Self-Defense (51 page)

I heard something snap behind me and
stopped. Lucy had heard it, too, and she peered at the forest behind us.

Silence.

She shrugged and wiped her face with her
sleeve. It was hard to gauge how far we were from the lodge house. I tasted my
own sweat and felt it sting my eyes.

We started walking again, coming upon a
knotted mass of thick, ivylike vines with coils as hard as glass. It refused to
yield to the shovel. Lucy threw herself at it, yanking and tearing, her hands
wet with blood. I pulled her away and inspected the plant. Despite its
monstrous head, its root base was relatively small, petrified, a two-foot clump
of burl.

I chopped at the shoot right above the
root. Dust and insects flew, and I could hear more animals fleeing in the
distance. My biceps were pumped and my shoulders throbbed. Finally, I was able
to sever enough tendrils to pull back the clump and let us pass.

On the other side of the vine, things were
different, as if we’d entered a new chamber of a great green palace. The air
cooler, the trees all the same species.

Coast redwoods, great, repeating roan
columns, spaced closely, their top growth a black fringe. Not the
three-hundred-foot monsters of the north, but still huge at a third that
height. Only a scatter of ferns grew in their shadows. The ground was gray as
barbecue dust, mounded with leaves and bark shards. Through the fringe, the sun
was a speck of mica.

The fringe.

Lace?

Lucy began weaving through the mammoth
trunks.

Heading toward something.

Light.

A patch of day that enlarged as we ran
toward it.

She stepped into it and spread her arms,
as if gathering the heat and clarity.

We were in an open area, bounded by
hillside and the same kind of mesquite I’d seen on the highway. Beyond the
hills, higher mountains.

Before us, a field of high, feathery wild
grass split by dozens of silver snakes.

Narrow streams. A mesh of them, thin and
sinuous as map lines. The water sound diffuse now, delicate....

I followed Lucy as she made her way
through grass, stepping in the soft ground between the streams.

Down to a mossy clearing. Centered in it,
a pond, brackish, a hundred feet wide, its surface coated by a pea-colored scum
of algae, bubbling in spots, skimmed by water boatmen. The globular leaves of
hyacinth floated peacefully. Dragonflies took off and landed.

On the near bank was another cabin,
identical to the others.

Rotted black, its roof a fuzz of lichen, a
decaying door dangling from one hinge.

Something green running nearly the width
of the door. I ran over.

Metal. A plaque, probably once bronze.
Grooves. Engraving. I rubbed away grime until calligraphic letters showed
themselves.

Inspiration

I pushed the door aside and entered. The
floor was black, too, ripe as peat, oddly sweet-smelling. Through empty window
casements I could see the flat green water of the pond.

These log walls were perforated with
disease. Remnants of furniture in one corner: a small metal desk, completely
rusted and legless, blotched with green and teeming with grubs and beetles.
Something on the desktop. I flicked away insects and humus and revealed the
black-lacquer keys of a manual typewriter. A bit more scraping produced a
gold-leaf Royal logo.

Next to the desk, a leather chair had been
reduced to a few curling scraps of dermis and a handful of hammered nailheads;
on the ground, near the desk, three metal loops attached to a rusted spine.

Rings from a looseleaf notebook. Something
else, copperish with a green patina.

I kneeled. Something crawled up my leg and
I slapped it away.

The patina was moss. Not copper, gold.

A gold bullet-shaped tube with a
white-gold clip.

The cap of a fountain pen.

Etched in the head:
MBL.

I pocketed it and kicked at the loose,
fragrant dirt. Nothing else in the cabin.

Lucy hadn’t followed me in. Through the
window hole, I saw her make her way to the water’s edge and stare across the
pond.

Two trees on the far bank.

Giant, lush, weeping willows, their
surface roots worming into the pond.

Branches of knife-blade, golden-green
leaves, looping to the ground, then bending and resuming in a relentless
horizontal growth.

Sentries.

Diamonds of light shone through the wispy
foliage.

A baby-blue network, ethereal as lace.

I ran out of the cabin.

Lucy’s eyes were fixed on a spot between
the trees, a bare, sunken area.

She took the shovel from me and began
circling the pond clockwise. Awkward, almost hesitant, toeing along the bank,
inches from the water’s edge.

Her eyes closed and she slipped. Before I could
catch her, one leg went into the water, up to the ankle. She pulled it out. Her
jeans were soaked. She shook her leg and kept walking. Stopped in the bare
spot, tears dripping down her cheeks.

Cradling the shovel like a baby.

Inspiration.

Lowell’s private spot.

Burying Karen here... for company?

He
needed
company—the adulation of
fans and disciples and, when that dried up, the worship of young women.

Send me someone good-looking.

Had other women been buried here?

My initial thought upon hearing the dream
was that he’d molested Lucy. There’d been more than a nuance of sexuality in
his approach to her just now: comments about her legs and her toilet training.
Flaunting his infidelity with her aunt.

Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that with
Lucy he was after something different.

Stick with me and I’ll show you the world,
kid.

Body failing, fame withered, he wanted a
family.

He’d stopped coming here a long time ago.

No more inspiration.

Lucy stood up.

Without a word, she began digging.

She wouldn’t let me help her.

The first foot of soil was forgiving, but
after that she hit compressed clay and cried out in frustration. I wrested the
shovel from her. Each second weighed on me as I excavated a hole six feet long
and three feet deep, getting in the pit and pitching out dirt like a manic paid
by the shovelful. My arms felt leaden and detached from my body.

No signs of any bones. The smallest chip
and I’d yank her the hell out of here. Even without progress, I’d give it five
more minutes.

She got in and said, “My turn,” but when I
shook my head she didn’t argue. Tears had washed her face clean.

The sun was sinking and the pond had
grayed. It had been over an hour since we’d come up, but the day seemed
timeless.

Each shovelful mixed with the blood rush in
my head.

I dug and dug, till my breath grew short
and harsh. Then I heard something else.

Another voice—a woman’s—from across the
pond.

Both of us turned.

Nova was standing near Inspiration. A man
had one arm around her waist. His other hand held a pistol to her head.

She looked frightened to death. The man’s
fingers touched one of her breasts and spidered their way up in a manner that
couldn’t be accidental.

I pushed Lucy down and ducked. The man’s
gun arm snapped, as if he was throwing the weapon.

The shot knocked loose a chunk of dirt a
yard from my right hand. No marksman, but we had no cover.

Trapped.

I crouched low in the pit, keeping my hand
on Lucy’s back. Her mouth was open but her breathing was silent.

No sounds. I raised my head for a peek.

The man put the gun back to Nova’s head
and prodded her with one knee. The two of them slow-danced around the pond till
they got within fifteen feet of us.

Her left cheek was scraped raw and her
left eye was swelling. I ducked and peeked, ducked and peeked. Finally seeing
his face.

His right hand gripped her narrow waist.
Manicured nails. The jeans were pressed. His sweatshirt said
Sausalito.
He looked like an executive hanging loose.

Exactly what he was.

Christopher Graydon-Jones.

“You’ve made some nice progress,” he said.
“Pity we don’t have more spades. Well, get to work. We’ll need it a good deal
deeper to fit all of you. Go on, will you?”

“She’s still his daughter,” I said. “When
he called you, he didn’t expect you to kill her.”

“No, I suppose not.” He gave a
split-second smile that raised one corner of his mouth. “Actually, he had
this
tart call, and look what happened to her. Expectations are so seldom
met.”

Nova moved, and he kneed her hard in the
back.

“True,” I said.
“You
wanted to be a
sculptor.”

His lips drew back and he did something
with his free hand that made Nova cry out.

“Though there
is
a continuity,” I
said. “Molding form, shaping limbs. Big-time power needs—that’s what got you
into trouble with Karen, isn’t it?”

He dug his fingers into Nova’s middle. She
gasped and shivered and a wet stain spread at her groin.

“Please,” she said.

“Start digging or I’ll kill this bit of
fuzz right now and make you chop up her body with the dull edge of that spade.”

I picked up the shovel. He backed out of
swinging range.

Nova was nearly limp, straining his grip.
Aiming the gun at Lucy, he shoved down on Nova’s shoulder, forcing her to her
knees, then prone, her face in the dirt. She ate some, gagged, managed to turn
her head to the side.

Graydon-Jones put his foot on her spine.
Trophy hunter.

But his eyes were jumpy.

“Come, come, faster, faster, or I’ll have
to finish both these tarts.”

I jammed the shovel in the clay. Pulling
it out was like towing a barge. My whole upper body felt encased in concrete.
The lace pattern through the willows was pewter-colored now. I managed to dig.

He said, “Not that it matters, but I didn’t
get
into trouble with
Karen. Karen
did it to herself.”

“Drugs?” I said, stopping.

“Don’t slack off—yes, yes,
drugs,
what else, don’t you watch your public-service commercials? I wasn’t even the
one to give them to her.”

“Who was?” The shovel hit the ground
again. I pretended to dig deep but got only a few grains of soil on my blade.
He was too far away to notice, his gaze leveling off at my elbows. If I stroked
rapidly and grunted a lot, that might pass for a while.

“Who gave her the drugs?” I said, faking
another hard chop. “App?”

No answer. One of his big hands caressed
Nova’s rear.

“You were just along for the party?”

I saw Lucy from a corner of my eye.
Sitting, knees up. Frozen. Powerless again.

“Yes, a party. There was no
crime,
” said Graydon-Jones. “She was the life of it. Coming on to all of us, crawling
up in our laps, telling us she was going to be a film star and live in Beverly
Hills.”

“What kind of drugs did App give her?”

“What’s the difference: grass, hash, Quaaludes.
It was the ’ludes that got to her. No tolerance. Out like a light.”

He looked down at Nova, then his gaze
shifted to Lucy.

“What are
you
staring at? Make
yourself useful. Dig with your
hands—
go on.”

Lucy got down on all fours and began
scooping up clay.

I said, “Two parties, then. Friday night
and Saturday.”

He blinked with surprise. Covered it with
a laugh.

“The police know, too.”

“Is that so? That sounds right out of a
telly script. Go on, dig.”

I faked some more. “So she came on to
you?”

“All saucy talk and meaningful glances,
quite a piece. A virgin, though you’d never have known it.”

“She didn’t stay one Saturday night, did
she?” Chop. Grunt.

“Oh,”
he
said. “Are we being politically
correct
? Are we saying a saucy little
piece who crawls up on your lap and puts her tongue in your ear doesn’t
want
it? We treated her like a lady—ill-deserved. She was totally stoned,
unbuttoning her blouse, singing Jefferson Airplane songs. Then she
vomited.
All over
me.”

His mouth twitched. “But I cleaned her up
anyway. Dressed her and combed her hair. Curt even put makeup on her—are you
slacking, Ms. Daughter? Get those hands
working.”