Over the Edge (35 page)

I remembered Gary's parting soliloquy about Middleville. In retrospect it seemed chantlike.

She pulled a leaf of romaine out of the bowl and tasted it, then moved away to squeeze more lemon into the salad. I sat down at the kitchen table, rolled up my sleeves, and stared at the tabletop. She tinkered for a while. Reaching for a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, she asked:

'Is something else bothering you, Alex? You look burdened.'

'I was just thinking how odd it is that two out of six kids on the project deteriorated so seriously.'

She came around the counter and sat opposite me, resting her chin in her hands.

'Maybe Gary hasn't really deteriorated at all,' she said. 'Maybe he's just going through one of those teenage identity things, and the next time you see him he'll be enrolled at Cal Tech.'

'I don't think so. There was a fatalism about him that was frightening - as if he really didn't care about living or dying. And a flatness of emotion that went beyond rebellion.' I shook my head wearily. 'Robin, we're talking about two boys with staggering intellects who've dropped out of life.'

'Which supports the old genius-insanity myth.'

'According to the textbooks, it's a myth. And anytime anyone's researched it, superior intelligence seems to be correlated with better, not worse, emotional adjustment. But the subjects in those studies were in the hundred and thirty to the hundred and forty-live IQ range - people sufficiently brilliant to excel but not so different that they can't blend in. The Project 160 kids are a different breed. A three-year-old who can translate Greek is an aberration. A six-month-old baby who talks fluent English, the way Jamey did, is downright scary. In the Middle Ages geniuses were thought to be possessed by demons. We pride ourselves on being enlightened, but exceptional brainpower still scares us. So we isolate geniuses, push them away. Which is exactly what happened to Jamey. His own father saw him as some kind of monster. He neglected and abandoned him. Nannies came and went. His uncle and aunt pay lip service to all they've done for him, but it was obvious mat they resent having been saddled with him.'

She listened, dark eyes sad. I continued talking, thinking out loud.

'Someone once said that the history of civilisation is the history of genius: The gifted mind creates, and the rest of us imitate. And there are plenty of prodigies who develop into superb adults. But lots of others burn out young. The crucial factor seems to be what kind of support the child gets from his parents. It takes exceptional sensitivity to raise a prodigy. Some kids are lucky. Jamey just wasn't.' My voice caught. 'End of lecture.'

She squeezed my hand.

'What's really the matter, sweetie?'

I said nothing for several long moments, then forced the words out.

'When he showed up at my door five years ago, it was because he was starving for a daddy. The time we spent together must have created the illusion that he'd finally found one. Somehow that got turned into romantic love, and when he expressed it, I rejected him. It was a pivotal moment. Handled right, it could have led to a happier ending.'

'Alex, you were caught off guard. No one could have reacted differently.'

'My training should have kept me on guard.'

'You were a part-time consultant, not the director of the project. What about Sarita Flowers's responsibility? Two out of six of those kids freaked out - doesn't that say something about the quality of her leadership?'

'Sarita's more engineer than psychologist - she makes no pretence at supersensitivity. That's why she hired me to monitor their emotional adjustment. But I was too damned sanguine, running my little rap groups and deluding myself that the bases were covered.'

'You're being too hard on yourself,' she said as she let go of my hand, got up, and went back to the salad. After pulling two steaks out of the refrigerator, she engaged in a silent routine of pounding and marinating while I watched.

'Alex,' she finally said, 'Jamey was troubled long before the project started. A moment ago you gave some of the reasons for it. It's just not logical to think that one incident could have made that big a difference. You've immersed yourself in all the horror and lost your perspective. Souza did you a favour when he let you go. Take advantage of it.'

I looked at her. She was solemn, eyes heavy with concern. What a fun guy I was.

'Maybe you're right,' I said, more out of consideration for her feelings than inner conviction.

I spent a good part of the next morning phoning hospitals and nursing registries. Marthe Surtees was nowhere to be found, but Andrea Vann had signed up with the ninth registry I called. I talked to the receptionist, who handed me over to the director, a man named Tubbs with an

elderly voice tinged by a faint Caribbean accent. When I asked him for her current address, all the lilt went out of his speech.

'Who did you say you were, sir?'

'Dr. Guy Mainwaring.' Haughtily. 'The medical director of Canyon Oaks Hospital in Agoura.'

Meaningful pause.

'Oh, yes,' he said, suddenly obsequious. No use alienating a potential client. 'I'd love to help you, Doctor, but we do have to protect our registrees' privacy.'

'I understand all that,' I said impatiently, 'but that's not the issue here. Mrs. Vann worked for us until recently - I assume she noted that on her application.'

'Not having the papers in front of him, he mumbled, 'Yes, of course.'

'Our personnel department has informed us that she is due additional pay for unused vacation time. We mailed the cheque to her home, but it came back, marked addressee unknown, no forwarding. My secretary called your agency about it last week, and someone promised to get back to her, but no one did.'

'I'll have to check that - '

'In any event, I decided to phone myself - cut through the red tape.'

'Of course. Do you need the phone number as well, Doctor?'

'That might be helpful.'

He put me on hold and returned in a minute.

'Doctor, Mrs. Vann registered with us last week, and we found two float jobs for her. But she never responded to our calls, and we haven't heard from her since.'

'Typical.' I sighed. 'A bright, capable woman, but she tends to wander off unpredictably.'

'That's good to know.'

'Absolutely. Now about that address.' I rustled some papers. 'Our records have her living on Colfax in North Hollywood.'

'No, we have her listed in Panorama City.' And he gave me the information I needed.

The phone number was disconnected.

It was a twenty-five minute freeway ride to the downscale part of the Valley. The address Tubbs had given me was on Cantaloupe Street, on a block of three-storey California-fifties apartment buildings - cheaply built rhomboids painted in unlikely colours. The building I was looking for was lemon yellow texture coat flecked with sparkles. A gateless entry in the middle of the building revealed a U-shaped courtyard built around a pool. Green Gothic letters spelled out CANTALOUPE ARMS, which evoked a series of images that made my head reel. In front was a miserly patch of succulents through which sprouted a lifeless plaster fountain. A cement pathway cut through the plants to the entrance.

There was no directory, but to the immediate right of the entrance was a panel of brass mailboxes. Most of the slots were labelled, none with the name Vann. The ones belonging to units seven and fifteen were empty. I walked into the courtyard and had a closer look.

Each apartment had a view of the pool - which was kidney-shaped and cloudy - and its own entrance. The doors were painted olive green, and flimsy-looking olive iron railings ran along both of the upper walkways. Unit seven was on the ground floor, midway down the north side of the U. I knocked on the door and received no answer. A peek through the curtains revealed a small, empty living room and, on the other side of a plywood partition, a windowless kitchenette. No signs of habitation. I took the stairs one flight up to fifteen.

This time my knock elicited a response. The door opened, and a short, pretty blonde woman of around twenty-five peered out sleepily and smiled. She had a pointed feline face and wore crotch-cutting jogging shorts and a terry-cloth tank top stretched by pendulous breasts. Her nipples were the size of cocktail onions. Through the open door came a breeze of strong perfume and coffee and the soft refrain of a Barry Manilow song. Over one white shoulder
 
I
  
saw
 
a
 
red
 
velvet
 
settee
  
and
 
wrought-iron occasional tables. On the wall were a framed zodiac chart and a cheap oil painting of a reclining nude who bore some general resemblance to the woman in the door.

'Hi,' she said, huskily, 'you must be Tom. You're a little early, but that's cool.'

She moved closer, and one hand stroked my bicep.

'Don't be shy,' she urged. 'Come on in and let's party.'

'Sorry,' - I smiled - 'wrong number.'

The hand dropped, and her face hardened and aged ten years.

'I'm looking for Andrea Vann,' I explained.

She stepped backward and reached for the door. I shot my foot forward and prevented it from closing.

'What the hell - ' she said.

'Wait a second.'

'Listen, Mister, I have a date.' A car door slammed, and she jumped. 'That could be him. Come on, get the hell out of here.'

'Andrea Vann. A nurse. Dark, good-looking.'

She bit her lip.

'Big tits and a little dark-haired kid?'

I remembered what Vann had told me about my lecture's helping her with her child's sleep problems.

'That's right,' I said.

'Downstairs.'

'Which unit?'

'I don't know, one of the ones on that side.' She pointed north with a long-nailed finger. Footsteps echoed in the empty courtyard. The blonde panicked and leaned against the door. 'Come on, that's him. Don't fuck up my day, mister.'

I stepped back, and the door shut. As I headed toward the stairs, a man rose from them - young, weedy, bearded, wearing jeans and a blue workshirt with the label 'Tom' over one breast pocket. He carried something in a paper bag, and when we passed, he avoided my eyes.

I went back to seven, stared at the empty living room again, and was wondering what to do when a shrill voice sounded behind me. 'Can I help you?'

I turned and faced an old woman in a pink quilted housecoat and hairnet of matching hue. The hair under the net was a pewter cap that accentuated the grey in her complexion. She was short and skinny with a crooked mouth, rubbery cheeks, a strong cleft chin, and blue eyes that regarded me suspiciously.

'I'm looking for Mrs. Vann.'

'You family?'

'Just a friend.'

'A good enough friend to pay her debts?'

'How much does she owe you?'

'She hasn't paid rent for three months runnin'. Put me off with excuses about late child support and big doctor bills for the kid and all that sad music. I shoulda said never you mind, but instead, I gave her time. That's gratitude for ya.'

'What does three months come out to?'

She adjusted the edge of the hairnet and winked.

'Well, to be honest, I got a last-month deposit and a damage deposit that shoulda been more than it is, but that still leaves a month and a half's worth - seven hundred and fifty. You of a mind to come up with a sum like that?'

'Gee,' I said, 'that puts us in the same boat. She borrowed quite a bit of money from me, and I came here to try and collect.'

'Great.' She snorted. 'Lotta help you'll be.' But camaraderie twinkled in her eyes.

'When did she leave?'

'Last week. Snuck out in the middle of the night like a thief. Only reason I saw it was that it was late and the horn was blarin', so I went on back to see what was goin' on. There she was, talking with some no-accounts, leaning on the horn like nothing mattered. She saw me, got all scared and guilty-lookin', and sped off. What really ate me was that the car was a new one. She'd got rid of her old heap and bought one a them flashy little Mustangs. She had money for that but none to pay me. How much she into you for?'

'Plenty.' I groaned. 'Any idea where she went?'

'Honey, if I knew that, would I be talkin' to you?'

I smiled.

'Any of the other tenants know her?'

'Nah. If you're her friend, you gotta be the only one. In the six months she was here I never did see her talk to no one or take visitors. Course, she worked nights and slept days, so that may have been part of it. Still, I always wondered if there was somethin' wrong with her. Good-lookin' girl like that never socialism'.'

'Do you know where she was working at the time she left?'

'Nowhere. I noticed it because her usual routine was to take the kid to school, then come back and sleep the day away, bring the kid home, and head off to work. Latchkey situation, which is a hell of a way to raise kids if you ask me, but they're all doin' it nowadays. Coupla times she asked me to look in on the kid; once in a while I gave him a cookie. Coupla weeks ago all that changed. The kid started stayin' home, inside with her. She'd leave during the middle of the day and take him with her. First I thought he was sick, but he looked pretty good to me. They were just vacationin', I guess. With her outa work, I shoulda suspected I wasn't gonna get my money. But that's what you get for being too trustin', right?'

I nodded sympathetically.

'Hell of it is, I always liked the girl. Quiet but classy. Raisin' that kid all by herself. Even the money wouldn'ta made me lose sleep - the owner's a fat cat, he'll survive -but it's the lyin' I can't stand. The taking advantage.'

'I know what you mean.'

'Yeah,' she continued, placing her hands on her hips. 'It's that flashy little car that's still eatin' at me.'

I drove back on the freeway, wondering about Andrea Vann's sudden departure. The fact that she'd registered with Tubbs's agency right after quitting indicated an intention to stay in town. But something had happened to make her pack her bags in the middle of the night. Whether or not it had to do with Jamey was unclear; there was no