The Bone Parade (33 page)

Lauren settled Leroy in the shade of the front wall and followed Stassler inside.

She’d been in a lot of foundries, but none as large as this. Cranes, chains, grates and tanks, tables, tools, cabinets, and crucibles spread out before her. He had the luxury of space.

Stassler waved his hand at the room. “Look around. Maybe her portfolio’s in here.”

It’s not in here. She felt this as clearly as she felt the surprisingly cool air that greeted her. Every item in the foundry had its place. Ashley Stassler was a sculptor who would know where he’d placed every last bolt or chisel. Or a portfolio.

Still, she would look. She’d try to add to the paucity of details from which she might construct a portrait of Kerry’s final days.

She walked past a bench with a mallet and clamps hanging from a rack right above it, and stepped into a partitioned area. He walked up behind her. A boxy wooden cabinet stood against the wall. Why bother with the partition, she wondered.

“You don’t like my sculpture anymore, do you?” Stassler said.

“What are you talking about?” Stassler’s personal tone, after so much chilly distance, startled her.

“You liked it at one time. You
adored
it. You sent me the review that you wrote for your campus newspaper. ‘Ashley Stassler not only understands the underbelly of our age, he comprehends its dark cousin called the future.’ Overblown, but that’s typical of an undergrad.”

She was flabbergasted that he could quote from a review she’d written some twenty years ago. It took her a moment to respond.

“You’re right. If I’m going to be honest, I’d have to say I’m not a fan.”

“I can always tell.”

“Do you really care?” She couldn’t imagine that he did. But then why bring it up?

“Of course not,” he replied quickly. “But I’m curious to know what changed your mind.”

She shrugged. “Tastes change. I used to like the Dave Clark Five, but that doesn’t mean I do anymore.”

Her hand fell to the cabinet. She rubbed the fine silty dust between her fingers. It felt familiar, good.

He shook his head, more noticeably this time, and she understood that she’d nicked his ego with her reference to a schlocky sixties band, placing him by implication in a tacky milieu that would never square with his inflated notion of his own importance. But again, she couldn’t understand why he would care when the art world was full of sycophants ready to sing him choruses of praise.

“Seen enough?” he said.

“I suppose.” Her hand fell from the cabinet. A ripple of air, cooler than the room, coated her fingers; but if she noticed the sensation, it was quickly lost as she followed him out, once more recording every visual detail. But why bother, she asked herself. If this is all that you can piece together of her life here, then you have nothing at all. And it’s not as if he’s got Kerry’s body stashed behind a table. He’s got only these. Her eyes had taken in the three alginate forms, eerily headless. Then she saw that the male figure had a shattered arm.

“How did that happen?”

He glared at her, as if she had no right to ask. “It was a mistake,” he said icily. “And it’ll never happen again.”

In moments they were back under the bright sun. When they reached the barn, she opened the spigot for Leroy, who bit off half a dozen more mouthfuls before he quit. She cupped her hand and drank as well. Stassler never offered to get her a glass, but he did surprise her by saying that he’d give her a lift back to the gate.

You must be in an awful hurry to get rid of me. But her first thought quickly succumbed to her second, which was the desire to save herself and her dog from the hot trek back.

“Thanks. I’ll take it.”

He led her past the corner of the barn to the Jeep. The padlocked doors caught her eye.

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why is it locked up?”

“I don’t want mice and every other rodent in the desert running around in there.”

“Could I see it?”

“This is my
house
,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re asking to go through my private quarters.”

“I’m not asking for that. This is the barn. Your home is upstairs. I have respected your privacy. I never asked to see that.” Though she wondered if she should have pressed that point too.

“You knew better.” His words suddenly sounded strident, spiteful. He seemed to notice this too; his lips pinched closed. Then he recovered, saying, “There’s nothing in there. You’re going to be disappointed,” as he walked past her and unlocked the doors.

She didn’t reply, but felt he was probably right; she’d been disappointed time and again in her search for Kerry.

The barn was as barren as he’d said. Straw in the stalls, that’s all. Maybe a dozen of them, but no sign of horses: no bridles, saddles, not a thing. Empty as a cave.

But if he’s so damned worried about mice, why’s he leaving them all this straw to make nests? Who knows? She was through asking him questions. Not one of them had produced a satisfying answer.

Lauren turned and took two steps toward the entrance when Stassler said, “Come on, boy, let’s go,” and clapped his hands.

She looked back and saw Leroy pawing the straw in the last stall on the left.

“Leroy,” she commanded sharply, “come.”

Stassler stepped away as she walked up to her dog.

She grabbed him by the collar at the very moment his claws hooked an O-ring, snapping it upright before it fell with a clatter.

Lauren, honestly perplexed, turned to Stassler; but he was already beside her, grabbing her arm.

“Get your hands off me,” she shouted, and Leroy turned his head from the O-ring to the man who had seized his master.

His growl alone released Stassler’s grip. Leroy backed him into the opposing stall as Lauren, stiff with tension, looked from Stassler to the O-ring and back again several times in two or three seconds.

Then as she reached for the handle, he yelled “No!” and lunged forward. Leroy bit him right on the thigh.

Stassler swore in pain as Lauren lifted the thick wooden door. She shouted, “Anybody down—” but before she could finish, Kerry screamed, “I am! I am! Get me out of here.”

Lauren looked once more at Stassler, pinned against the wall, bleeding through the tear in his pants. Leroy had released his bite, but at a price no man would want to pay: the dog’s seething muzzle, white teeth bared, was right up against Stassler’s crotch. The sculptor looked ashen.

Lauren raced down the stairs, saw the bone parade and cage, and sucked in a breath that could have been her last for all the confirmation of death it contained.

She ran across the cellar to where Kerry gripped the bars. A naked girl stood next to her.

“The keys,” Kerry shouted. “He keeps them on him. He’s always got them.”

Lauren took the stairs back up to the barn, frightened by what she might find. Stassler with a gun? Stassler gone to get one? But Leroy hadn’t conceded an inch, and Stassler stood as frozen as any of his sculpture, evidently fearful that to move at all would be to concede far more than a mere inch.

“I want the keys,” she yelled, inciting Leroy to growl louder.

“They’re upstairs, in my bedroom,” Stassler said nervously.

“Empty your pockets.”

“He’ll bite me.”

“No, he won’t,” Lauren said, not knowing and not caring if this was true.

Stassler reached a hand into his left pocket with agonizing slowness. He pulled it out in the same fearful manner, trailing only the dull fabric.

“The other one,” Lauren snapped.

“I can’t,” Stassler said, his eyes dropping to Leroy, as if to engage her in an unspoken understanding; but she wanted no part of it.

“Do it or he’ll eat you alive.” Again, she had no idea if any of this was true and didn’t care as long as Stassler did exactly what she told him.

He reached in, and this time when he unfolded his pocket a set of keys came out.

“Throw them here.”

He made a weak toss that fell short of her reach. She scrambled forward, scooped them up, and tore back down the stairs. As she ran across the earthen floor, she realized that from this day forward her acute visual memory would no longer be a blessing, but a curse: the bone parade, with its grotesquely clothed skeletons in their grisly postures, would haunt her forever.

She tried three keys before she found the one that worked. But as soon as she swung the door open, the naked girl tackled Kerry and pleaded with her to stay.

Stay? She must be out of her mind. Lauren hurled herself on top of them, trying to pull the naked girl off. It would have been so much easier if she’d been clothed. The girl surprised her by releasing Kerry, and Lauren made the mistake of letting go of her.

The girl bolted out the cage door and tried to slam it shut. Lauren threw her shoulder into the metal, bruising herself and knocking the air out of her lungs, but saving them from this prison.

She watched as the girl fled up the stairs. Kerry helped her to stand, and the two of them hobbled past the skeletons.

The burning pain in Lauren’s shoulder started to fade as they climbed up into the barn. They found Stassler still pinned to the wall, but no sign of the girl.

Kerry turned on him, screaming, “I hope you die, you son of a bitch. Die!”

Lauren pulled her away. “Come on. Let’s go!”

They ran out of the barn, right toward the Jeep. Lauren tried to yank the driver’s door open, but it was locked, and the keys … Christ, the keys were in the cage door!

She turned back, intent on one more trip down the stairs, when she saw Leroy bounding up. Looking past him, panic rising, she spotted Stassler hunched over, but hurrying out of the horse stall.

Lauren spun back around, grabbed Kerry, and dragged her to the right, toward the uneven plain of the desert.

“We can’t take the road,” she gasped. “He’ll drive after us.”

She led the girl toward the rugged terrain, the dry washes and sinewy trees that would stop any vehicle. But even as they stumbled down sudden dips and slogged through sandy stream beds, Lauren knew that Stassler would track them down by foot, if he had to. He could never let them get away, no matter how hurt, although she doubted he was truly hobbled: Leroy, for all his power, had not torn his femoral artery. Lauren had looked for gushing blood, but seen only a seeping wound. Stassler could still move, and that meant that she and Kerry, and the dog at their side, would soon be at odds with the harsh land that would have to hide them.

I
TORE AFTER THEM, AND
I was no more than twenty yards back when my leg seized up. In an instant, I found myself stumbling, humbled by a grotesque pain, as if a serrated knife were having its way down there. Then I realized that even if I did catch up with them, that goddamned dog would turn on me again if I didn’t have my gun. I also realized that I needed a painkiller if I was going to chase them down.

That filthy animal ripped right through my thigh. Now I’ve got to keep my eyes on them,
and
I’ve got to quickly scrub out this wound. An infection from that filthy beast will finish me faster than those two harridans.

They’re making it tough on me, heading for the foothills, but it’ll be murderous for them. They have no water, no food. They’re finished. It’s their fate. It plays out in every step they take. I can find joy in this, and I do, but I rue the loss of Diamond Girl. She saw me at that goddamned dog’s mercy. She stopped and looked me right in the eye. I thought she’d help. I thought I’d have this beautiful young naked damsel coming to my rescue, but then she fled out the doors without ever looking back. My last view of Diamond Girl was of her glorious ass, those hard round cheeks that I’d pressed my face to, whose valley I’d traveled so eagerly with my tongue.

I have no idea where she is now. I cannot see her. But if I’m given this grievous choice, to chase Her Rankness, who paused too, but only to swear her ignorant anger at me, and nympho media whore, or Diamond Girl, I must let my little lover go. She’s the least likely to turn the state on me. If I know her at all, she’ll prevail in her own perversity, and to do that she must grant me mine. It’s the silent code we share, that we’ve always shared, the marvelous seeds from which we root: hers in bud, mine in bloom.

The disinfectant burns. Oh … oh … it
burns
. It bubbles over the wound, forcing eruptions of blood from the purpled, savaged skin.

I keep my eye on them as much as I keep it on my wound. I spread ointment over the damaged flesh, tape gauze over it, and throw on my shorts and a shirt that will cover my shoulders. I grab my hat, day pack, and water bottles. I fill them both from the refrigerator tap. Icy water, thirty-four degrees. I look for Tylenol with codeine, but I’m out. I pop three Advils, and hope they take the edge off the throbbing in my leg. Then I stuff trail mix into my pack, along with two bananas. I’ll be traveling light, but not nearly as light as they are. I long for the moment when I’ll find them suffering in the sun, their throats as swollen as sponges, as dry as dust.

As I head out the door, I grab my gun, but I warn myself not to get carried away. It would be a terrible mistake to kill them out there, because then I’d have to carry or drag them back. My Jeep could never navigate all the dry streambeds and drop-offs. So as much as I revel in the rich rewards that await me, I must control myself until I have them safely in the cellar. Gratification must be delayed.

Their footprints angle across a dry streambed about twenty feet wide. It appears that already they’re flagging, although I’m willing to grant that this may be mostly desire on my part, for surely they can’t be weakening so quickly. Two healthy young women. I expect they’ll be good for at least a couple of hours out here, and many more back in the cellar. And if they’re not, if they’re the sort who want to give up easily, then I’ll use methamphetamine to return them to the nightmare of consciousness.

Even as I track them, I’m planning, getting all the details down. Perhaps I’ll even use the needle myself so that all three of us can properly enjoy the extremes that inevitably ensue. There’s no need to tire when the effects are so dire.