"U" is for Undertow (41 page)

I sat down in my swivel chair. “What can I do for you?”

Even before she spoke I could tell she’d rehearsed her remarks, eager to present herself as someone organized and in control. “I told Ryan about the conversation we had—”

I interrupted, hoping to throw her off balance. “We’ve actually talked twice—once at the dig and again the next day.”

“I’m referring to our meeting here. Something nagged at me when you talked about Michael’s seeing the two men in Horton Ravine. If you’ll remember, I asked you then what made him so certain of the date and you told me it was because it happened on his sixth birthday.”

“Okay.”

“Even at the time it seemed off and I remember saying so.”

“You know you really don’t have to go through the whole thing again.”

“I’m touching on the salient points,” she said. “I hope you don’t object.”

“Far from it. I’m begging you to get on with it. I’ve got work to do.” She ignored that and went on. I half expected her to whip out her little spiral-bound notebook, but she’d committed her recital to memory. “You told me Mary Claire Fitzhugh was kidnapped on Wednesday, July 19, 1967. Michael claims he saw the two men two days later, on Friday, the twenty-first.”

I waved a hand in the air, dismissing the details, which I didn’t feel bore repeating. As far as I knew, none of this was in dispute.

She shot me a dark look and then went on. “According to his account, Mom dropped him off at the Kirkendalls’. Billie was sick so his mother let Michael wander on the property and that’s when he came across the two men. I’m repeating this for Ryan’s sake since he was the one who pointed out Michael’s error.”

“The error?”

“A whopper,” Ryan said.

“And what might that be?”

Diana reached for her tote and removed what I could see then was a scrapbook, the pages thick with newspaper clippings, programs, souvenirs, and party favors, some of which were sticking out. The assemblage was clearly the work of someone suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder, who couldn’t bear to throw anything away. She’d marked a particular page and she turned to it, reversing the album so I could see the contents without craning my neck.

Looking down, she said, “I started this when I was eight. To remind you of the family order, by the time Michael turned six, David was ten years old, Ryan was twelve, and I was fourteen.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said. I could see she was stringing it out and I could hardly keep from rolling my eyes.

“I can assure you, you’re unaware of
this,
” she said. “To celebrate his birthday that year, Mom and Dad took us all to Disneyland. You can see for yourself.”

She pointed to a photograph that showed a costumed Mickey Mouse and Cinderella in the background. All four kids were seated at a table in an outdoor café, leaning toward the center so the photographer could get them all in one shot. Michael and his siblings wore paper hats, all of them grinning for the camera. The paper tablecloth, napkins, and cups were decorated with Happy Birthday greetings in several different fonts. The birthday cake was at Michael’s place, with six candles burning away merrily.

I nearly said, So what? I was thinking,
Shit, a birthday doesn’t have to be celebrated on the actual day. Parents can throw a party anytime they please.

Diana sensed my response and moved her finger to the date along the bottom of the photograph. July 21, 1967. “You might note these as well if you’re not convinced.”

She turned the pages for me like a teacher reading a picture book upside down so I’d have it in perspective. She’d pasted in dated programs, ticket stubs, receipts, and additional snapshots that showed the kids on a variety of rides. Every item that bore a date supported her claim.

Ryan spoke up as though on cue. “There’s something else.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“It’s about the Kirkendalls.”

He was hoping I’d prompt him, but I was tired of their routine. I said nothing, forcing him to flounder on without an assist. He cleared his throat and coughed once, saying, “Sorry. Keith Kirkendall was a CPA who embezzled $1.5 million from the firm he worked for. The discrepancies showed up during an independent audit and the authorities were closing in. He took his family and vanished overnight.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Good. Then I’ll get to the point. By July 17, when the news of Kirkendall’s crime appeared in the local paper, the family was gone. On Friday, the twenty-first, the house was empty and not a stick of furniture remained. Even if Michael hadn’t been at Disneyland, he couldn’t have been there.”

I was silent for a moment, calculating rapidly. “Maybe it was the week before. July fourteenth instead of the twenty-first.” I was talking off the top of my head, desperate to salvage the story Michael had told me with such conviction.

Diana wagged an index finger. “No, no, no,” she said, as though correcting an errant child. “Mary Claire was kidnapped on the nineteenth. If Michael had seen the men the week before—even if he was correct about what they were up to—the bundle couldn’t have been her. She was still alive and well.”

I closed my mouth and stared at them.

Diana Alvarez’s eyes were bright with triumph. I could feel the color rising in my cheeks. Offhand . . . except for an incident in first grade . . . I couldn’t think when I’d felt so humiliated. I’d believed Sutton. I’d persuaded others he was telling the truth. Now here I sat, feeling like an ass. I didn’t care that my ego had taken a hit. I cared because we were back to square one where Mary Claire was concerned. The link, as tenuous as it might have been, was gone.

Diana reached into her tote again, this time pulling out a file folder that she then pushed across the desk. “I made copies of the photographs from Disneyland. I also made copies of the clippings about Keith Kirkendall so you can read them at your leisure. I knew you wouldn’t be content to take our word for it.”

I pushed the folder back across the desk. “I appreciate the offer, but you’ll want those for your latest scrapbook.”

She left the folder where it was. “I made duplicates. That’s yours to keep. We’ve already dropped off a set for Lieutenant Phillips.”

Ryan fixed his big brown eyes on me with a phony look of pity and regret. Briefly I considered leaping across the desk and biting him until he bled.

“Sorry you had to go through this,” he said. “It’s typical of Michael, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.”

“Have you told him?”

Diana said, “No. As you know, we’re not on the best of terms. We thought the blow might be softer if it came from you.”

“In other words, you want me to stick it to him instead of you.”

Ryan said, “There’s nothing personal at stake. We’re setting the record straight. If you want us to put copies in the mail to him, we will.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his sport coat and took out a checkbook and pen. “We’re assuming he didn’t have the money to pay for your services.”

“Which is another reason we’re here,” Diana said. “I have no idea how much time and energy you’ve devoted to this wild-goose chase, but we’re prepared to cover what he owes.”

Ryan leaned forward to use the desk in writing the check.

“Michael’s paid in full.”

Diana’s smile flickered. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

“Life is a barrel of surprises, Diana. Was there anything else?”

Ryan put the checkbook away and the two exchanged a look, apparently at a loss as to what should come next. They’d probably hoped to hear me rage about Michael and his tenuous hold on the truth, but I’d have cut my own throat before I gave them the satisfaction. Their departure was awkward, hard-pressed as they were to detach themselves with any ease or grace. I didn’t offer to escort them to the door, but I did trail after them without the usual end-of-meeting pleasantries.

Once they were gone I locked the door and returned to my desk, where I sat and stewed for the better part of an hour.

 

 

A week after the family left for Europe, Jon arrived at Walker’s house on his scooter just as Walker was coming down the drive in the secondhand 1963 Buick Skylark his father had given him the day he was accepted at UCST. The car wasn’t new, but it was better than the crummy Chevrolet Lionel had bought for Jon. Walker leaned across the passenger seat and rolled down the window. “I gotta make a run. Leave the scooter in the carport and hop in.”

Jon walked his scooter up the incline, parked it, and then hustled down the driveway to the street where Walker was waiting. He got in on the passenger side and slammed the door. “Where to?”

“Alita Lane. You won’t believe this pair. They’re living in a school bus. Creed and Destiny. He’s an asshole but she’s a trip. They went over to the high school, hoping to score some dope, and Chapman turned them on to me.”

“Good deal.”

When they reached Alita Lane, Walker parked around the corner and the two hoofed it back. Walker was careful to avoid parent types when delivering weed. He mentioned, in passing, that the house belonged to Creed’s parents, Deborah and Patrick Unruh, whom Jon knew distantly from the country club. Mona was particularly enamored of Deborah Unruh and took every opportunity to fawn over her. Immediately Jon anticipated the moment when he could casually refer to the time he’d spent at Deborah’s. Soon afterward, however, he decided the connection would never pass his lips. There were things Mona wasn’t meant to know and most began to unfold on that day.

Jon followed Walker around the side of the house to the cabana in back, where the school bus was parked. A boy of ten or so was splashing naked in the pool, probably peeing in the water when it suited him. The school bus was ratty on the outside, but when Jon finally saw the interior he thought it was cool—decked out with mattresses, a camp stove, storage boxes. An Indian-print spread served as a privacy screen, dividing the vehicle into two parts. The couple crashed in the back while the kid sacked out on the futon in front.

The bus doors were open and the boyfriend was fussing around with something inside. The chick was cross-legged in the grass, knotting a length of hemp, using hitches and half-hitches to make a wall hanging, or something equally useless since the bus had no walls to speak of. She looked up as they approached. “Hey, Creed? We have company.”

Creed emerged from the bus and Walker made the introductions. Nobody bothered to shake hands. Even years later, it was odd how vivid the moment seemed. Destiny was in her mid-twenties, six or seven years older than he. He’d never encountered anyone as hang-loose as she was. Her nails were bitten to the quick and her hair was a mass of curls. Her earrings were big silver hoops. She wore a scoop-necked peasant blouse, a long skirt, and Birkenstocks. She was chunky and smelled sooty from all the dope and cigarettes she smoked, but the scent reminded him of his mother. Destiny was a walking warning about the health hazards of poor nutrition and substance abuse. Within minutes, she mentioned she wasn’t married to Creed.

Jon said, “Is that your kid in the pool?”

She laughed. “Mine, but not his. Sky Dancer’s dad could have been any one of half a dozen guys.”

Was she for real? Jon couldn’t believe she’d said that.

After the preliminary chitchat, Creed handed Walker a wad of wrinkled bills in exchange for a lid. Destiny set aside her macramé and invited them to “partake,” as she referred to it, and then proceeded to roll the tightest joint he’d ever seen, about the size of a bobby pin. The four of them settled on the mattress at the back of the bus, smoking and making idle conversation. She had a husky laugh and she peppered the conversation with the sorts of expletives he associated with guys. After a time, he became aware that she was watching him. Creed, while dim, had to be aware of it, but seemed unconcerned.

Smoking dope made Jon paranoid and he was anxious about the kid who’d been left to play in the pool unsupervised. Now and then he’d find a pretext to hop out of the bus so he could check up on him. It wasn’t his responsibility, but the kid’s mother didn’t seem to care. At one point, while he was paddling around the shallow end, she appeared at Jon’s side, managing to stand closer than the situation required. The heat pouring off her skin left Jon mute. When she spoke, angling her face to his, it reminded him of those movie moments when the lovers are on the verge of kissing. Why was she coming on to him with Creed no more than fifteen feet away?

Jon shifted his focus to the kid, who was doing cannonballs off the side of the pool, plumes of water splashing up.

“Hey, Sky Dancer, shit-for-brains!” she snapped. “What’s the matter with you? You want to hit your head and drown? Get over here before you crack your skull and die.”

The kid grabbed the side of the pool and worked his way around to her. She leaned down and hauled him out by one arm, after which he sat hunched and shivering on the side.

Jon peered at her. “
What’s
his name?”

“Sky Dancer. It’s like his spiritual designation, the same way Destiny’s mine. Why, you think it’s weird?”

“It’s not that. I just wasn’t sure what you said.”

She made a remark half under her breath and then turned to him, waiting for a response.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Yeah, you did,” she said with a slow smile.

He stared at her for a moment and then made an excuse and returned to the bus. What kind of game was she playing?

From that day on, he and Walker hung out with Creed and Destiny most afternoons. In her company, Jon was detached, seldom making eye contact. Surreptitiously he studied her, noting her gestures, absorbing her raucous laugh and her air of confidence. She didn’t shave her legs or armpits, and she exuded an animal smell that stirred him in some curious way. She’d taken to ignoring him, but he knew she was as aware of him as he was of her. She was the antithesis of the
Playboy
centerfolds and he wove her into his daydreams.