Hidden Palms

by Harry Bryant

  The flickering flame floated toward me, but stopped at a word from Wilson. "Ignore him, Sullivan. You'll get your chance soon."

  "Is it going to be a fair fight?" I asked. "Or is Hack going to shoot me in the leg first?"

  "I could just shoot you in the head right now," Hack said.

  "Like you did Gloria?" I asked. That knot in my stomach was tightening, and I took a wild guess at cutting it in half with one stroke.

  Hack raised his gun and walked up to me until the barrel pressed against my head. "You son of a bitch—" he started.

  "Deputy," Wilson said. "Let's ease up on the drama, shall we?"

  Hack fumed, and the barrel of the pistol dug into my forehead for a bit before he relented. But before I could move out of the way, he smashed me across the face with the gun.

  I went down to my knees, and figured I'd let things settle in my mouth a bit before I said anything else.

  "An interesting guess, Mr. Bliss," Wilson said. "But quite wrong."

  I spat some blood out, and stood slowly, so as not to spook Hack.

  "I shot Gloria," Wilson said. "And it wasn't in the head."

  CHAPTER 25

  I would have been fine doing our walk in silence, but Wilson had to talk. I really wanted him to shut up, because everything he said simply furthered the notion that the fundamental conclusion to this nature stroll was me getting a bullet in the head.

  But that wasn't Wilson's style, apparently. So, yeah, still a mystery to solve.

  I was getting tired of all these mysteries.

  Gloria's downfall, as Wilson related it, was classic primetime drama, complete with the final tragic twist. A decade of drugs and hardcore films leached most of the beauty out of Gloria Gusto, and in a desperate struggle to remain the secret desire of young men everywhere, she had turned to plastic surgeons and cosmetic enhancements. They reshaped her into a marketable commodity, but the maintenance was expensive, and she had disappeared into a private world of pills and booze. She went in and out of rehab, finally ending up at Hidden Palms, where she had met Our Illustrious Founder and had been seduced by his religious fervor.

  There were actual tenets to the First Church of the Holy Relic. Not that Wilson was a true believer. El Illustro's message was—in Wilson's words—the "idiotic scripture of a narcissist shut-in who had watched Sunset Strip too many times as a kid." Immortality—as viewed by the First Church of the Holy Relic—was achieved by embracing your eternal close-up.

  Yes, the "holy relic" the Church was predicated upon was nothing more than the body of the penitent acolyte, purified for perpetual preservation and relicification.

  "Basically, when you die, the other members of this church are supposed to take pieces of you as relics?" I asked. "Like party gifts at the funeral."

  "It was a metaphoric message," Wilson said.

  "But Gloria took it literally."

  "She did, and Elder Byron was attracted to her . . . devotion."

  "Devotion, huh? Well, that's one way to put it," I said. "Did he know who she was?"

  "He didn't care," Wilson said. "Her past as hardcore blow job queen only made her zeal more real. She desperately wanted to be transformed through a course of ritual cleansing and . . ."

  "Dismemberment?" I offered.

  Hack's frown deepened in the flickering light of the oil lamp. "They wouldn't have done it," he snapped.

  Wilson gave him a look like you offer a child who thinks they're going to get their way when they throw a temper tantrum in the candy aisle at the grocery store.

  The narrow path emerged from the forest into a wide clearing. In the center was a small stack of sticks that might have passed for a rain shelter once upon a time. Off to our right was a white pile of stones. Wilson indicated we should head for the white stones, and no longer confined to single file by the path through the woods, we spread out a bit as we headed across the clearing. Sullivan was on my left, between me and the leaning shack. When we got closer to the stones, I realized the circular shape was a well. A wooden plate sat on top.

  "I watched some of her films," Wilson said. "That's why you seemed familiar. And then after your visit, I went and looked you up. You were in the lead in Stroker's Lane."

  I hadn't thought about that film in a long time. "I may have been," I said.

  "Wait? What?" Hack was feeling left out of the conversation.

  "It was a movie," I said. "About a guy who worked in a bowling alley."

  Sullivan reached the well, and he leaned the pole with the lamp against the ring of stones. He grabbed a heavy piece of rope attached to the wooden cover, and when he dragged it off the well, an entirely unpleasant smell rose out of the ground.

  "That can't be good for potable water," I pointed out.

  "It's been dry for a long time," Wilson said. "But it's deep."

  "It had better be at the rate you're going," I said.

  The smell coming out of the well suggested there were a couple of dead bodies down there, and if I had to guess, they were Gloria and El Illustro—two kids whose dreams had gotten away from them.

  I caught sight of a light moving through the trees, and Hack whirled around at my reaction. Another lamp emerged from the woods, but this one was carried by hand. By Terrance, in fact. Who was alone.

  "Where is the girl?" Wilson demanded when Terrance reached our little nocturnal party.

  "Couldn't find her," Terrance grumbled. "She's not in the house, and if she's—"

  "Cavorting with the other free-thinkers?" I supplied.

  "Shut up," Hack snapped.

  Terrance gave me a hard stare before he continued with his report. "If she's partying, then . . ." He trailed off with a shrug.

  "Don't be such a prude," Wilson snapped. "I don't give a shit if they're fucking or sucking or whatever they're doing to each other in the woods. Go put your foot in some sphincters. Get them to tell you where the girl is."

  "They're clients, Mr. Wilson. We shouldn't be . . ." Terrance was having some trouble with his directive, which was kinda sweet in its own way, but I still wasn't keen on his ultimate goal.

  Wilson brought his right hand out of the deep pocket of his robe, and showed us the gun he had brought to this party. "Do what I tell you to do," he said. "Are we clear?"

  "Yeah," Terrance said carefully. "I got it, boss." He gave me one last stare, and then started meandering back toward the main house.

  "Now!" Wilson shouted after him, and after a second's hesitation, Terrance started to move a little quicker.

  "It's hard to find good help these days," I said after the light from Terrance's lamp had vanished.

  Wilson sighed loudly. "It's such a constant struggle," he said. He lowered the gun, but he didn't put it back in his pocket.

  "So, this movie, this—what was it called?" Hack was clearly still hung up on my filmography.

  "Stroker's Lane," I supplied.

  "Yeah, Stroker's Lane. Was it . . . was it a pornographic film?"

  "Yes, it was," I said. With a hint of pride in my voice. Hey, they say don't do the crime if you can't do the time. Own the things you've actually done, versus the things people think you've done.

  "And you were in this piece of filth?" Hack asked.

  "I was," I said. "It was my first starring role, in fact."

  Hack looked back and forth between me and Wilson. "So, this whole ex-porn star thing. It's not a cover story? You really were one of those guys?"

  "See what I mean?" Wilson said, looking at me. "Such a struggle."

  He lifted his arm, and pulled the trigger on his gun.

  There was a flash of light and a loud noise, and in the wake of all that, I heard Hack fall down. He groaned and coughed, and along with the fetid stench coming out of the ground, there was a tang of blood in the air.

  "I think you missed," I said. "Ma
ybe a little higher next time."

  Wilson came closer, raising his pistol so it pointed directly at my face. "Like this?" he said.

  "Yeah," I said. I swallowed a lump in my throat. "That should do it."

  "Sullivan?" Wilson called. "Would you take Deputy Hackman's weapon away from him? And then . . . toss him in the well."

  Sullivan came over to Hack, and there was a momentary scuffle, punctuated by a weak cry from Hack. I didn't want to take my eyes off Wilson. Hack was sobbing and pleading as Sullivan dragged him toward the well.

  "Is the fall going to kill him?" I asked. "Or are we going to stand here and listen to him bitch and moan from the bottom for awhile?"

  "We?" Wilson asked.

  "I know, presumptive of me," I said. I nodded toward the well behind me. "Would it be easier if I threw myself in?"

  "It would," Wilson said.

  I thought about it for a second, and then shook my head. "I'm a terrible volunteer," I said.

  "That's unfortunate," Wilson said.

  "So, Gloria convinced Elder Byron that she was a perfect candiate for his church. Was that their plan? Letting her kill herself so El Illustro and the rest of his cult devotees could make necklaces out of her finger bones or something?"

  Wilson laughed. "El Illustro. I like that."

  I shrugged. "Well, you can keep it."

  "I might."

  I looked up at the night sky. "It got awkward for you, didn't it? If Gloria martyred herself that would bring all kinds of weird attention?"

  "Certainly not the sort of attention we seek here at the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center," Wilson said.

  "No, I suppose not." I sighed. "And Hackman? Where did he fit in this?"

  "He brought in that kid—Boreal. Said the kid could help."

  "But you were already distributing it, weren't you? It's not like you needed more help, right?"

  Hack's voice became more strident, and I heard Sullivan smack him around until he shut up.

  "Punching a man unconscious who is bleeding to death and about to be dropped down a well is cold," I said.

  Wilson shrugged.

  "I guess that's what happens when you're a bad shot," I said.

  "I'm not a bad shot," Wilson snapped. His grip tightened on the gun, and the muzzle of the gun remained steady. Right at my face.

  "Where did you shoot Gloria?" I asked. "Were you aiming for her face and missed?"

  His gaze flickered to my chest. He frowned and lowered his aim.

  He missed, I thought. He doesn't keep the gun steady when he pulls the trigger.

  Something moved among the trees behind Wilson. It was impossible to tell what it was—but there was a definite flicker of light in the gloom.

  I did a terrible job at hiding my interest.

  Wilson smiled. "That's an old trick," he said. "And I'm not going to fall for it."

  "Okay," I said. "But I had to try, right?"

  The flicker solidified into a shape that was too small to be Terrance. My heart started pounding in my chest.

  "Quite pathetic, actually," Wilson said. "Much like your acting."

  "Hey, now," I said. "That's uncalled for."

  He laughed. "What are you going to do about it?" he said. "Are you going to hit me?"

  "No," I said. "But she is."

  This time he looked, and Dolly hit him in the face with the stick she was carrying.

  CHAPTER 26

  As much as I wanted to stand and watch Wilson get smacked with a stick, I didn't need to be in line with his gun if he involuntarily pulled the trigger. Even if he was a bad shot. I darted to my left, and congratulated myself on the quick thinking as Wilson's gun went off. I took a half-second to be indecisive about helping Dolly or worrying about Sullivan, but when I heard Wilson cry out, my decision was made for me.

  Sullivan, who had Hack halfway over the edge of the wall, dropped the wounded deputy when he realized I was coming for him. But instead of putting up his hands, he reached around to the back of his waistband. He had Hack's gun. I cut back the other way, trying to put the well between us, and when I saw the gun in Sullivan's hand, I dove for base of the well.

  It wasn't big enough to play hide and go seek around for longer than a minute, and so I cast about for something that would improve my chances. Scrambling upright and putting my back to the stones, I shifted to the left and took a peek. Hack's face was right there, eyes open and staring. Blood, drooling from the corner of his mouth. I started and pulled back, just in time to hear Hack's gun go off. A divot of grass and dirt leaped into the air not far from the well.

  If my head had stayed where it was, the bullet would have gone right through it.

  I got off my ass and took a quick peek over the top of the well. Trying to spot Sullivan before he could Whack-a-Mole me with a bullet.

  Also, corpses smell terrible. I didn't ever want to smell that stench again.

  Sullivan had been on my right, close to Hack, and I crab-walked the other way, and almost got my ass shot off for going too slow. I scampered faster around the well, and then stopped abruptly. That's what Sullivan wanted, wasn't it? He wanted me to panic and go charging around the well. That's where he'd be waiting.

  Or was he?

  This was one of those stupid conundrums armchair theorists like to get all hot and bothered about. If this little rabbit went around the well to the left, and the hounds were waiting for him, then he was a stupid rabbit. But if he went back to the right, and the hounds were still figuring out which way to go, then he'd be running right into them. If he stayed where he was, the hounds were going to find him eventually.

  This little rabbit was fucked, basically. Like I said, it was a stupid puzzle.

  It doesn't matter, Mr. Chow used to tell me. Because he is a rabbit, and they are hounds.

  So what's the rabbit supposed do? I had asked.

  Stop being a rabbit, Mr. Chow had said.

  I glanced at the pole leaning against the well. It was thicker than a normal broom handle and there was a metal cap at the top with a hook jutting from the cap. The storm lantern was made of heavy glass and metal, with a metal handle that was slung over the hook on the pole.

  Rabbits were fast runners, but they couldn't win when cornered by a bunch of dogs with sharper teeth and nasty attitudes. They needed to change the game if they were going to win.

  I didn't go for the pole. It was too unwieldy for the situation I was in. I went for the lantern instead.

  My first try at grabbing the handle was nearly my last. Sullivan snapped off a shot, and the bullet blasted chips of stone out of the well. I pulled the pole over instead, and with my heart trying to leap out of my mouth and run away, I got my hands under the lantern before it hit the ground.

  Gasping for breath, I unhooked the lantern from the pole, and scooted around the wall. Trying to change my position enough without giving it away. I stopped and listened for a second, and the only thing I heard was Dolly and Wilson wrestling. I couldn't tell who was winning, but there wasn't time to stop and figure out what was going on. I had to deal with Sullivan first.

  I held the lantern by its handle. I couldn't do anything about the glow, which was—in hindsight—probably giving my location away as readily as if a spotlight were trained on me. And my night vision was a mess, so, really, what option did I have?

  I stood up, looked for any target, and threw the lantern as soon as a shape registered in my brain.

  Something punched me in the shoulder. It threw my aim off, but not by much. Unlike Wilson, I had decent hand-eye coordination. I had done all my own stunts in Stroker's Lane, after all. Including the bowling.

  Sullivan tried to dodge the flying lantern, but his knees were still bothering him. The lantern hit him in the head, and bounced off. His head wasn't that hard, after all.

  But the ground wa
s.

  The lantern shattered, and oil spattered everywhere. A second later, it all caught fire. Orange flames clawed up Sullivan's legs, and he squealed. He tried to get away from the fire, but all he managed to do was stumble through the film of burning oil, compounding his fire problem.

  I went around the well, steering clear of the fiery ground, and I got close enough to Sullivan to hit him with the pole. "Drop and roll," I said, and I kept thumping him until the fire on his legs and chest was out.

  Behind me, Hack made a noise. The fire had licked his shoes long enough to make his toes hot. He was trying to get away from the fire, but it surrounded him. He was trapped on the lip of the well.

  "Crawl around," I shouted, indicating how he should retreat from the fire. I couldn't approach him directly, and even if I could, I wasn't overly fond of Deputy Hackman.

  There was blood on his uniform and his face was twisted in pain. His boots were smoking, and a thin thread of fire was working its way up his right pant leg. Like a dog gnawing at his ankle.

  I circled the well, and as I did, I looked for Dolly and Wilson. He was wearing a dark robe, and he could be lying face down ten feet away and I probably wouldn't see him, but Dolly had been wearing lighter colors. I should be able to spot her.

  There was no sign of her. Just the old shack, leaning crookedly with its sagging mouth like a drunk who had been on a three-day bender.

  Hack was canted at an angle, still shaking his leg like he could dislodge the flame. I leaned over. "Grab my hand," I shouted at him.

  He looked over his shoulder, and his eyes were wide. He flailed for my hand, and we missed making contact. I grabbed his hand on the next pass, and I was about to warn him to be careful about leaning too far when there was a loud pop, followed by a series of smaller pops. Hack tumbled back, like he was trying to somersault over the mouth of the well. His hand was suddenly snatched out of mine as he fell into the well. His wail of fear and pain was cut short with a meaty thud.

  I leaned against the well, and when I brushed a hand across my face, it came away bloody. It wasn't my blood. Was it Hack's? But how . . .

  And then I realized what had happened.