The Back of the Turtle (15 page)

NICHOLAS CRISP STOOD AT THE ENTRANCE TO BEATRICE HOT
Springs and surveyed his handiwork. All of the decorations and festive arrangements were in place. Tiny lanterns swayed on wires above the water, towels of many hues were stacked at the edge of each pool, and soft music floated down from speakers hidden in the trees.

And the food. Crisp was particularly pleased with the array of things to eat and drink. Fruits, cheeses, vegetables with dip, hummus, baba ghanouj, cold cuts and condiments for the unadventurous, breads of several varieties, two soups, a vegetarian lasagna, a spicy meat chili, along with wine and beer, and lemon squares and chocolate brownies for dessert.

Crisp looked out over the pools, and he was pleased.

Yet in spite of all the delights, the merry-making would have a bittersweet edge to it, for many of the people who had come to his birthday party in years past would not be here tonight. In fact, Crisp wasn’t sure who would come. When he had gone through town renewing his invitation, he had sensed a new level of defeat in the voices, as though his neighbours and friends had reduced themselves to prisoners in their homes and businesses, as though they no longer had the energy to walk the streets of Samaritan Bay.

Or the courage to wander the beaches or roam the woods.

Before he had gone to the motel, Crisp had been hopeful that he and Sonny could put the past behind them, that they could sit down and talk, forge a new beginning. He had expected that the trunk would provide the occasion and the moment for such a reunion. The boy did love his salvage.

Perhaps he should have called in advance and not just shown up out of the blue. Had he frightened Sonny with his sudden appearance?

Existence, Crisp reminded himself, was a game of Snakes and Ladders, where life twisted and turned with how you rode the dice and where you landed. Perhaps the boy would come tonight. Perhaps after the initial shock, Sonny would find curiosity more powerful than fear.

Crisp cocked his head. There were voices in the woods.

Excellent.

He clapped his hands, and the lanterns brightened. The fog had spread over the springs like a blanket, thick and cozy, and tucked itself around the trees. But Crisp wasn’t concerned. When the time was right, he’d pull the gloom back to reveal the stars and the heavens in all their majesty and splendour, for the pleasure and entertainment of his guests.

GABRIEL FELT SOMEWHAT SILLY WALKING ALONG THE TRAIL
to the hot springs with a pair of black stretchy underwear stuffed in his jacket pocket. Of course, he didn’t have to get into the pools. He could lounge around the edges, eating and making polite conversation. He had even considered not coming, but Crisp was an interesting character, and Gabriel had never been in an actual hot springs.

The closest he had come to such an experience was at Stanford. His third fall on campus, he had been invited to a party that the head of the Physics department had thrown. Gloria Levinson was a big name in biophysics, and she had a Spanish-style adobe in Los Gatos with a swimming pool and a hot tub in the backyard.

At first, Gabriel could hardly stand the temperature of the water, but Dr. Levinson’s husband, a blockish man named Parker with vacant blue eyes and wet lips, told him that if he stayed long enough, he’d get used to it.

“Of course you know about frogs and hot water.”

“That you can put them in a pot of cold water and heat the water slowly until it’s boiling, and the frogs won’t try to get out?”

“Same thing is true of the poor,” said Parker. “We don’t need scientists to tell us why this happens.”

Dr. Levinson had come over. “Is my husband boring you?”

“No, ma’am,” said Gabriel.

“He’s a consultant,” said Dr. Levinson. “Did he annoy you with his treatise on humanity?”

“It’s not a treatise,” said Parker. “It’s a fact.”

“All Parker believes in is power and wealth.”

Parker’s face was bright red, and his eyes had started to water. “They’re one and the same,” he said. “Wealth is simply an attribute of power.”

Dr. Levinson shook her head and laughed. “Would you believe that my husband gets paid to travel the country and spew this nonsense?”

“Either you’re the frog in the pot,” said Parker as he sank deeper into the hot tub, “or you’re the frog who controls the heat.”

THE
fog had come in hard and thick, and Gabriel had some difficulty staying to the path. Several times he found himself stumbling about in the undergrowth and had to feel his way back to level ground. He should have brought a flashlight, though he didn’t think any amount of light would help.

As a child and as a young man, Gabriel had been in the woods any number of times, and what he remembered most was the noise. The night woods were noisy. Large animals moving around, the sharp cries of the night hunters, small things scratching in the earth.

These woods were especially dark and silent, and Gabriel felt as though he had wandered into an ancient church. He wasn’t frightened. A little anxious perhaps, and as he shuffled
along, he began to sing. He started with a flag song but couldn’t find the lead, kept getting it mixed up with an honour song, so he switched to a round dance.

Which was more appropriate.

Tonight was a social, a two-step, a chance for people to get together and enjoy each other’s company. Gabriel hadn’t been company in a very long time. Maybe he’d finally get around to asking the questions that had brought him here. Maybe Crisp had the answers. He didn’t want to ask Mara. He shouldn’t care, but he didn’t want her to know who he was. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

GABRIEL
had been standing by the food table, when Parker caught up with him. Out of the water, the man looked shorter and stouter.

“Hello, froggy,” he said. “Gloria tells me you’re a genius.”

Gabriel kept his attention on the food, hoping that Parker would go away.

“So what do geniuses do?”

“Nothing special.”

“Genetics and biology. Right?”

Gabriel took his food to a table at the far end of the pool. Parker followed him.

“Here’s a question for you. Which would you rather discover? A revolutionary weight-loss product or a protocol to restore hair?”

Gabriel had held his disdain in check. “I’d rather work on something that matters.”

“What matters is profit.” Parker fished a card out of his pocket. “I recruit for major biotech companies. We have summer intern programs available for geniuses. Pay is good. Experience is even better. Cutting-edge research facilities, yada yada yada.”

Suddenly, Parker didn’t sound quite so stupid or arrogant. “You interested?” Parker wrote on a napkin. “Check them out. That’s my number.”

Gabriel looked at the name on the napkin.

Domidion.

Parker picked up his plate and started back to the hot tub. “When you’re ready to get out of the pot,” he said, “give me a call.”

UP
ahead, the fog thinned. Gabriel could make out a clearing in the distance and the soft glow of lights. He was stepping along with the song now and enjoying himself. It had been a lifetime since he had been to a powwow. He didn’t miss it. Particularly. It was just a memory that still had value, a memory that he hadn’t discarded yet.

“That’s a round dance.”

Gabriel almost tripped over his feet.

Mara stepped out of the trees. “I recognize that one.”

“You startled me.”

Mara had changed out of blue jeans and into a dress. A green cotton print with yellow and white flowers. The result was startling. “So you decided to come to the party.”

“I was hungry.”

“I fed you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Mara chuckled. “My mother was the better cook.”

“The muffin was fine.”

“Liar.”

“A little dry.”

“Fine? Dry?” Mara put her hands on her hips. “Make up your mind.”

Gabriel could feel himself smiling. “Dry,” he said. “Definitely dry.”

“Did you bring a swimsuit?”

Gabriel touched the pocket of his jacket. “No.”

Mara started up the trail. “Neither did I.”

Gabriel waited until she reached the clearing, and then he followed her into the light.

THE AFTERNOON HAD BEEN A FLURRY OF CREATIVE ENERGY.
Mara had done the underpainting for four new canvases and had finished the preliminary sketches of Elvin Grunes and Thelma Walker. Thelma had been one of the elders on the reserve, a woman in her seventies who still spoke the language and divided her time between the women’s shelter and the elementary school in town.

She had been at the river that day.

Elvin had saved over a dozen of his neighbours, piling everyone into his pickup and driving like hell to the hospital in Kimi, two hundred kilometres and three mountain passes away. He had accomplished this rescue on half a tank of gas, gliding down the hills in neutral with his foot off the accelerator and letting the truck run out across the flats before he got back on the gas.

Once he was sure everyone was safe, Elvin had filled the tank and raced back to the reserve.

Death hadn’t played favourites that day or in the days that followed. No one could have imagined the loss of such a beloved woman or predicted the uncommon courage of an unemployed drunk.

The party. She had almost forgotten about the party.

“Shit!”

And now she was late. Mara dumped her brushes into the cleaner and wiped her hands on the cloth. What the hell was she going to wear? Jeans and a nice blouse. No, the only jeans she had were the ones she was wearing and her last good blouse was in the laundry basket. Okay, the dress, the green one with the flowers. She hadn’t washed her hair in two days, though once she was in the pools, that wouldn’t much matter.

Mara didn’t want to stop working. Now that she had finally started, she hated to pause for even a moment. But it was Crisp’s birthday, and a soak in the hot springs would do her a world of good. And, unless he had found a way to kill himself in the last while, this Gabriel would be there. Maybe they could amend their earlier conversation. She didn’t want him to think that she was loose.

Or incoherent.

MARA
had gotten more than one lecture on promiscuity. When her grandmother first cautioned her about “loose women,” it had made Mara laugh, as though the answer was to tighten them up.

“Don’t get me wrong,” said her grandmother. “Sex is fun.”

“Granny!”

“But it don’t do you no favours. Just ask your mother.”

So Mara did.

“She said what?”

“Granny said that sex is fun, but that it doesn’t do women any favours, and that I should ask you about it.”

Mara’s mother didn’t say a word for several minutes, and Mara wasn’t sure that she was going to say anything at all.

“Okay,” said her mother. “Listen up, cause I’m only going to do this once.”

“Sure.”

“If you’re a guy and you have sex with a woman, you’re a big shot.” Her mother paused. “You got that part?”

“Yeah, I already know that.”

“If you’re a woman and you have sex with a man, you’re a slut.”

“Yeah,” said Mara, “I know that, too.”

“That’s mostly for single women,” said her mother. “If you’re married, it can get worse.”

Mara wanted to tell her mother just how out of date she was.

“And if you get pregnant and you’re not married,” said her mother, “well, that’s the worst of all worlds.”

“Like you.”

“That’s right,” said her mother. “Like me.”

“But you got me.”

“Not the point,” said her mother. “Now go back and bother your grandmother.”

Mara was tempted to ask her mother about women having sex with women and men having sex with men, but she knew she wouldn’t get as much pleasure out of annoying the woman as she imagined.

THE
fog had returned, and as she started for the springs, she could barely see the trees. Some people found the gloom oppressive. But not Mara. Even as a child, she had taken comfort
in the calm that the fog brought and its trick of making the world vanish.

Tonight was one of those times.

Halfway up the trail, she stopped. Somewhere off to the left in the woods, someone was singing. Mara stepped off the path. There was some stumbling, and suddenly Gabriel popped out of the fog.

“That’s a round dance.” Mara was delighted to see him jump. “I recognize that one.”

“You startled me.”

“So you decided to come to the party.”

“I was hungry.”

Mara tried not to think about the muffins. She had made them according to her mother’s recipe. It wasn’t the first time a dish hadn’t turned out. Mara could follow the directions easily enough, but nothing seemed to taste as good as the food that came from her mother’s hand.

“I fed you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

That was at least the fourth time she had tried the muffin recipe. She wouldn’t try it again.

“My mother was the better cook.”

“The muffin was fine.”

“Liar.”

“A little dry.”

Mara put her hands on her hips and blocked the path. “Fine? Dry?” she said. “Make up your mind.”

Gabriel was smiling. Mara’s mother had warned her about men who smiled. A little smile is okay, her mother had told her. Just watch out for the ones who are nothing but white teeth.

“Dry,” said Gabriel. “Definitely dry.”

“Did you bring a swimsuit?”

“No.”

Mara wondered if he had forgotten to bring one or if he was just trying to shock her. She had seen him naked. Well, mostly naked. No mystery there. Still, the thought of skinny-dipping with this Gabriel was mildly arousing.

“Neither did I.”

Mara headed up the trail. Let him stand there and think about it. He’d be along soon enough. Up ahead she could see the clearing, and she walked through the fog and into the light.

BEFORE HE LEFT THE OFFICE, DORIAN CHANGED INTO ONE OF
his new shirts and slipped into his new shoes. He hadn’t planned on wearing the Rolex just yet, but once it was on his wrist, it felt good. The purchase hadn’t been a mistake.

The nausea and the dizziness had abated, and he was left feeling hungry and somewhat adventurous. There was a new restaurant in Yorkville that he had been meaning to try. He debated calling ahead for a reservation, but there was a chance he would be told they were full. Better to show up in person and negotiate a table.

It wasn’t Kip this time. The limo driver was a larger man named Vernon, a more appropriate name for a chauffeur in Dorian’s opinion, and he had Vernon drop him off in front of the restaurant.

“I hear the food is good,” said Vernon.

Dorian wondered if chauffeurs were required to read restaurant reviews. “Stay close,” he said. “I’ll call when I’m ready.”

The restaurant was busy. There were several vacant tables, but Dorian suspected that they were reserved.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Dorian Asher,” said Dorian.

The maître d’ consulted the computer. “I don’t seem to have a reservation for you, Mr. Asher.”

“It might be under the corporation’s name. Domidion? I’m the CEO?”

The maître d’ went back to the computer. “Domidion,” the man said. “Yes, I believe we will be able to offer you a table tonight.”

The table wasn’t the best in the house, but Dorian wasn’t trying to impress anyone tonight. He scanned the room. No familiar faces, but it was somewhat early for the A-list to show up.

It wasn’t until he looked at the menu that he wondered if he had made a mistake. The prices seemed rather low. Dorian watched as servers brought food to nearby tables. Everything was professionally plated. Good. All the parts artistically arranged. Excellent. One table that was about to move from the main course to dessert was being tidied up by a server with a silver crumber.

Dorian had always appreciated that particular touch of elegance. Very European.

It was only when the server came to his table to discuss the menu that Dorian realized he had been looking at the prices for the appetizers. After a brief discussion, he decided on the crispy black cod with organic shrimp, along with a bottle of Carneros della Notte Pinot Noir from California that was recommended as a perfect pairing with fish.

WINTER
had been right. The trial transcript was interesting.

Joseph Quinn had been shot and killed by one William Church. Church was an unremarkable man, a manager at a local
Walmart. Gabriel’s father and his partner, Rosa Martinez, had gone to Church’s home on a domestic disturbance complaint. Quinn had knocked, announced himself as a police officer. Church had opened the door and shot him three times pointblank with a large calibre semi-automatic. Before Martinez could draw her weapon, Church shot her twice as well, once in the shoulder and once in the leg.

Quinn had died on the way to the hospital. Martinez had survived her wounds.

Church had been charged with murder. Martinez testified that the man had shot Quinn without provocation, had simply opened fire as soon as he saw the two officers.

Church’s attorney argued that his client had fired in self-defence, that at the time of the shooting, the Walmart manager had feared for his life.

DESSERT
was a hazelnut chocolate mousse with clotted cream. Dorian opted for a cup of coffee instead of a digestif. Halfway through the mousse, he saw Franklin and Lillian Wakefield being escorted to a table, and shortly after that, Reid Sloan came in with three other men Dorian didn’t recognize.

He debated visiting Sloan’s table, but he wasn’t really in the mood for socializing, and the man tended to be a snob. Another time. When he was better dressed and more appropriately accessorized.

Instead, Dorian stayed at the table and lingered over his coffee. The food and the service had been excellent, and seeing other captains of industry in attendance made his choice of
restaurant seem all that more astute. He’d have to bring Olivia here when she returned from Orlando.

ACCORDING
to Church’s testimony there had been an altercation at the Walmart where he worked. Church claimed that a Mr. Spencer Powless, whom he described as a “drunk Indian,” had assaulted him and threatened his life.

The prosecution had told a different story. According to several witnesses, Church had started yelling at Powless for no apparent reason.

Ever since that day, so Church claimed, he had feared for his life. And when Officer Quinn and Officer Martinez arrived at his house, Church said he thought it was Mr. Powless and another Indian come to make good on the threat.

Throughout the trial, Church repeated the same phrase over and over again, that he was in fear for his life. Church’s attorney had hammered home the fact that police uniforms were relatively easy to rent and that his client had no reason to believe that Officer Quinn and Officer Martinez were, in fact, police officers.

VERNON,
the limo driver, wasn’t answering his cell. Dorian tried several times. Then he called the service that Domidion used. The woman spoke with a heavy South Asian accent that Dorian found frustrating to follow. Evidently, someone had cancelled the car for the rest of the evening.

“Who cancelled my car?”

“Mr. Dorian Asher.”

“I’m Dorian Asher.”

“You cancelled the car.”

“No, I didn’t,” Dorian told the woman. “I did not cancel the car.”

“I am looking at the log,” said the woman. “The car was cancelled.”

“But not by me.”

“No,” agreed the woman. “It was cancelled by Mr. Dorian Asher.”

Dorian carefully explained the situation again. Halfway through the third try, he gave up and hailed a cab.

He felt foolish standing there, his new shoes rubbing his heels, the Rolex sparkling on his wrist in the crackle of city lights, and he hoped that Franklin and Lillian, or Sloan, for that matter, wouldn’t come out of the restaurant and catch him at the curb with his arm out.