Elixir (23 page)

He sees the one labeled “12” isn’t shut all the way, a crease between it and the doorway. He opens it, the dialogue of a romantic comedy spilling outside, something with Paul Rudd. He looks around for a while, confirming that nobody is watching him, then slips into the dark theater, closing the door behind him, assuring the lock catches so it can’t be accessed again from the alley. Eyeing an empty seat toward the rear, he hobbles up the stairs, favoring his left leg.

Back on the street, police lights are flickering, an officer laying flares around the overturned Explorer, two others interviewing bystanders. The Lincoln creeps from the shadows of a side road onto the main one, parking along the curb about a block and a half from the scene. The engine quiets. The beams dim. The driver’s door opens and Dante emerges, inspecting. The cops. The wreck. The audience. He walks up the blacktop and merges with the crowd, tapping a guy in his early twenties on the shoulder. “What happened here?” Dante asks him, voice rich and deep.

“Some dude was doing like a hundred miles an hour. Flipped his ride. Dumbass.”

“Where is he now?”

“He took off that way.” He points at the shopping center across. “Probably drunk. Sure he’s long gone. With all these cops around. A lot of idiots out driving on New Year’s. Let me tell you bro.”

Peering over his shoulder, Dante examines the strip mall, everything appearing closed except the movie theater. He crosses into the parking lot and begins scrutinizing the cars for movement under or inside. Nothing. As he marches along the concrete ground something snags his interest. He crouches, a drop of liquid glistening on the gray surface in the glow of the theater sign. He inches closer. Blood.

He observes a second dab a short length away, then a third. He rises, noticing a trail wrapping around the building. Eyes following it, he turns the corner, heading toward the back of the theater. Standing in the shadows, he looks for motion. Zero.

Rolling up his jacket sleeves, he approaches the dumpster, then buries his arm inside and ferrets around. In a few seconds he pulls out a rusty piece of cracked cast iron pipe. He stares at it for a while, then throws it about fifteen feet in the air. It floats for a bit, then smashes on the asphalt, fragments shooting all over, echo ringing. He scans the alley for any activity provoked by the unexpected noise. None.

Peering through the dull rays of the single overhead bulb, he makes out blood in front of some back exits, the most at the base of one marked “12.” Stepping over shards of shattered pipe with his leather loafers, he walks to it, then tugs the handle. Locked. He returns to the trash bin, sticks both arms inside, and clutches another chunk of broken pipe. Grunting, he hoists it on his shoulder and carries it to the door. He wedges the top under the handle, bottom into the pavement. He kicks the center, lodging the door in place so nobody can open it from inside.

Slapping the dust off his hands, he veers toward the front of the theater and passes the line of people waiting to buy tickets. He studies the black-and-red LCD screen behind the glass displaying movie names and times.

He enters and gestures to the attendant, a chubby teenager on a metal stool texting. “Hi,” Dante says with a smile. The kid nods, attention still on his phone. “I’m sorry to trouble you. My daughter and I are seeing
The Adventures of Winona McGee
. She has asthma and left her inhaler in the car.” He pats the front of his jacket. “I grabbed it, but unfortunately she has both ticket stubs on her. She’s in there all by herself. Would you mind if I went back in without one?” The employee peeks at him, then points inside. “Thank you my friend.”

Dante analyzes the scenery in the lobby, customers with tubs of popcorn, a five-machine arcade, promotional cardboard cutouts for upcoming films. He sees a hallway labeled “1-8,” another “9-16.” He progresses to “9-16,” follows it as it winds, then stops by theater twelve. He watches an older woman, the only other person around, stroll to the bathroom. The moment she goes in he clasps a fire alarm and yanks, a shrill screech consuming the whole building as small lights on the ceiling flash.

He walks a few feet from the red handle, leaning on the wall, observing the mass shuffling out of theater twelve, searching for any young males that appear to have just been in a car accident. Dozens of people exit, toward the back a kid with a bad limp and a panicky expression. Dante licks his top teeth, then bottom, a pre-attack predatory calm to him. He blends into the horde of moviegoers about ten feet behind Sean.

Boos and obscenities in the atmosphere, the patrons funnel from the jammed lobby through the front door and into the parking lot. Sean hobbles outside, his vision jumping from car to car through the mist in search of the Lincoln. He runs his anxious fingers through his hair, windshield particles falling off. Contemplating his options, he feels a hand clamp his shoulder. He looks toward it, Dante at his side, face inches away, a slight smirk.

Watching the sun come up, Mary drinks coffee from her balcony in Tuscany, already New Year’s Day in Italy. She looks at the cypress trees along the countryside for a while in the orangey-purple morning light, then the patio where she had dinner with Sean and Natasha a few weeks ago. A chill in the air, she squeezes her jacket over her pajamas, her arms inside but not through the sleeves. “Leanne,” Marco says from the connected bedroom, staring at her goose-bumped ankles. “It’s freezing. What’re you doing?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come back to bed.”

“I will. In a bit.”

He walks to her side. “What’s up?”

She sips her coffee, lukewarm now from sitting in the mug so long. “Something. Happened.”

“This morning?”

“A few days ago. James called me last night to tell me, when we were at the New Year’s party. My phone was in my bag. I just listened to the voicemail an hour ago.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well...Natasha. It’s her.”

He puts his right elbow on the railing, leaning his chin against his hand, assessing his wife’s tight expression. “Is she okay?”

She shakes her head, then looks into his eyes and says with affection, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says in the same tone, kissing her cheek. “But I already knew that.” He chuckles, hoping to ease the mood. She doesn’t even grin. Grabbing her wrist, he asks, “What’s going on?”

“Natasha isn’t doing good.” The breeze hits them, thin material of her pajama pants flapping for a few seconds.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s sick.” She gazes at the wine-country hills, focusing on the little dots of bodies of three field workers on another property way off in the distance. They remind her of how skiers appeared at a park in Pennsylvania she used to go to with her brother, when she was having hot chocolate at the peak’s lodge looking down at the base.

“She’s sick?” he asks. “Like sick sick?”

She nods. “Sick sick.”

Rubbing his forehead, he sighs. “Jesus.” He’s silent for a few seconds. “What does she have?”

“Ebola,” she says, voice crisp.

“Wow.” He absorbs this, his knees getting a little weak. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Remember she was telling us about that safari her family was making her go on? She came in contact with it in Africa. They think she must’ve brushed against a dead...chimp or something in the jungle.”

“My God.” Grasping the banister, he leans forward, his shoulders stiff. “What did the doctors say? Anything they can do?”

“It’s incurable.” She can’t tell him about Sean’s plan, something he informed her of yesterday as part of the frantic message he left her. He swore her to secrecy. “James isn’t taking it well. As I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“I haven’t been able to get through to him. His phone’s been going right to voicemail all morning.”

“Lines get tied up all the time on New Year’s.”

“He always picks up. Even if he doesn’t he calls me back right away. I must’ve tried him twenty times. It’s unlike him.”

“He’s probably with her. I’m guessing he’s not in the mood to talk. You can’t take it personally.”

“I don’t think he’s with her.”

“Where is he?”

She doesn’t speak for a bit. “I...don’t know exactly, but I’m almost sure he’s by himself. Wherever he is...I just hope he’s okay.”

“He’s a strong kid. So is she.”

“Sean doesn’t do good with this sort of stuff. With death. He never has.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said Sean.”

“Sean? No I didn’t.” Nervous, she brushes some brunette strands from her eyes.

“Hon, you did.”

She turns her attention to her coffee, a small chip on the handle, her thumb running over the roughness of it. “Sorry. Maybe I did. I do know a Sean from back in the States. My head is...out of it.”

“Natasha was one of the sweetest girls I ever met. I still can’t even believe it.”

“Right? Just some freak thing.”

“Man,” he says, surveying the natural creations around them, the slopes and the trees and the clouds and the sun. “I don’t get it. Makes you think.”

She drags her finger back and forth over the nick on her mug. “There’s only so much we can control.”

“I guess,” he says in a deflated tone as if he agrees but doesn’t like what he’s agreeing to.

A pensive weight seeps into her expression. “He was looking for someone just like her. Since he was a little boy.” She starts tearing up. “I remember this drawing he did a long time ago. He was maybe eight. I’m pretty sure he never knew I saw it in his room. It was of some house at the top of a mountain. In it there was a dinner table and a bunch of kids around it. Maybe ten of them. And he drew himself as an adult at the end. Wrote ‘dad’ across his shirt. At the other end he put a girl with ‘mom’ across hers.” She wipes a dab of moisture from her cheek. “When I met Natasha all I could think about was the picture. She looked just like the girl in it. The eyes. Nose. Hair. Everything.”

He thinks about this for a while, his sinuses stinging as if he’s about to cry too. But he holds it back. “No use dwelling on it now.”

“Her personality too. She was perfect for him.” She hugs him, her head against his chest.

“Come on,” he says, rubbing her back. “Let’s not talk like that.”

“He’d never be the same.” She lifts her palm to her mouth, her face cringing as she weeps.

“We’ll be there for him.”

“You’ve only been around him when he was in a good mood. You’ve never seen him when he was...down. He’s...he’s been through more than you’d guess. Let’s just leave it at that. He doesn’t need anything else on his plate.”

“We’ll do everything we can.” Looking at the dust in the creases between the terrace tiles, she ponders how much Sean’s demeanor has brightened in the short while since he met Natasha. He had a relaxation about him when he visited last that she hasn’t witnessed in ages, if ever. Patting her arm, he asks, “Should we send something? To the family.”

“I’m assuming her mother’s not cooking. Maybe some food. Hopefully they’ll appreciate that. To the extent they can appreciate anything right now.”

“I’ll take care of it. Do you have an address?”

She bites her lower lip. “They’re in Zurich. I don’t have the name of the hospital though. James does.”

“I’m sure he’ll call you back any minute.”

Sean is slumped in the backseat of the Lincoln, slivers of windshield glass glimmering in his hair, head bobbing over his right shoulder as this man he’s never seen before tonight drives up the 101 Freeway. Sean looks at his dead cell phone in the cup holder, gutted of its battery, then the console clock. 10:21 PM. He imagines the line at the airport gate for the flight to San Francisco he was planning to take, boarding in progress now.

They’re north of Los Angeles, no traces of big city in these parts, wooded areas on both sides of the highway, a few closed businesses, dead quiet other than the muted drone of scattered cars. A yellow Jeep Wrangler cruises on their right, four kids inside around his age, two boys, two girls, glossy New Year’s hats and beads on. He stares at them. One of the girls laughs, the shape of her smile reminding him of Natasha’s, lips plump even when curled. He thinks about the first time he had sex with her, the way she giggled when it took her three tries to unbutton her jeans in the dark.

They drive north for about a half hour, now among the mountains of Ventura County, less vehicles on the road than before. Peering into the rearview, Sean tries to catch Dante’s attention. He contemplates where he could be bringing him. He can see his irises, dark pits among his dove-white eyeballs, but can’t decipher anything from them, blankness, no gleam of humanity.

Dante exits, rides a bit, then turns onto a ramp shaped like a candy cane, rocky ridges towering over them on both sides, no signs of civilization, howls and whines of animals in the distance. Road bumpy, Sean feels the leather seat vibrate under him as the car winds along. They veer off the muddy path onto a patch of weedy grass and coast to a stop, headlamps radiating on a foothill across, shadows of small creatures darting through the beams.

Dante opens his door, interior lights illuminating him, then gets out and locks up. Listening to his loafers scrape the gravel outside, Sean tugs the rear door handle in a panic, a failed escape attempt, no budge. “Shit,” he says to himself. Biting his tongue, he yanks the opposite one, same result, then the pair up front, no difference. Out here in the middle of nowhere, seems to him this man’s going to kill him. His breathing gets heavy, sweat building on his arms and neck, heart thrashing.

He spins to the back window, trying to spot him. In a few moments he hears a sprinkling sound to the left. He notices his abductor urinating, a gust of relief setting in. He rests against the leather surface, back of his neck sliding a bit with the new coat of sweat on it. The man zips his pants, gets back in the sedan, and slams the door, a metallic echo ringing through the mountain air. He pops the car in drive.

As he proceeds back toward the highway, Sean asks, “Who’s paying you? The Defense Department? The FBI?”