House of Smoke (45 page)

They are in his ranch-house bedroom. It’s after midnight, but they can’t sleep. Through the open windows she can see all the stars in the sky. She’s wearing a long thin cotton nightgown so he can’t see how bruised and beaten her body is; nobody’s going to see this body until it’s healed up, not even her lover—she made him wait outside the bedroom until she had changed. From below her breasts to her stomach she’s tightly wrapped to protect her ribs, and her face is still bandaged along the plane of her nose and cheekbones. In a few days, after these wraps come off, she’ll wear a plastic face guard for protection if she’s doing anything physical, like basketball players do when they’ve had similar injuries. The way they’re made now they don’t look so bad—kind of like a big sunglass for your entire face. In beach volleyball circles they’re very chic.

The thought of making love fills her with dread. Far worse than the physical pain is the emotional and psychological pain. The violation was so deep, so shattering, that she doesn’t know how to handle it, she can’t come to grips with it. The worst part is that ugly old belief, buried deep down for so long but now forced to the surface, that somehow she deserved what she got. That it was payback for promiscuous behavior, more—for everything she’s done wrong in her life. It’s the same old bullshit she’s been fighting for years, and what is so fucking infuriating is that she knows it is bullshit. No way did she deserve this. She is the
victim
, not the
reason
.

“Can I get you anything? Do anything for you?” he asks.

“A pain pill. And you can rub my feet, if you’re feeling particularly charitable.”

“The house specialty,” he tells her. His smile is almost beatific. How did this rough-looking man find such tenderness? she wonders. And how did he find me?

She swallows down the pill, leans back against the pillows. His bed is next to the window, so the view to the outside is good. In the distance she can see Miranda’s ranch house. All the lights are out. Beyond the house, situated over a small crest, the asphalt runway glistens in the moonlight like a highway heat mirage.

He cradles a foot in his lap, anoints it with oil, begins to gently massage it. She buries herself in the pillows, half nodding off in bliss, the throb of her pain fading into some far distance.

The sound of an airplane is heard, approaching from the east. The lights bordering the Sparks runway blink twice, come on full.

She sits up, looks out. “What’s that?”

“Someone’s landing at the Sparks ranch.” He lays her foot aside. “Want to see?”

He helps her to her feet and guides her onto the wooden deck that runs along the outside of his bedroom. At the far end, the end that faces the Sparks ranch, is an old telescope, pointed up to the heavens. He pulls a deck chair up to the telescope, sits her down. He points the telescope towards the runway, fiddles with the finder, then pushes her chair close.

“You’ll be able to see everything with this,” he informs her.

“You’re a voyeur!” she exclaims, surprised and secretly delighted. “You dirty-minded man!”

“Spying is a basic human desire,” he answers laconically.

How well she knows; she does it for a living, it gets her blood pumping. Sometimes it gets her into a shitload of trouble, but she knows she won’t stop, she can’t. Even after what happened the other night.

The small jet circles the area, then comes in from the west into the wind, touching down softly. It cruises three-quarters of the way down the runway, coming to a stop by a small garage area that houses machinery, a fuel pump, and a couple of golf carts that are used for transport between the house and the airstrip. The sounds of the plane fade away as the engines shut down.

“Can you see okay?” Cecil asks Kate, who is looking at the scene through the telescope.

“I think so, sure.”

“Let me check.” He puts his eye to the finder, makes a slight focus adjustment, steps back. “Go ahead.”

She leans forward again, looking through the scope. At this distance the airplane, which is almost a mile away, is about full figure in the sights, its fuselage shining in the glow of the tarmac lights.

For a moment the plane sits idle. Then the door opens and the steps are lowered. The first person out is the female copilot, who walks down to the bottom of the steps and then turns back, offering up a hand of assistance.

Brittany is out next. She carries her small bag over her shoulder. Then Alex. They look like a handsome young couple in an American Express ad on TV, on their way to the Greek Islands or the Bahamas.

Kate glances up at Cecil, who’s standing at her shoulder, watching the action through a pair of high-powered field glasses.

“Who are they?” she asks.

“Toys,” he replies, holding the glasses steady to his eyes.

Frederick is the last one out. He skips down the steps, says something to Brittany, who smiles. Then, with one of his arms through each of theirs, he guides them to the waiting golf cart. They cram in together and drive down the path in the direction of the house. The woman copilot has gone back inside the airplane.

Kate watches intently. She’s never seen Frederick Sparks, but she knows instantly who he is.

“That’s Frederick Sparks, isn’t it.” More of a statement than a question.

“In the flesh.”

Now she’s seen them all: daughter, mother, father. The line is distinctly from father to daughter: the resemblance is strong.

“What do you think they’re going to do?” She looks up at Cecil. He’s watching the three of them tooling down the path towards the house.

“Are you kidding?”

“That’s what I thought, too,” she says, feeling a flush rising over her face. She can see all three of them clearly—the night is bright from the moon, and the vision through the telescope is excellent.

The golf cart pulls up in front of the house. The three alight, walk up the dark steps. A moment transpires as Frederick digs for the key, then the door swings open and they enter. In a second a single light from a lamp goes on inside, and the door closes. All the windows are curtained. You can’t see inside, not from a mile away, even with a telescope.

“Show’s over,” Cecil announces. He easily lifts her to her feet. “Back inside.”

Kate looks at the ranch house down in the valley below them. An isolated house with its own private runway that can accommodate a corporate jet, maybe even larger planes. If someone wanted to be in the dope business this would be a great location.

“Have you ever seen them fly in and out before?” she asks.

“All the time.” He looks at her, reading her mind. “I’ve never seen any evidence that they were moving anything illegal.”

“But they could. If they had been using the dock and now they can’t they could make it work here.”

“That’s true. But you’re assuming they were in business with Bascomb, which I didn’t think you thought.”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore,” she answers. “But I can’t get it out of my head. I’m still a detective, and that’s how a good detective works.”

“Listen, Kate,” he states firmly, “you’re not working on this anymore, isn’t that what you told me? You’ve got to get this out of your head, babe.”

He wants to take care of her. Let him; it feels good. Strange for her, but good, warm.

She thinks once again about what Carl had urged her to do:
Get to know the family.
The more she has learned about them the more devious they appear to be. “Sinister” she isn’t sure about, but the circumstances are as ripe as the grapes on Cecil’s vines; and she feels the vital need to follow the old pro’s dictum—to know who they really are, to discover what skeletons might be rattling in their closet.

“What would you like us to do, Mr. Sparks?” Brittany asks. “Anything special?”

They’re in the spacious bedroom. Brittany and Alex sit on a love seat. Frederick is ensconced in a chair. One lamp is on, in the corner; otherwise the house is dark.

Speaking low and calmly, he tells them, “I want you to fuck.” He sips from his glass of champagne. “And suck. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You?” Alex asks, surprised at the bluntness of the language coming from this somewhat effete man. “Both of us? At the same time, or serially?”

This is his first time here. Brittany had picked him out, to Frederick’s specifications. She’s been on this junket countless times before; she knows what Frederick expects and she does it well. That’s why he brings her back.

Frederick shakes his head. “Each other. You do her, she does you. We’ll try various combinations. I trust you have strong recuperative powers.”

“I can go all night if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yes.” Frederick smiles—this will salvage some of his loss at cards. “Begin by undressing each other. I’ll get set up in the meantime.”

Alex’s body is chiseled—he spends several hours a week at the gym. His rippled muscles gleam in the low light. Brittany begins by kissing each nipple lightly. He groans softly as he lifts her light blouse off while she works her lips across his upper torso.

Her perfect breasts are braless. He bends to them.

Frederick, in the meantime, has opened a closet and taken out a 35-millimeter camera, a tripod, a couple of lights, and a photographer’s parachute, for bounce. He begins setting his equipment up in a corner of the room, so that he has a clear shot to the bed.

“You didn’t say anything about pictures,” Alex says, stiffening self-consciously. “I don’t want pictures of me floating around so some cheesy stroke mag can get hold of them.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” Frederick assures him. “It’s private, for my sole use. Nobody is going to see them. I give you my word,” Frederick promises. “Trust me—I’m extremely discreet. I have to be.”

“I’ve done this,” Brittany tells Alex, soothing his anxiety. She has to calm him down so he’ll get with the program—if he bails out she won’t get paid. “It’s completely private.”

Alex eases up. “Okay.” He turns his attention to her. They kiss, their lips moving over each other’s bodies, stripping each other naked. Alex is large, porn-star in size. Frederick stares at Alex’s penis as it rapidly becomes tumescent.

The two young people move to the bed. Their lovemaking is hot, strong, even passionate as they get into each other. Frederick shoots several shots in rapid order, moving the tripod around to get multiple angles, unloading the camera as each film load is finished and reloading quickly. He’s a crack photographer, there’s no wasted motion.

“Wait one moment,” Frederick orders them. He takes some leather restraints from the closet where he kept his photographic equipment. He hands them to Alex.

“Tie her up.”

Brittany lies back on the bed, arms and legs in the spread-eagle position. Alex fastens the restraints to her wrists and ankles, ties the other ends to the bed frame.

“Proceed,” Frederick orders him.

“Anything in particular?” Alex asks. He looks down at Brittany, who is squirming slightly, her body glistening with sweat.

“Anything and everything. But no rough stuff. I’m not interested in pain. Make it last as long as you can.”

Alex does her. Brittany moans and cries with passion as he fucks and sucks her.

There’s a certain theatrical quality to her writhing and screaming, as if she wants to make sure that Frederick knows how incredible the entire experience is for her. She tries to maintain eye contact with him throughout the fucking, but an orgasm builds, Jesus, she can feel it happening, she usually doesn’t come off like this, but Alex, in spite of his model look and sculpted narcissistic body (or because of it, she doesn’t give a shit right now what the reason is), is bringing her to climax and she has to surrender to it.

She comes fiercely—waves of orgasms starting at her clit, coursing through her vagina and then all up and down her body.

Frederick shoots several rolls of film. He seems interested but dispassionate. At one point Alex glances over at him. If the guy’s aroused he isn’t showing any signs of it.

Then it’s Brittany’s turn, once she’s recovered from her own pleasure. She ties Alex up, does to him as he did to her.

They take hours, breaking only to go to the bathroom and for Brittany to bring Alex up, again and again. Alex wasn’t lying—he goes and goes, almost all night long.

When it’s over they shower and dress. Through the curtained windows the sun is coming up. Frederick locks his camera gear away.

They stand outside on the porch. Frederick gives Brittany a kiss on the cheek, much as he would kiss his daughter. He hands her an envelope and gives a similar one to Alex. “As we agreed,” he tells them.

“Thank you,” she says. She stashes her envelope in her carry bag without looking inside it.

Alex, being the new boy, can’t control his curiosity. He opens his envelope, glances in.

The deal was thirty-five hundred apiece. It looks to be all there. Shit, he’d fuck Brittany for free.

“See you soon,” Frederick tells them.

“See you,” Brittany answers. She smiles. Not a bad night’s work. The money’s great and Alex is a decent partner. She’s had some who weren’t.

The two walk to the golf cart and drive to the plane. Frederick goes back into the house.

The sound of the airplane warming up awakens Kate. Quietly, so as not to disturb Cecil, who slumbers next to her, arms and legs askew, she slips out of bed, wincing in pain as her ribs twist with the effort, and goes out onto the deck.

She adjusts the telescope to bring the action up close. Three came, two are leaving—the toys. She watches as they board the jet, mentally making a note of the plane’s registration number.

As soon as the doors are closed the plane taxis into position and departs, a faint plume of vapor tailing behind as it traverses the mountains and gets swallowed up in the vastness of the pale blue-gray milky sky.

H
ER OFFICE HAS A
musty, overripe cantaloupy smell. She hasn’t been here in three weeks; all the plants have died except for the cactus. Coming in the door felt like opening a tomb that’s been shabbily preserved.

Piles of mail that the postman has been pushing through the slot are scattered about the floor; as she stands from gathering them, an awkward movement because her ribs are still taped, she accidentally catches her reflection in a pane of window glass. She’s been avoiding looking at herself as much as possible, to the point of not putting on a drop of makeup since she left the hospital so as not to have to look into the mirror any more than is absolutely necessary; when she must, such as for brushing her teeth, she approaches the image sideways, after a shower, when the glass is fogged over with steam.