Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (17 page)

Harp makes rounds with the bottles, and when she empties one, she opens another. Around eleven, people begin to drift up to bed, but not before tossing their arms around Harp and me, insisting we do this every night. By eleven thirty, only a few remain—Diego and Winnie; Kimberly sprawled across a couple of desk chairs, snoring deeply; Julian, lying on the floor; and us. I catch Harp's eye—we'll have to leave soon. She stands, kicking gently at Julian's feet. He moans.

“You should go to bed,” she says. “Do you need help?”

“I need
you,
Harp.” Julian grabs her ankle. “Can't you see I'm in love with you?”

She struggles to hide a smile, and to my surprise I can make out just the faintest flush of color. “You're drunk,” she says, laughing, trying to pull away.

Julian grins and lets go. He reaches up, and Harp takes his arm with both hands, pulling him to his feet. “Don't minimize my feelings, girl. That's cold. That's damn cold.”

We watch him stumble out the door and up the stairs. After a moment, Diego and Winnie follow. Winnie stops to pull me into a loose-armed hug, and when she moves away, she wears a sleepy smile filled with so much love, I feel a pang of guilt, like a knife between my ribs. Diego pauses at the door. “You guys coming?”

“We'll clean up first.” Harp nods to the empty bottles, dirty glasses, paper plates.

“Listen—thanks for that. I didn't realize how much we needed it . . . but I guess you did.”

Harp smiles, but I notice the tightness around her eyes.

“How did that measure up to your New Orphan parties?” Diego asks.

“It was like a hundred million billion times better,” Harp says truthfully, “in every way.”

When Diego is gone, Harp opens her hand to show me a watch on her palm—I recognize it as Julian's, and though we'll need it to make sure we're on schedule, I'm not sure I want to know how Harp came about such Dickensian pickpocketing skills. We clean quietly, aware of Kimberly's slumbering body—if we wake her, we'll never leave. Slightly after one, when all footsteps upstairs have finally ceased, we make our way out, mindful of every creaking floorboard, the deafening pounding of our two hearts in the dark. It isn't until well after we've gotten into the car and left, until there's a mile between us and our protectors, that we manage to speak.

“So . . .” I begin, eager to think of anything but what we're about to do. “Julian, huh?”

I don't have to look at Harp to know she's blushing; she shifts in her seat, and I can practically feel the sheepish pleasure radiating from her skin. “He's just drunk. If I had a nickel for every declaration of love I've received from a drunken stranger . . .”

“He's not really a stranger, though. We've known him over a month.
And
he's cute.” Harp stays silent, and I'm so jittery I keep prodding. “Don't you think? Come on, you can't pretend he's not cute.”

“It doesn't really matter,” Harp replies quietly. “He'll probably be dead in three weeks, so why bother thinking about whether he's cute or not?”

I have the drive to the Chateau memorized by now, and when I park in our spot in the driveway of the abandoned house, I can almost convince myself we're still on stakeout. But this time, we step outside. We're wearing the clothes Winnie brought us when we first arrived at Cliff House—dark, practical, and easy to run in. Harp was disappointed at the time (“Couldn't she find anything with sequins?”) but now these nondescript outfits fit the bill; we blend in easily with the night. We pad down the twists of the hill. The wind blows unpleasantly warm, knocking my hood back, exposing my face; I have to tie the strings tightly at my chin. There's an exotic California smell on the air: sage and lavender. It's completely foreign to me, so uncomfortably new that I feel an ache in my stomach, a helpless longing for my house in Pittsburgh. I push the feeling away. I could never be content in that house anymore. I'm not even sure such a house could contain me.

The gate behind the Chateau opens to the kitchen entrance—there's a cluster of garbage cans reeking of rotting food, a single light above the back door. The security camera hangs over it. I check the time: 1:29 a.m. We can only hope Dylan was able to unplug it. I try the door he promised would be unlocked and it opens. I step into the kitchen and freeze. I'm waiting for an alarm to ring, a voice to shout, “Intruder!” But nothing happens. Harp slips in behind me. We stand still, letting our eyes adjust to the dark. Harp brought a flashlight, but we won't use it unless absolutely necessary. We want to be shadows. The kitchen is huge; stainless-steel hoods and stoves gleam in the light peeking in through the door. I see a line of copper pots on the wall, a block of knives. Dylan told us security makes a loop every twenty minutes: we have to move.

The service elevator is at the opposite end of the kitchen, around a dark corner, across from what appears to be a meat locker. I press the button and cringe at the thunderous sounds: the whoosh of the elevator's approach, the deafening ding as its doors open. There's no way it didn't wake the whole hotel. We clamber in and I wave Bella's ID in front of the sensor, press the button for floor six. When the doors seal us in, Harp turns to me with a wide, slightly manic grin.

“You know, Viv, when we started hanging out, I don't think I understood
quite
how much sleuthing I'd end up doing. I'm not complaining! I'm into all this hardcore Nancy Drew shit. Maybe we should consider costumes next time, though? Or props? Comically overlarge magnifying glasses?”

I don't answer. I can hardly hear myself think over the hum of anxiety that thrums through my body, making my teeth chatter. The floors tick by, too quickly; three, four, five, and we're there. The doors open on red carpeting and white walls, gold lanterns hanging from the ceiling. About twenty feet away, the hall makes an L shape, and it's down that longer section, Dylan says, that we'll find Peter's room. I check the time again: 1:40. I hear feet treading carpet in the unseen part of the hall; I put my arm out to stop Harp from strutting forward. There's a closet to our right and I dart into it, dragging her with me, hoping as we close the door that the guard hasn't reached the hinge of the hallway in time to see the flash of our movement.

It's cramped—extra towels and sheets folded along built-in shelves, a vacuum tilting in one corner. Instinctively we crouch to make ourselves smaller. The footsteps grow louder, closer. Harp claps her hands over her mouth. I can see the outline of the guard behind the slats of the closet door, his blue legs in a wide stance; he pauses.

There's a crackle of static and then a voice. “Hey, Jerry,” the Peacemaker says, “what do you call a sleepwalking nun?”

Another crackle, then a muffled voice at the other end of the walkie-talkies. “What?”

“A roamin' Catholic!” The Peacemaker chuckles. Across from me, fingers still pressed to her lips, I see Harp's shoulders shake. I glare at her in reproach, but I start to feel the blood return to my fingers—we see the guard turn and walk back the way he came. “I love that one. I should tell Mulvey when she gets back from the fundraiser—it'll crack her up.”

“Yeah. Okay. Hey, Bob—you still on the sixth floor?”

“Leaving now.”

“Grab me a towel? I just spilled Coke
everywhere.
”

“Sure thing”—and there's not even a moment to panic, because Bob's shadow looms in front of us once again, and alarmingly, the doorknob turns in his hand; he's opened it half an inch, and my thoughts are a whir:
I'll throw myself at him; I'll scratch out his eyes; I'll buy Harp the time she needs to get out of here.
But then the hallway is filled with movement and distant murmurs and Bob closes the closet door.

“Evening, Mr. Blackmore,” we hear him say, as footsteps approach. “You're earlier than we expected!”

“Ah—hi there . . . Bud, is it?” The oily voice of Ted Blackmore seeps under the door. Harp grips my arm, digging her nails into my skin.

“Bob.” Bob sounds a little annoyed.

“Bob.” Blackmore sounds even more annoyed at having been made to repeat it. “So sorry. Quiet night, I hope?”

“Very, sir. When you folks are out at these fundraisers, the place is just about deserted—it's a little spooky, to be honest with you. Almost haunted!”

“Well, Bob,” Blackmore replies snippily, and I hear a door across the hall open, “you'll want to watch who you make observations like that to. Remember the Book of Frick:
‘In this world there be no spirits but the Holy Spirit.'
Chapter eighteen, verse sixty-two. I'm sure you don't want to give off the impression that we believe in ghosts.”

“Oh—no, sir! I was just—well, of course I don't believe in—”

“Let's hope not,” Blackmore interrupts him. “Now, I really must sleep. Thank you for all the work you do, Bob. Frick's blessings to you.”

“And to you too, sir.” Bob sounds confused, but the door has already closed on him. There's a pause, and Harp's nails dig in deeper, but then he wanders off, muttering (“
‘There be no spirits . . .'
I only said it
felt
haunted!”), having forgotten all about the towel for Jerry below.

I count to ten and then pull my arm out of Harp's grasp. We have to do it now or we'll never do it.

We stand and open the door. I step into the hall. There's no way to cover ourselves—we shouldn't be here; if someone were to see us, there'd be no explaining ourselves away. We move swiftly down the hall, trying to be noiseless, trying to feel like air; we take the right-hand turn, watching the door numbers flick by: 627, 625, 623, 621. And then there it is. Harp has a credit card out to jimmy the lock—whose it is and how she got it I have no idea; she leans forward, but some self-destructive instinct kicks in, and I raise my hand to knock: three times, loudly.

Harp jumps back at the sound. She looks around, panicked eyes searching for a reaction, but there's only silence up and down the hall. Behind the door, too. I raise my hand to knock again and Harp grabs me to keep me from doing it, and that's how we're standing—my arm in the air, Harp clutching my wrist desperately—when the door finally opens.

He wears a white button-down shirt with the top button open, an untied black bow tie limp around his collar. He has a new hollowness under his cheekbones, deep circles under his eyes. His eyes are the worst part—that cool, alien blue. We stare at each other a long moment before he seems to understand what he's looking at, but then I see his eyebrows rise, his jaw go slack. I wait for him to shout, to give us away, but he's silent. Harp's grip on my wrist tightens. It's like staring at the ghost of someone long dead, someone you loved who now wants to hurt you. I catch his scent—wood smoke and cinnamon—and my head goes fuzzy; I'm flooded with longing, and I'm furious with him for making me feel it. I tug my hand out of Harp's grasp and tighten my fingers into a fist—I am going to punch Peter Taggart in the face. I am going to punch him until all the bones in my hand are ground into dust. I don't get the chance, because what happens next takes me so completely by surprise: his shoulders slump; his open mouth stretches into a feverish, incandescent grin; and Peter steps into the hallway, where at any moment all three of us could be seen, to pull me into his arms.

When my surprise fades, I act swiftly. My raised fist is pressed between our bodies and I yank it free, then slam it hard against Peter's shoulder, pushing him away. He stumbles back into the room. Harp follows and I enter after them, closing and locking the door behind me.

“I'm sorry.” A shiver goes up my spine at the sound of his voice. “When I saw you there, I thought—you're angry, of course. You have every right to be angry.”

“You can't just go around
hugging
people,” Harp snaps. “Use some common fucking sense. You really think Viv's in the mood to
hug
you right now?”

“I'm sorry,” Peter says again, sounding nauseatingly convincing. “Seriously—I don't know what I was thinking. I was just so happy to see you.”

He looks at me intently, and I look away. I note how dull the room is—cramped white walls, large white bed, none of the Old Hollywood elegance of the Chateau's façade. Harp just stands there, seething. When neither of us speak, Peter continues.

“Listen, you have to know not a second has gone by where I haven't thought of you—both of you. I didn't know if you were alive for so long; I didn't know if you were okay”—he takes a breath—“I didn't know if you knew about me. I can't imagine what you think of me, but I promise you that you can't possibly hate me as much as I hate myself.”

“You'd be surprised,” Harp snorts.

Peter's face flushes; he stares miserably at the floor. I try to breathe calmly, in through my nose and out through my mouth, so that when I finally speak I'll appear composed—cool and in control of myself, not a girl easily Magdalened. But this performance of his—all woe-is-me and Frick-forgive-me-for-lying-to-you—is a hundred times more infuriating than it would be if he were just honest, if he would just admit he conned us before alerting security to our extremely immoral presence in his room.

“You know what I wish I'd known before I got involved with you, Peter? Besides
anything?
” My voice is low; it seems to usher from some primal part of myself, the part that wants to rip his throat out with my teeth. I see a flash of fear behind his eyes. “I wish I'd known what a superbly talented
actor
you are. You just inhabit these roles you play. You're believable as Peter Ivey, Non-Believing dreamboat; you're believable as Peter Taggart, bombastic Church spokesman. I would even believe
this
—our pal Peter, the rational Believer—if we hadn't already been played by you so many times before.”