Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013) (29 page)

A few minutes later she came out, took my hand and helped me up. I was boneless. I wiped my face and looked at her briefly, then down.

“Come with me, Terry.”

She took my hand and I followed her into the bedroom. There I stopped, startled. The bed was moved away from the far wall and in its place was a stool. The painting that hung above the bed was removed, as was the hook that held it. To my left was a tall tripod topped by a heavy-duty, commercial video camera that was pointing toward the stool. Next to the tripod was a big light setup that was aimed at the now blank wall.

“What?” I managed. “
What?
”

“You know what,” she said very gently, almost sweetly. “I was going to explain it first, but there’s something we need to do. Please, come with me, Terry.”

She led me into the bathroom and shut the door. It was dark, but there was a warm orange light around us. The tub was full. A layer of suds floated a few inches from the top and steam wafted up through the suds. There was a candle in the soap dish and another two floating down in the bubbles. I started crying harder then, with the big chest shakes and that distorted mask of woe we all wear from time to time. I must have looked beyond pathetic. But just the fact that Donna had gone to this trouble for me—for
me
—made the tears pour out faster. She must
really believe me.
She helped me out of my clothes and into the water. I sat there like a kid at first, feeling the hot liquid under the feathery suds. She rubbed my neck and shoulders with her strong hands. I melted down through the bubbles to my chin and looked blearily across the downy white plain to the orange nest of light bobbing down by my upraised knees. It looked like a town at the foot of steep mountains, a hundred miles away. I listened to the break of tiny bubbles. I could see the outline of Donna’s shoulders and head just beyond.

“Something need saying, Terry?”

“I love you.”

“Umm.”

Pleased but not satisfied, this was Donna Mason’s polite way of both accepting and rejecting.

“When this is all over . ..”

But I never finished. I just watched the light of the distant village under the big peaks and wondered what the tiny people who lived there were doing. Did they know that one shift of the giant’s thighs would send their whole stinking civilization down to the bottom? So I was careful when I got out a long while later, careful not to sink them. Donna helped me dry off, then she took me into the bedroom/soundstage and guided me past the camera and lights to our bed, now pushed against the far wall under a window from which you could see the bean field and the freeway. We lay down together. She turned me on my front and smoothed some sweet-smelling oil over me, working it in with her palms and fingers: neck, shoulders, arms and hands, back, butt, thighs and calves, ankles and feet, then back up to the butt again. I was gorged with desire by then—the desire of desperation—and I felt myself working against the mattress in a slow circular motion. She turned me over and I looked down to watch her head moving slowly up and down on me. On
me.
Sometime later she was above, with a fragrant arm resting on either side of my head. Then she straightened and looked up to the ceiling while we found a rhythm and kept it. She smoothed her hands over my face and combed her fingernails through my damp hair and brushed my eyelids closed with her fingertips.

After a short nap I woke up to find myself bundled safely in Donna’s arms. Her breasts smelled like perfume and warm skin. I said it was time for a large amount of Herradura over ice.

“I’d wait,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got to get dressed real sharp and comb your hair back. I’d shave, too, if I were you. I’d also use the eyedrops in the cabinet in there. Then you’re going on air, Terry Naughton. And you’re going to answer my questions. And you’re going to tell our CNB viewers what you did and didn’t do. I’d think about your answers to the cave question while you get ready. It’s an odd thing, if a grown man sleeps in a cave some summer nights, when he’s got a soft bed less than a mile away. You need to tell it and I need to hear it. Truth first. Tequila later.”

“Don’t ask me about Matt.”

She stared at me a long moment. “Agreed.”

I will never forget that interview.

Donna: Your name and occupation?

Me: Terry Naughton. I’m unemployed. I was a sergeant with the Orange County Sheriff.

Donna: What area of law enforcement did you work in?

Me: CAY. That’s Crimes Against Youth. I’m
—
I
was
—
head of the unit.

Donna: What happened?

Me: They’ve charged me with a crime I didn’t commit. More than one crime. So, currently I’m on unpaid leave until the matter is resolved.

Donna: What are the crimes?

Me: Sex with minors. Girls. I didn’t do it.

Donna: Do they have evidence against you?

Me: No. They have falsified documents that appear to be photographs. But they’re not real.

Donna: The documents are not real?

Me: Well, they’re real documents. You can hold them in your hand. I have. But what they depict is not real. What they show never happened.

Donna: How can these documents portray something that didn’t happen?

Me: I’m not sure of the technicalities, yet, but basically, the same way Hollywood can show you space invaders blowing up New York City. If I could explain the exact process, I would. It has something to do with digital data banks and image manipulation. I think a thing called an Iris printer may be used, too.

Donna: Who created this evidence you say is false?

Me: I don’t know.

Donna: How did you learn of it?

Me: It was found during a search.

Donna: You’re saying you were framed?

Me: I was framed.

Donna: The images show you in what setting?

Me: A cave.

Donna: Cave?

Me: It was a place I used to go sometimes to think in private, to get away from things.

Donna: So, you have actually been to the place the photographs show?

Me: Yes. But never in the company of a woman, or … girl. Well, I mean, I did take my step … ah … the daughter of a good friend of mine, there. But she isn’t the girl in the fake photographs.

Donna: You never had sex in the cave?

Me: No.

Donna: Did you ever have sex with the girl in the picture of you two, having sex?

Me: No.

Donna: Do you know who this girl is?

I suddenly broke into a cold, miserable sweat. My eyeballs felt like they were on wires. The lights burned. Something truly horrible had just broken loose in my memory, like a calf sliding off from an iceberg, and now came floating out into my ocean of despair. The girl in the cave.

I’d seen her!

Donna: Do you know who the girl in the picture is? Have you seen her before?

Me: No. Never.

There it was, my first on-camera lie. I knew how obvious it would have to be, with the sweat shining on my face and the sudden rigid dilation of my pupils. I glanced at Donna’s shocked and frightened expression. Anybody who saw this video was going to demand that I be crucified. Because I
had
seen this girl before, and there was no way I could hide it.

Donna: Mr. Naughton
…
you must realize that a great many people aren’t going to believe what you just told me. They’re going to assume the worst about you.

Me: Damn every one of them.

Donna: Is there something you’re not telling me?

Me: Turn off the camera, Donna.

Donna: Mr. Naughton?

Me: Donna, turn off the camera.

Donna: Mr. Naugh
—

Me:
—Turn off the fucking
camera
goddamnit!

I was off the stool and across the room before I even knew it. What I saw next was Donna up against the wall, flat as a shadow, and the camera, tripods and lights scattered on the floor in front of her. The recorder’s little red indicator light was still on. There was a big dent in the plaster above it. And we were surrounded by the abrupt quiet that often follows violence.

“Did I throw you there?”

“I got here under my own power. Who is she, Terry?”

“I don’t know. Come off that wall, please.”

“You’ve seen her before, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I didn’t push you, did I?”

“I’m fine, Terry. Now explain her to me.”

“I can’t I just … know I’ve seen her. Somehow and somewhere. But Donna, I swear, that’s not the worst of it. I mean …”

She didn’t even bother to speak.

“Will you
please
come off that wall?”

She stepped away from the wall, toeing her way past the splayed equipment, her dark West Virginian eyes not leaving my face, not even for a second.

“Say it, Terry.”

“I’ve seen
myself
there before, too.”

“In the cave, with her?”

“No, not the cave, not
there,
but
doing
that … I don’t know. I can’t say where. Just that I’ve seen myself from that angle before. I’ve been in that … posture. Some other time. I’ve
seen
me like that. Like … in a dream maybe. Like in a movie about myself.”

“In another picture?”

Then I understood. A simple, logical question like that, and I knew.

“It was one that Ardith took, years ago. I haven’t looked at any of those since Matt … you know . ..”

“I know.”

“Right, well, that’s … where I saw me. That’s where I was doing … that’s what I was … I mean, that’s where I was. With Matt.”

“In the cave?”

“No! I didn’t know about the cave back then.”

“You’re not making full sense, Terry. What about the girl?”

I stared at her a moment, then backed off and looked down at the tangled mass of video gear. The girl’s image flickered in from my memory, like a speeding dove in a vast blue sky. But my memory was not of the pictures. It was of something else. Something similar, but different.

“Then who’s the girl?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve seen her before.”

“Another picture, then?”

“I can’t say.”

“I hope you
can
say pretty soon, Terry. Because until you do, all you’ve got is a greased skid straight to some hellhole of a prison.”

I tried to read her expression. Doubtful. Hopeful. Askance. Willing to believe. Believe what?

“You think that’s where I belong?”

“I told you I wouldn’t answer that again. I won’t. You’re going to have to clean and jerk your own conscience, Terry. I can’t do that for you. What I can do is go make myself useful now. I’m going to edit that interview we just had.”

She knelt down and unscrewed the video camera from its tripod plate. She stood up, holding the big thing by the handle, like a suitcase.

“Don’t forget to turn it off,” I said.

She blushed. It was the first time that I’d caught Donna Mason in a dishonesty, or at least the first I knew of.

“The red light’s still going,” I said. “You knew it was on.”

“Well … yes, I did.”

Donna was still red faced and flustered. She said nothing, but she looked down at the camera and turned it off. I heard the traffic out on the freeway. I smelled my own fear.

“Now what?” I asked.

She looked very tired, suddenly, and she spoke quietly, with a trace of the south in her voice. “Go back to the studio and edit. After that, I got a late flight out to Dallas. My bags are packed and waiting in the car.”

“Mary Lou Kidder?”

“Yeah. It’s our Texas connection to The Horridus. Nobody has that angle but me. Thanks to you.”