Because Chuck Norris is so fast he can run around the world and hit himself in the back of the head. Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door. Chuck Norris can . . .

Ted stopped. Thought he heard something. A distant voice, somebody calling.

He was at a turning point on the path, about to go around some of the larger boulders. Somebody had sprayed an ugly graffito on the face. Black paint, indecipherable letters.

If Chuck Norris ever found that guy . . .

“Help . . .”

A voice, all right. A real cry.

Ted started to jog. The voice was coming from around the bend.

When he got to the other side, he saw a woman. She was on the path about fifty yards from him. She had a gash on her head and walked like she was drunk.

“Help me,” she said. “Please!”

3:38 p.m.

“What do I do now, Geena?”

Geena looked at Rocky in amazement. “You’re asking
me
?”

“Surprised?” Rocky leaned back on the futon in Geena’s apartment.

“Well, yeah, sort of.” Geena sat on the ottoman which, like the rest of the place, was done up in Indian folk-art colors. “I mean, you’re always Miss I-Know-Everything-That’s-Going-On.”

“Well, right now I know squat. I know less than squat. I could go on
Jeopardy!
with squat and lose.”

Geena laughed, putting her hand in front of her mouth.

“So tell me, if Swami P is so — ”

“T.”

“What?”

“It’s Swami T.”

“I don’t care! If you have any answers, give. Be brutally honest with me.”

Geena blinked a couple of times. “Oh Rock, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m embarrassed.”

“All right,” Rocky said. “I’ll be you. Listen to yourself. ‘Rocky, you’ve gone off the rails. You drink too much, and you settle for guys like Boyd. You never try to sing like you want to. You’re afraid . . .’ ”

Fresh tears choked off her words.

Geena slid off the ottoman, got on her knees, and put her arms around Rocky. “That’s what we’ll do,” Geena said. “We’re gonna get you singing again. Who needs a man when you’ve got a voice like an angel?”

“Come on . . .”

“No. This I insist on. You’ve got to go for it.”

“Geena — ”

“If you don’t, then I’m going to start singing. Around you. All the time. And you’ve heard me sing. It’s not pretty. It’s not even cute.”

Rocky smiled, wiped her eyes. “You’ve got a point there, Geena.”

“And you thought Swami T didn’t give me any insight. Now, what’s the place you wanted to sing in?”

“Huh?”

“There was a place you told me about once, in Hollywood, a lounge place. It had something to do with food. Potatoes or something.”

“The Mashed Potato?”

“That’s it! That’s the place. You were going to audition there.”

“Yeah. They have open auditions. I just got busy.”

“You’re not busy now. Call them.”

“Geena — ”

“Now. Swami T says you have to take action right away when you want something. It gets the universal ball rolling. So get your phone and — ”

“Geena — ”

“Or I will.”

Rocky got her phone.

3:41 p.m.

“You’re hurt,” Ted said. “Here, sit.” He took her arm and guided her to a patch of weeds. His mind calculated all sorts of things as he did this.

I am helping somebody, he thought, really helping somebody. How long had it been since he could say that? But this was more than getting somebody’s desktop to function again. More than installing some new system across a network.

This was someone in physical trouble, out in the wild. If you could consider the back of Pack Canyon wild. It was where they used to shoot Westerns in the old black-and-white TV days. Ted knew that much.

Cowboys rescued ladies in distress on television shows. He was doing it for real.

What a moment this was. And the woman was nice looking. What had happened here? I wonder if I’ll see her again after this, he thought. I have to show her I know what to do here. Take command of the situation.

“I’m calling for help,” Ted said, whipping out his cell.