Housebroken (18 page)

Joje reached out, grabbing ahold of him by the shoulder. That was all it took. Blake’s sense of vertigo passed, and he stepped safely back.

“This way,” he said.

They followed the curve of the cliff side, leaving the illustrious lights of civilization behind. Not a building or home could have been built along these rocky steps, the ground jutting at odd angles and broken boulders. Periodically they would glance down over the edge. Adam wasn’t below.

The cliffs became overgrown with trees and vegetation, beginning their ascent much higher than the twenty or thirty feet above the water they now stood at. In the distance they appeared to rise sixty, seventy feet into the air. The roads beyond those mountains would begin to curve upward into the hills, carrying their passengers over into the Valley.

The sky had grown increasingly dark, the sun immersed in a baptism that set the water at the horizon on fire. Without thinking, Blake began to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Joje asked.

“He’s down there.”

“Where? I can’t see him.”

“Neither can I, but I know he’s there. He needs my help.” Blake peeled back his shirt, a sudden gust of wind surprisingly cold. It was easy to forget just how cool the temperatures could drop along the coast, even in the middle of summer.

“I can’t let you do this,” Joje said.

Blake handed Joje his shirt, kicking off his shoes and removing his socks.

“If I fall . . .” he broke off, unable to finish his thoughts. Joje wouldn’t get help. He couldn’t. Not without getting himself caught. “I won’t fall.”

Joje looked out over the edge, squinting into the distance.

Blake forced from his mind the image of tackling Joje, both of them plummeting to the rock strewn beach below. “You said you never had a father? Well, this is what a father does. Descends into the darkness to save his son even when he can’t see him. Because he knows he’s there.”

And Blake did know. He could feel it. And time was running out.

“That’s ridiculous,” Joje said. “He has no reason to go down there. How would he get back up?”

“I don’t think he was planning on coming back up.”

Understanding stole over Joje’s face. “Has he tried something like this before?”

“Once,” Blake said. “It’s been a few years.”

“I’ll follow, from above.”

Blake knew he wouldn’t be able to. Joje may think he could, and would for a time, but Blake’s guess was that Adam had passed far beyond where the cliff walls rose. He wished he had grabbed the flashlight from the trunk of his car, but Tom Jones’s bulbous corpse stood watch, guarding the flashlight and jumper cables from beyond the grave.

Blake crouched, studying the cliff he intended to scale. This spot was as good as any. The outcroppings and jutting rocks made for plenty of handholds. As long as they didn’t give out or crumble beneath his weight. He gripped one of the sharp rocks at the cliff’s edge and swung his body out and over, finding, with a few misplaced steps of dirt tumbling loose beneath him, footholds where he could rest his weight. Or at least part of it.

He began his descent.

The rippled strokes of paint on the ceiling stirred like clouds in the air, disconnected lines forming scenes, people and creatures constantly shifting, deconstructing. A woman hanging from a noose, blood seeping from her eyes and forming a pool, a sea where a child was drowning, then sinking, then decomposing, specs of flesh floating back to the surface on bubbles that became smoke leaping from a burning house, tiny devils watching it burn, circling, chanting, transforming into a whirlpool that became a dragon spewing flames that became a baby placing a shotgun to its mouth . . . The images revolved like the outer doors of a hotel, its lobby inventing new horrors with every turn.

The noise of running water in the downstairs bathroom suddenly shut off. Jenna felt her body tense. It wasn’t the sink that had been running, it was the tub, a nightmare that had leapt from the ceiling, becoming reality.

Blake had abandoned her. Had left without a second glance. And the spider that had been biding its time was now preparing its lair for matters far worse than death.

She caught the eyes of the doctor seated on the hard wooden chair across from her. She had never seen a less sympathetic stare. A few final drips plunked from the bathroom then Drew entered, the long sword in his hands unsheathed.

“Help!” she screamed. “Help us! Help me!”

He approached, his thick lips curling upward, then he slapped her so hard her head rolled completely to the other side, staring into the cushions. He held his bandaged hand close to him, and she hoped it had hurt him more than it had her.

She felt the needles in her arm and neck pull at her skin, a burning sensation, then a tearing as they ripped free, dangling from the metal racks. Drew rolled the racks back toward the broken television, Jenna watching the blood coalesce in the crook of her arm.

“Nothing to worry about,” Drew said. “Just giving you a bath.”

His bulge was back. And throbbing. He placed the sword against the love seat, then lifted Jenna, throwing her over his shoulder like a child’s toy. Lightning pounded through her legs carrying all the way to her lungs where that energy was released in an electric cry.

It was several minutes before her breathing returned to normal. Drew set her on the closed toilet seat. Jenna arched her back to take as much pressure from her legs as possible. The bathroom mirror was still fogged from the recent steam.

“Do you need help undressing?” Drew asked.

“You can’t do this—”

“I’m helping you,” Drew said. “So you don’t break a rule.”

“You can’t—I don’t think you can put burns like this in water!”

“You can. The soaking will help.”

“You don’t know that!” Jenna cried. “What if, what if it . . .” Staring down at the grotesquery that had become her legs she felt a tightening in her chest. This wasn’t happening. “We need to wait!”

Drew eyed her hungrily. “We’re not waiting.”

“The doctor—ask him, he’ll know! I’ll do what you say, I promise, just—make sure it’s not going to kill me?”

He stepped in front of the bath, staring down at the water, both glass partitions slid to one side. Deb had been right, that beveled glass looked ridiculous, though the thought was equally flippant.

“At least bring my pills?” She hated the defeat in her voice. “To help with the pain?”

Drew’s face was unresponsive. Jenna wasn’t sure if he had heard her. She was just about to speak again when he moved toward the bathroom door, his foot bumping into her outstretched legs. She swallowed the scream breaking at the surface, her entire body convulsing.

“Your shirt better be off by the time I’m back.” Drew’s version of an apology.

Leaning her head against the wall, she did her best to focus on her breathing. Maybe Drew would bring the whole bottle and she could end this before he had time to realize what she had done. The black currents of those pills beckoned.

She sat upright, staring at the open door within her grasp. Before she could change her mind, she flung it shut. The door slid into the doorjamb and back out a quarter of an inch, not completely closed. Gripping the towel rack against the wall, one hand propped on the toilet seat, she shoved her body forward. Her knees buckled, bombs exploding, as she collapsed into the door, rolling to the ground with limbs beneath her that no longer worked.

The door clicked closed.

She heard Drew in the family room running toward her. Squinting through the tears, her fingers searched for the button that would lock the door. She found it, pushing it in just as Drew’s weight slammed against the other side. The handle shook, the door rattling in its frame as he shouldered his weight against it.

“Open the door, you cunt!” Drew yelled.

Jenna let her head fall back against the wall, reveling in the peace and quiet, Drew’s threats and curses shouted at someone else, someone far away.

His foot crashed against the other side of the door, the lower half moving an inch outward then falling back in place. It wouldn’t hold forever. If only she were in her bathroom upstairs or even the guest, cabinets filled with junk—dryers, curlers,
scissors
—anything she could get her hands on as some kind of weapon. This bathroom had only a sink that rose from the ground like a thin vase, flowering at the top. No cupboards, no accessories, just a hollow aluminum rack holding toilet paper and a liquid soap dispenser at the sink.

As she lay on the floor looking at the other objects in the room—carpeted mats, towels hanging from the walls—she realized there might be something she could use. The painting on the wall was a Kazimir Malevich. She had always loved abstract art; something about it appealed to her sense of finding order in chaos or chaos in order, she was never sure which. She didn’t know the name of this particular piece but remembered buying it at auction for over a hundred thousand.

And here I have it hanging on my bathroom wall
, she thought.

Something heavy struck the door handle on the other side, a loud clang emanating through the wall. “When I get in there . . .”
—
clang
—
“you’re going to wish . . .”
—
clang
—
“you had died in that fire!” Another loud clash.

She knew what she had to do. She lifted her arms above her, fingers barely reaching the edge of the framed painting. She pushed. The frame barely budged. Of course Debbie’s team would have hung it with more than a loose nail. The door shuddered next to her. She was running out of time.

And then she saw it. So simple.

She wriggled her body over to reach the aluminum rack holding the toilet paper, emptying the rolls onto the floor. She looked up at the painting. Definitely chaos in order.

The aluminum rack crashed against the frame, glass shattering despite its rounded tip. Shards rained down around her, gathering in her hair, on her clothes. She grabbed a long, jagged piece the size of her fist and held it in her hand, turning her body to rest her head against the tub. Now all she had to do was wait.

Blake lowered his foot, blindly searching for an alcove or ledge, a rock jutting from the cliff face. He found it, something upon which his toes landed, the ball of his foot stretching over the cold, sharp stone. He allowed his weight to shift, testing the foothold. So far, so good.

Hanging on to the coral rock at the cliff’s edge with his left hand, he brought his right down, grabbing a shallow crevice that made for an excellent handhold. He’d be able to follow it down a ways. He pulled against it, making sure it was as solid as it looked. With a deep breath he let go of the rock at the top, allowing his body to drop over the ledge.

The breeze transformed into violent gales around him, thrashing, pushing, and pulling in a malevolent desire to tear him from the cliff’s face. The moment passed, the winds drawing back, content to observe his inevitable fall with or without their assistance.

What little light remained in the skies was slipping behind the inkblot that was night. Blake continued his way down, one harried step at a time. Twice his footholds gave out, his body flinging from the cliff, kept from falling only by his tightening grip on whatever rock or crevice his hand was wrapped around. When he finally leapt the last few feet down, his feet and pants were submerged in water, then the tide rolled back in.

A wave crashed against him, barreling into his back and sending him staggering toward the canyon wall. Before he had a chance to regain his balance, another wave toppled into him. He lost his footing, going down. He snagged onto a rock formation in time to barely avoid that pull from sucking him back out.

“Bwakey! Bwakey!”

He heard Joje’s frantic yells over the assault of another wave. The sprawling climb looked more daunting than he would have thought possible. Whatever else Joje was trying to communicate was lost as another wave dashed itself against the rocks. He started making his way along the canyon wall.

As his toes and bare feet slammed into fallen rocks and boulders, Blake asked himself why they hadn’t picked a house in Malibu where there were actually beaches. With sand and a shoreline and life guards sitting in towers spotting missing children who happened to wander by. Privacy came at such a high cost.

Despite his pounding heart and a level of activity Blake hadn’t sustained in years, he was shivering. The water felt fifty degrees or colder; add the chill of the wind, and he’d only have so much time before his body went rigid and numb. He continued on, walking through water when he could, swimming when he couldn’t.

“Adam! Adam!”

He yelled though he knew his words would be lost against the backdrop of tossing water. He had to be getting close. He had to be.

And then he saw him.

His son
.

Or rather his body.

Slipping beneath the undertow of a forming wave, Adam floated facedown in the water. Blake lost sight of him, the torrid water thrashing and falling. Adam’s body bobbed back up only to submerge once more.

“No!” Blake screamed, flinging himself from the wall and diving into an oncoming wave. It hammered into him, forcing him to the ground and sending his feet flailing over his head. He launched back up, gasping and lunging toward where he had seen Adam last. Another wave fell, propelling him back toward the canyon wall.

“Adam!”

His son wasn’t there.

Another wave hit. Blake wiped the stinging water from his eyes. Where was he?

Floating on top of a cresting wave was the driftwood Blake had mistaken for his son. A waterlogged branch as thick as Blake’s thigh tumbled beneath a wave, flecks of wood churning and gathering back on the surface.

His tears mixed with the salty water on his face. Up above he caught no sign of Joje. More than likely he was tripping over roots and vines as the landscape changed from sand-covered rock to tree-spotted forest. If Blake was in any real luck, Joje would lose his balance and tumble right over.

A wave caught him by surprise, immersing him completely. As he drew back up out of the water, he heard the squawk of seagulls. He jumped into another wave, letting the water carry him up and back into the jutting canyon wall.