Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘Some E,’’ he said. ‘‘And maybe a few lines.’’

  Exhaling, I let my hands drop. ‘‘What happened here? Tell me.’’

  He stared out the door again. ‘‘I don’t know. Me and some guys were here in the kitchen. People were everywhere. I couldn’t get a clear look.’’

  ‘‘What did you see?’’

  ‘‘Something out on the balcony, like voices. But it was so loud, the music—and that sliding-glass door was shut, and the lights here were reflecting. The rain—on the glass it looked so bright.’’ His knee began jittering. ‘‘I don’t know. It just scared me.’’

  He was wired to the ends of his hair, bouncing toward hysteria, and I still didn’t know if he’d hallucinated it or not.

  He began shaking. ‘‘It was freaky. So freaky.’’

  I looked around the kitchen. The phone had been torn out of the wall, leaving a gaping hole. Written in marker beneath it was, No more coffee for Alex.

  ‘‘Give me my cell phone, P.J.’’

  He clutched it like a precious toy. ‘‘You won’t call?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  Slowly he extended it to me. I closed my fingers around it, waiting. It rang.

  I answered. ‘‘Here. A woman fell off the balcony.’’

  It was the emergency dispatcher calling back. I gave her the address. The last I saw, P.J. was running through the crowd toward the front door.

  Keep it to yourself. Prude. Priss. Got a look at it, and that’s all she could say? Frigid bitch.

  Just like he’d hoped.

  He walked away from the house with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his face. Keeping his head down, when he really wanted to laugh and pull off his clothes and sing. The rain felt great, coming down hard now, like it knew, and was showering him with applause. It had been perfect.

  Except for running into that woman. Ice queen. Lady Rudest Home Videos thought she was a comedian.

  But the joke was on her. She saw what he wanted her to see. And she got a good, long, beautiful look, too. Whip it out and they never noticed your face. Wang dangling just blew their minds.

  He balled his hands. They weren’t exactly slick, more sticky. He held them out and spread his fingers and let the rain lick it off. He wondered if it got on his dick when he whizzed on that car. An ache began in his crotch. But he couldn’t pull down his pants and let the sky kiss it all away. Not on the street. But that was okay; it was only blood.

  He walked, feeling his hands turning clean. Perfect, yeah, it had been fucking perfect. And gone in a flash.

  He should have gotten it on film.

  2

  The searchlight arced white across the black ocean. A firefighter stood against the balcony railing, swinging the light over the heaving water. Two Water Rescue Jet Skis cruised the surf, looking for the fallen girl. Their engines had cut back, close to idling now.

  The fire captain came in from the balcony, his hat and yellow turnout coat shining with rainwater. He moved like a boulder. In his hand a radio squelched.

  ‘‘Ma’am?’’

  I looked up from my seat at the kitchen table. ‘‘Any sign of her?’’

  Music was still trickling from the stereo, but the house had emptied out. Nothing kills a party like firefighters showing up. With sheriff’s deputies.

  The captain wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘‘Run it past me again. Exactly what convinced you to call us?’’

  ‘‘A friend told me that a woman had fallen off the balcony into the water,’’ I said.

  ‘‘But you didn’t see it happen.’’

  ‘‘No. But—’’

  A deputy came in with raindrops clinging to his crew cut like dew. ‘‘Excuse me, but who are you?’’

  ‘‘Evan Delaney.’’

  He wrote it down. ‘‘And the woman who fell, what’s her name?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ I said.

  ‘‘What did she look like?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t see her. It happened before I got here.’’

  The fire captain set his radio on the table. ‘‘So you don’t actually know that anybody fell over the edge.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘The thing is,’’ the deputy said, ‘‘nobody’s missing.’’

  Into the kitchen walked Toby, the man who’d let me into the house. The deputy turned to him.

  ‘‘Isn’t that so, sir?’’

  Toby scratched his nose. He was nothing but dark tan and stringy muscle, a walking stick of beef jerky.

  ‘‘Nobody said anything to me. If somebody went over, I’d have known. They’d have screamed; I would have heard it.’’

  Spoken like a landlord concerned about liability. The deputy was nodding.

  ‘‘No, you wouldn’t,’’ I said, ‘‘not with the storm, the music, the blender, the couch being torched—and besides, somebody did know. My friend told me. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry. But a woman might be out there in the water, and I couldn’t ignore it.’’

  The fire captain picked up his radio. ‘‘I’ll send the Jet Skis down the shoreline, but with this surf I can’t keep them out there for long.’’

  The deputy ran his hand across his head. ‘‘This friend of yours. Was he . . .’’

  ‘‘Wasted,’’ Toby said. ‘‘Out of his head. Not that he got that way here at the party. I mean, he showed up that way. I didn’t know him.’’

  ‘‘Where is he? Can we talk to him?’’

  ‘‘Gone,’’ Toby said. ‘‘Out the door like a shot.’’

  ‘‘What’s his name?’’

  ‘‘Blackburn.’’ Toby took a folded sheet of typing paper from his shirt pocket. Unfolded it, peered at the text. ‘‘Jesse Blackburn.’’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘‘No, it isn’t.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, it says right here.’’ Toby handed me the paper.

  It was an e-mail from me to Jesse, giving him my new cell phone number. ‘‘Where’d you get this?’’

  ‘‘He brought a guitar. Found it in the case.’’

  Why had I thought I could keep Jesse out of this? I felt as though a landslide were starting under my feet. And it was going to take me down.

  ‘‘The man who was here wasn’t Jesse; it was his brother, P.J.,’’ I said.

  ‘‘P.J.,’’ the deputy said. ‘‘What’s that stand for?’’

  ‘‘Patrick John.’’

  Thinking, Rhymes with here and gone.

  Toby watched me drive away. He stood with the engine crew on the driveway, by the smoldering sofa. The headlights flicked across his eyes when I turned the wheel. His look seemed to say, Thanks for the trouble. Thanks for nothing.

  I drove to the end of the street, got out, and found a path between houses to the cliff. The wind buffeted me. I could see nothing, hear nothing but the cold roar of the water. It sounded inexorable.

  P.J., what happened here tonight? Were you telling me the truth?

  He knew how to tell the truth, to break the worst news. He’d broken it to me. But tonight I didn’t know whether his tangled story came from fact, imagination, or cocaine.

  Getting back in the car, I drove to his apartment building a few blocks away. The Don Quixote Arms, student squalor at its finest. It took three minutes for P.J.’s roommate to answer my pounding. His eyes were gluey with sleep, and he hadn’t bothered to remove the stud from his lower lip before bedtime. His T-shirt said, If I gave a shit, you’re the person I’d give it to. When I asked for P.J., he scratched under his armpit.

  ‘‘He doesn’t live here anymore,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Yes, he does. That’s his acoustic guitar by the sofa.’’

  ‘‘Does he owe you money?’’

  Next door the curtains fluttered. I walked over and knocked.

  A woman called from behind the peephole, ‘‘Who is it?’’

  ‘‘I’m looking for your neighbor. P. J. Blackburn.’’

  A hand drew back the curtains. I
saw cautious eyes and a receding chin. ‘‘He went to a party. Over on Del Playa.’’

  ‘‘I know. Did he come home?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ She peered, waiting for me to go away. I didn’t. ‘‘I would have heard him. He hasn’t.’’

  Back in the car I slumped against the headrest, listening to the rain. Procrastination wouldn’t make this go away. I took out my phone and called Jesse.

  Outside Chaco’s on State Street, wet asphalt shone gold under the streetlights. Palm trees thrashed in the wind. I pushed through the door. Inside, a lively crowd was listening to indie rock, a local band on the little stage, the wispy girl singer tilting her head toward the microphone, eyes shut, deep into it. I scanned the room. Jesse wasn’t here yet. I worked my way to the bar.

  The music swelled, drums crashing. But I heard the ocean booming against the cliff. I couldn’t stop picturing her—feeling solid wood slip away from her and seeing the balcony recede. Plunging into bitter waves. Struggling up to reach air. Breaking the surface, only to find herself alone.

  The song finished on a minor chord, the airy singer smiling, hands at her side, the crowd applauding. The room felt as if it were rolling.

  I rubbed my temples. This wasn’t news you gave over the phone. Besides, when I called him Jesse had sounded up, saying, ‘‘Let’s catch a late set.’’ Hearing enthusiasm in his voice had touched me. Joy, any spark at all, had been missing for a long time. And if it was finally rekindling,I was going to douse it once I told him about the mess in Isla Vista.

  Patrick John. Make that going, going, almost gone. He was enrolled at the university, but at twenty-three was nowhere close to graduating. His curriculum emphasized recreational chemistry. He spent most of his time playing guitar, working odd jobs, and nosing around the edges of the music industry.

  I glanced toward the door, watching for Jesse. It cut at his heart that his brother vanished when push came to shove. But as angry as I felt, I could never resent P.J., because he had been here for me when it counted.

  That day—a gleaming Saturday morning, when the hibiscus in the garden flared red and the scent of jasmine saturated the air, he rang my bell. I saw him through the French doors, a big kid in a baseball cap, wiping a runny nose, his foot jittering up and down. I knew right away he could only be Jesse’s brother, and my bad mood deepened.

  I opened the door and stood there with my bare feet and messy hair and burr-under-the-saddle grouchiness, saying, ‘‘Make this a good story.’’

  His blue gaze jumped around. ‘‘Jesse asked me to come over.’’

  I crossed my arms. ‘‘To tell me why he stood me up last night?’’

  My new boyfriend, apparently, was a chickenshit. Wouldn’t you know—star athlete, absurdly sexy, with a blinding grin and switchblade wit. And he had sent his brother to deliver the basket of excuses.

  So I thought. I didn’t know that I was standing at the edge of a divide, and P.J. had come to take me across.

  He wiped his nose again and met my eyes. ‘‘Jesse’s been in an accident.’’

  Now the band started a new number, up-tempo. The singer yanked at the mike and growled and sang. Next to me, a man took a seat on a stool and reached for the peanuts on the bar. He wore an aloha shirt and sweet cologne. The bartender asked what I wanted. I ordered a beer.

  I could still see P.J. standing on my porch. Those few last seconds of sunshine and blue jays crying in the trees, the smell of freshly cut grass, my sleepy-headed annoyance, before I grasped it. Accident. P.J. was almost falling over from fear and grief. It was beyond bad. The white noise started in my head.

  The man on the stool picked through the peanuts. ‘‘Yeah, this band’s halfway decent. But they could mike the vocalist better. The monitors are wrong, and the mike’s too hot.’’

  Evidently he was talking to me. Taking off his glasses, he smoothed his Pancho Villa mustache and hunched against the bar, squinting at me as he chewed. His front teeth protruded—usefully, because several others were missing.

  ‘‘They play here regular. Like a house band.’’

  He worked his rounded shoulders back and forth, as if his aloha shirt was itchy. His hair dragged over his collar, the color of compost. He had seemingly fallen through a time portal, direct from the set of Hawaii Five-0. He would have played a police informant, a nervous loser known as Gopher.

  ‘‘But if you’re into chick singers, she ain’t shabby. I see why you like her.’’

  Was I really that distracted, or was this guy having an entirely different conversation, one in which I was answering him? My beer came. I put a twenty on the bar and waited for my change.

  He grabbed a cube of sugar from a bowl on the bar and leaned toward me. ‘‘You dig all this he-done-me-wrong stuff. I can tell. You got the aura.’’ He squirreled the sugar cube into his mouth. ‘‘But sure, why not, I’ll dance with you.’’

  The band hammered away, but nobody was dancing. ‘‘I’m waiting for somebody.’’

  ‘‘Gotcha, when he gets here it’s adios.’’ He chose another sugar cube, sniffed it, and nibbled.

  ‘‘Wrong. It’s adios right now.’’ I turned, planning to find a table, and saw Jesse coming through the door.

  He smiled, making his way to the bar. I knew I was about to blow that smile away, but as always I just watched him. He was tall and long-legged, with mahogany hair and looks that made me plain crazy. Even when he was smiling, his gaze told people they’d be foolish to cross him. He could be all edge, all fight, and still take me with effortless, athletic fluidity. He had almost taken me to the altar a few months earlier.

  ‘‘Okay, we can get out of here, but where you wanta go?’’ Gopher said.

  I felt his fingers on my arm. They were moist, and were leaving a tacky handprint of sugar on my skin.

  ‘‘No.’’ I lifted his hand off. ‘‘That’s him.’’

  He followed my gaze. ‘‘The guy on the crutches?’’

  Jesse picked his way between tables. His gait was slow and careful. The bartender was at the cash register, getting my change. Gopher stared at Jesse.

  ‘‘What happened to him?’’

  Jesse walked up. He took in Gopher and my pinched face. He gave me a deadpan look.

  ‘‘You disobeyed orders, Rowan. You left them alive,’’ he said.

  God, he had perfect timing. It was dialogue from my new novel. Nice to know he was actually reading it.

  ‘‘Screw orders. Firing into a church is just bad manners,’’ I replied.

  Gopher was gaping. I suppressed the urge to smile.

  ‘‘Now, let me finish my drink, or I might top you,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Killing over a beer is pretty damn rude, too.’’ Jesse looked at Gopher. ‘‘But people who stare—offing them is a public service.’’

  Peanuts dribbled from the man’s hand onto the bar. Inching off the stool, he slunk into the crowd.

  I stretched and gave Jesse a fat kiss. ‘‘Score one for sci-fi.’’ Waving to the bartender, I raised my beer bottle. ‘‘Uno más.’’

  Jesse shook his head. ‘‘Make it coffee.’’

  I looked him over and saw tension along his jaw and tightness in his shoulders. Avoiding alcohol meant that he was maxed on pain medication. He had to be feeling like hell.

  A day in the life, when your back’s been shattered by a BMW that was going flat out when it hit your bike. When a training ride up a mountain road killed your best friend and blew your future sideways faster than you could blink.

  ‘‘I have breaking news,’’ he said.

  I took the coffee mug from the bartender. ‘‘So do I.’’

  ‘‘Me first.’’ He walked to a table, balanced with the crutches, and sat down. ‘‘I had dinner with Lavonne tonight.’’

  I gave him an exaggerated head-to-toe. His khakis were ripped at the knee. His T-shirt advertised Santa Barbara’s favorite surfboard product, Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax.

  ‘‘You missed the class on sucking up to th
e boss, didn’t you?’’ I said.

  Lavonne Marks was the managing partner at Sanchez Marks, the law firm where Jesse practiced. She was half Hellfire missile, half Jewish mother, forgiving of his shaggy hair and pirate earring, as long as he tore opponents apart on cross and ate a nutritious lunch. I sat down.

  ‘‘She’s going to offer you a job,’’ he said.

  The band launched into a new number, the guitarist taking off like a dragster, the drummer hammering on the crash and ride. I stared at Jesse.

  ‘‘Full-time?’’ I said.

  ‘‘You’re already putting in twenty hours a week for the firm.’’

  ‘‘Maybe five at the office, though.’’

  The rest involved writing briefs, making court appearances, occasionally serving papers. Full-time meant my own office, with a view over red tile roofs. Health insurance, a retirement plan. Business cards.

  ‘‘Partnership?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Figure three years down the line.’’

  And a chance to work down the hall from the man I loved. Fifty hours a week of togetherness.

  I looked at him in the amber light. ‘‘Lavonne asked you first, to see if you’d object.’’

  ‘‘I don’t.’’

  Full-time. Dark suits. Panty hose. Good-bye to free-lancing. No more legal journalism. Back to writing fiction when I could grab an hour on weekends.

  ‘‘I just got the galley proofs for Chromium Rain,’’ I said.

  ‘‘You write at night. That won’t stop.’’

  ‘‘But . . . the biography. That would be a big project.’’

  ‘‘You aren’t going to write that. Jax and Tim’s files have been sitting in your safe-deposit box for six months.’’

  And those files were just about all I had in the bank right now.

  ‘‘I’ll think about it,’’ I said.

  But instead I thought about Jesse. We had postponed our marriage shortly before the wedding. Traumatic events had driven a wedge between us: the hit-and-run driver was fighting, violently, to keep from going to prison. I’d discovered parts of Jesse’s past that I didn’t want to face. And he began to fear that because of his spinal cord injury I saw myself as a self-congratulating martyr, staying with him out of pity. We got angry. So we decided to step back from the brink and start over.