Charisma

by Steven Barnes

“Well, this comes naturally to us,” Heather said. She pursed her lips like a biologist examining the contents of a petri dish. “We need to bring out her eyes, and I don’t have the right shade of eye color.”

  Courtney dug into her purse, bringing out a tube of lipstick. “This will work.”

  “Lipstick? For eye color?”

  “Become acquainted with every art.” she said. “A real artist knows how to improvise.”

  * * *

  By the time Destiny made her entrance into the rec hall, the dance was hopping. D. J. Jason was demonstrating a musical sensibility that ranged acrobatically from Aerosmith to Limp Bizkit to Snoop Dog.

  A nervous Patrick finally crossed the crowded floor, unable to take his eyes from Destiny. He had to stand very close to her in order to be heard above the lyrics of Love in an Elevator.

  “I … I’ve never seen you looking like this before,” he said. Her hair hung in a cascade of ringlets. Instead of her customary jumper, she wore a black dress that showcased her legs and the firmness of her waist. She was almost perfectly proportioned, something far less evident in her customary jeans and T-shirts.

  “Is it all right?” she asked anxiously. “I wanted you to like it.”

  Struck temporarily mute, he could only nod. Destiny reached out her hand and took his, leading him out onto the dance floor.

  * * *

  Frankie stood alone in a corner of the dance floor, watching, as he always did. Perhaps he was guarding the punch bowl. He stood as if doing something of terrible importance, as if he hadn’t noticed that he was one of the very few not thrashing in search of a beat.

  Little Jessica emerged from the crowd, stood beside him through the entire length of Hammer’s U Can’t Touch This. She looking up at him wistfully, and then impatiently. He glanced at her and then away, at her and away again. She wore a blue dress with pink frills, and black high-heel shoes that made her look like a heftier version of Prom Night Barbie. Finally she grabbed Frankie’s arm, twisted him toward her, looked him right in the eye and said: “Are you going to ask me to dance, or do I have to punch you again?”

  He stared at her for a moment, and if she hadn’t held out her small hand, he might have run away. He took it, and managed to guide them both to an empty spot on the dance floor.

  He gyrated to the beat, surprised that he was able to find it. Next to him, Patrick grinned and gave Frankie a thumbs-up.

  When the song changed, Colin began to move in a way Patrick recognized instantly, arms and legs sliding in smooth synchronicity with the rhythm line. That was the Claremont Groove! He and his friends had created that, and somehow, it had spread all the way to Mississippi!

  “Yeah!” Mathias said. The Chicagoan was dancing with Cheryl, and it looked as if they had a little of that special wait-till-lights-out energy cooking. “Now that’s what I’m talking ‘bout!” He pulled Cheryl over with him until they stood next to Colin, dancing in concert, flipping and dipping in a kind of hip-hop line dance. Soon the entire room was in synch, all fifty of them, lined up and kneeling, turning, spinning to the music, whooping and cheering as Courtney or Hughie improvised a move and then flowed back into the repetitive ten-step cycle.

  * * *

  Outside, Vivian and Sand stood watching. The kids were doing some kind of variation on the Electric Slide that he’d never seen before, and from their grace, he assumed that they’d been practicing it every day. They moved like the gears of a big clock.

  His toes tapped along to the beat. Vivian seemed glued to the scene before them, but he knew she was aware of him, knew that her breathing was a little shallower, her heart beating a little faster, because he was there. It had been like that all day, a thin membrane of propriety limiting the amount of touch. It was obvious to him that they both wondered what that touch would be like. Wondered when it would eventually happen.

  From time to time she drifted closer and her hand brushed his, fingers beginning to intertwine. Then she would catch Patrick’s accusing eye, his my father isn’t even cold yet stare, and she wilted away from him again.

  God, he thought. Have I got the world’s worst timing, or what?

  After the song was over, another fast one played, and the kids did their little slide-step dance again, hooting and hollering as if they’d just discovered pirate treasure. After that they returned to the kind of stylized gyrations that have passed for partner dancing ever since the cha-cha was outlawed.

  Vivian hummed, watching appreciatively, her hips swaying hypnotically to the music without quite breaking into steps. Sand waited while one fast song after another played. That wasn’t what he wanted or needed. If he and Vivian had any chance at all he was going to have to create a window of opportunity, and soon.

  He excused himself and entered the sweat-steamed rec room, heading over to the turntable. Jason listened to his proposition with a knowing grin. “I’ll slip you a five if I have to,” Renny said.

  “Not necessary,” Jason replied. “Go for it.”

  He went back outside. Vivian pretended not to notice that he had gone, or what he had done. But when the tempo of the music changed, slowed from The Thong Song to a sultry remix of Didn’t I Blow Your Mind This Time, she looked at him with eyes that were luminous and wise and afraid.

  “May I have this dance?” he whispered.

  She lowered her eyes and hesitated. He took her hands, and Vivian flowed into his arms. He held her loosely, felt her close the gap between them by another inch, each of them afraid of the heat, but weary of the cold.

  And they turned in slow, dreamy circles that didn’t stop even when the music itself finally did.

  * * *

  Inside the hall, Patrick and Destiny moved together as slowly as melting ice cream.

  “This is a great fucking week,” Patrick whispered into her hair.

  Destiny nodded silently, her cheek buried against his chest.

  “Destiny,” Patrick said. Her footwork was marginally better than his, so she was very subtly leading him.

  “Shermie and Lee … I know that when summer is over, we’re not going to be what we were. Everything changed.” He hesitated. “I changed everything.”

  “You didn’t change anything,” she said, her lips close to his ear.

  “What I did…”

  “You had to do.” Her eyes locked with his. They still swayed gently, but he was startled by the ferocity of her expression. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. I don’t want you to talk about it again, to anyone but me, and maybe Frankie. Do you hear me?”

  He shook his head numbly. His senses were spinning. Patrick fought to bring himself back to reality, and remembered her basketball hero boyfriend. “Destiny. What about Billy Kumer? When we get back—”

  The music was sweet, intoxicating. It, and the motion, and the evening were all blending together seamlessly.

  “Already over,” she said.

  “Because you wouldn’t kiss him?” he asked.

  “No,” she whispered. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”

  And there, in the shadows, she touched her lips to his. They were slightly parted, and her breath was like a spring wind rolling across an ocean of honey. She touched her tongue against his upper lip and then closed her mouth again, the touch of her lips firm and cool and a comfort beyond anything he had ever known.

  Then she pulled back, still leaving him in his startlement. Destiny laid her head upon his shoulder. “There,” she said, as if she had settled something. And perhaps she had.

  “Well … ah…” he searched wildly for something to say. “That kind of screws up the whole friendship thing, doesn’t it?”

  “I hope so,” she said, and snuggled against him, innocent and trusting as a baby. Patrick closed his eyes, and was lost.

  And found.

  73

  Kelly and Bobby Ray were watching Morey Amsterdam and Rose Marie trade lightning repartee on an episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show. An old and beloved game between them was p
retending they had watched the original sixties-era shows together, pretending that they had shared these laughs before, snuggling beneath quilted blankets, her leg over his, munching butter-flavored popcorn and stealing kisses like a pair of teenagers.

  There was genuine comfort in the ritual. After Dick and Laura Petrie said good-night, Kelly and Bobby Ray would watch Happy Days, which they actually had watched in first run, when initially courting. When there were no guests enjoying the hospitality of Kerrigan House they might stay awake until three in the morning, enjoying Good Times and Bob Newhart and M*A*S*H reruns until they were too exhausted to keep their eyes open, then fall asleep snuggling right there on the couch.

  Bob’s fingers scraped the bottom of the popcorn bowl, and he stuck out his lower lip. “Dry again,” he announced, and sighed. “Shall I go one more?”

  “Only if you love me,” Kelly said, and he brushed her lips with his.

  There was a knock at the front door.

  She pushed herself up out of the couch, mindful of her back, and answered the door.

  A tall lean black man in his fifties stood smiling at her. He doffed his cowboy hat, revealing a head of startlingly white hair. “Evening, Kelly,” he said.

  “Evening, Charlie,” she replied, surprised to see him at eleven o’clock at night. “What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?” She pulled the door wider. Charlie Wisher and Deputy Woodcock entered. Black man and rawboned Okie, two ex-military peas in a civilian pod. What was this all about?

  Bob looked up at them, nodded without smiling. “Charlie. Nice long leave you had. When’d you get back?”

  “Just today,” Wisher said.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “All over,” he said calmly, scanning the room. “New Mexico, Illinois. California.”

  Just like the old days, when you trotted behind Marcus like the beta wolf you always were. “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business,” he said.

  “So, what brings you here tonight?”

  Wisher scratched his white hair, a gesture she instantly considered a deliberate attempt at aw-shuckishness. He wasn’t Barney Fife, and this wasn’t Mayberry RFD. At the back of her neck a little internal alarm bell triggered.

  “According to Woodcock, you had a guest who drove a white Toyota. That right?”

  “Yes. Renny Sand, out of Los Angeles.” Why is this your business?

  “Well, a car of that description was seen leaving the site of a burglary over in Sierra Vista.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, last week. Friday.”

  “That’s right,” Woodcock said. “Friday.”

  “Well,” Kelly said. “I couldn’t say about that. He arrived yesterday, and left this morning.”

  “Do you have his address and phone number?”

  “Surely do,” she said, and went into the hall to fetch the guest book.

  Wisher studied the television screen. On it, Carl Reiner was trying on wigs, and Mary Tyler Moore was industriously stuffing both feet into her lovely mouth. The audience roared. “Like that show,” Wisher said.

  Bobby Ray grunted agreement. He was pretending to watch the show, but was actually studying their guests. From long experience Kelly knew Bobby Ray was not at all happy with this intrusion.

  Truth be told, neither was she.

  “Here it is,” Kelly said, and handed Wisher the book.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Someplace called Charisma Lake,” she said. Both men suddenly became very still, very tense.

  “Charisma Lake?” Wisher whispered.

  “Yes. Does that mean something?”

  Wisher regained his composure. “Pretty filled up this evening, Kelly?” The question was asked casually, but Kelly Kerrigan’s veins burned with adrenaline. Woodcock and Wisher had separated, stood seven feet apart now. In a very casual way, they now bracketed her and Bobby.

  “Nope,” Bobby said, finally looking Wisher dead in the eye. “Next guests due in tomorrow.”

  No point in a lie: Wisher knew there were no cars parked outside, no new names in the guest book. But oh, Bobby, she thought. What kind of trouble is this?

  Wisher nodded again. He whispered something to Woodcock, and the junior deputy stepped outside. Through the window, she could see him speaking on a cell phone, but couldn’t hear anything. She tried to watch the television set, but her nerves wouldn’t stop prickling.

  When Woodcock came back in, he nodded once to Wisher.

  “Is that all, Charlie?” she asked, hoping they might leave.

  “One more thing,” Charlie Wisher said. “What did the three of you talk about out on the porch?”

  “What?” Bobby Ray stood up.

  Wisher’s fingers rested lightly on his sidearm. “We know he was asking about Alexander. But once you went outside, we couldn’t hear you.” His voice was low, regretful.

  “What the hell is this?” Bobby balled his hands into big red knobby fists.

  “What did you talk about?” Wisher asked softly. Woodcock closed the door.

  “I think you’d better leave,” Kelly said, more certain by the moment that they would do no such thing.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. And don’t touch that phone.” He wagged his head. “If you’ll just tell me what you talked about, this will all be over.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kelly said, afraid now that she did. “I don’t understand one damn bit.”

  “We tried to keep you out of it, Kelly. We actually like you. You were one of us. So we brought you here to Diablo, where we could watch you. And listen to you.”

  He tapped the telephone. “Anytime we wanted, we could turn on the mic in your phone and listen. The whole house is bugged, Kelly.” Dear God. Every laugh, every sound of passion, every tearful conversation recorded by these bastards? How dare they. Sheer corrosive anger clouded her vision.

  Wisher leaned forward. “I’m giving you a chance to live through this, Kelly. I don’t want to hurt you. Just tell me: what the fuck were you talking about? Why did he go up to Charisma Lake?”

  “I don’t—” she began. Wisher stepped forward, and slapped her, very quickly and quite hard.

  Bobby Ray moved far more swiftly than anyone his age had any right to move. He swept the lamp up off the table, and with a single sweeping move brought it down on Woodcock’s head. It crunched, and Woodcock sagged to his knees.

  “No!” Kelly screamed, too late.

  Wisher pivoted, drew his service revolver and shot Bobby Ray precisely in the center of his chest. Kelly screamed and threw herself at Wisher’s legs. Clinching her fist, she dug a short hooking punch into his groin. He groaned and fired down at her as his knees sagged. She felt a hot flash, and pain exploded as the bullet tore a groove above her left temple. Kelly swung wildly, once again sinking her fist into Wisher’s crotch. Wisher groaned again and fell to the floor, the gun spilling from his hand.

  Time froze. Bobby’s eyes were open and staring. The wound in his chest welled with blood. His mouth worked silently, eyes filled with love and tears as he whispered, “Run!”

  Call the hospital. Head still ringing from Wisher’s service revolver, Kelly turned to the phone. From the corner of her eye she saw that the gun was mere inches from Wisher’s hand, and he was even now clawing toward it. She’d never make it. Mind dulled by shock and fear, operating on pure instinct, she dashed for the door, and through it.

  Not that way.

  Stumbling through the shadows, Kelly moved in the other direction. She sobbed as she ran, her head wound twinning the world.

  She lurched into a shadow, fighting for a moment’s calm thought. How many damned Praetorians were in the Sheriff’s department?

  Three. D’Angelo, Wisher, Woodcock. They’d said that Diablo was a great place to retire.

  Bobby Ray. She hated to say it, even think it, but judging by the placement of the chest wound, Bobby Ray was gone. He would want her t
o live, had died to give her a chance. If she had remained in that house another moment she would be dead now, without ever knowing why.

  It all had something to do with the reporter. With Alexander Marcus. With Charisma Lake. With the Praetorians. With those secretive nighttime excursions.

  Bob, honey, oh God …

  She scrambled through the back of a clapboard fence, and was out on Main Street. There she froze, and thought. Where could she go? It was near midnight, and Diablo was mostly closed down. They would expect her to head for Excellent Mary’s, the saloon on the east end of the street. There were still people at Mary’s, but even now she saw the cruiser gliding around the corner. Without thought, she headed directly across the street to Helldorado. She ran down the aisle through the spectator seats to the stage.

  The Helldorado’s stage was flanked by western-style house shells. Kelly crept through the shadows and up onto the stage, hunkering down in the left wing as the two deputies came looking. From her hiding spot, she could see little save shadowy figures and flashlights, and the occasional glimpse of a gun.

  Kelly hunched down more deeply. She could see one of the deputies, Wisher probably, creeping toward the center of the stage.

  “Come on out, Kelly. We can talk about this. We get this sorted out, and we can get Bob to the hospital.…” Even in her confusion, she recognized her surge of crazy hope as nothing more than desperation. She needed to seal it away, for now. Maybe forever.

  There was the tiniest creak. Wisher pivoted, very professional now, not at all the Deputy Dawg Diablo’s officers usually pretended to be.

  He crept closer. “This isn’t doing anyone any good. You know we can’t let the reporter go. But you’re one of us, Kelly. You understand how things work.…”

  Kelly was shivering, muscles in her belly knotting painfully with the adrenaline surge. Breathe. Get it under control, you silly bitch—

  And then she saw the stage levers. Clearly. How many times had she watched the show? Watched the bandits and the Indians pop up from the trap doors?

  Her hands fumbled at the levers, trying to sense them, understand them. Soon after first moving to Diablo, Rowdy Hawthorne, the retired western stuntman who owned Helldorado, had demonstrated their operation.