Elsinore Canyon

by J. M.

  I rolled to her and nipped her fingers. “Come on,” I said. I pulled them again. She dragged back a step or two, I took her hand, and she ran with me. I thought I heard someone barking orders as Dana and I sped away, out of the room, through the halls and shafts and empty spaces of the place, and out at last to a terrace to suck in the cool air served up in Elsinore Canyon every evening when the last tip of the sun shone in the seam of a pastel sky and a satin ocean like a hot, tiny bead.

  MORE THAN YOU WANTED

  Dana spun like a top at the edge of the terrace; she looked like she’d go over. “What was that? What was that?”

  I was gasping. “Jeez, whatever it was—I practically feel like I murdered someone.”

  “What did you see?”

  “She fell apart the second it got good.”

  Dana squealed. “The ghost was telling the truth!” She literally jumped around. “She is my mother! She didn’t tell me wrong. The murdering bitch, the murdering bitch, the murdering bitch has been outed!” she chanted, beating a rhythm on the balustrade. She dashed over to me and gripped my fingers. “From the second it got good?”

  “I’ll tell you, that sedative she was on didn’t do her much good.”

  She looked skyward. “That beautiful Yanghak deserves an Oscar.”

  “So do you, for the writing.”

  “All I did was write my mother’s story, just the way she told it to me,” she bubbled. “Just the way she told it to me! Horst, is there any other possible reason my aunt would have freaked out like that?”

  “I can’t think of one. If she was really innocent, then what?”

  Dana shook her head. “I’ve been a royal bitch with her before and she’s never freaked out like that. And she was the only one who lost it. My dad was in the movie too, not in a good way, and he didn’t lose it. But Horst.” She grabbed my hands again and spoke with a hot, confiding intensity. “It was the way she looked at me afterwards. Right in my eyes, I don’t know if you saw it. Eyeball to eyeball. That was it, Horst. I could have believed she freaked out because she thought I was making some wild, false accusation, but not after the way she looked at me. She knows that I know.”

  “You sure got what you wanted. Maybe more.”

  “Yes. I know. Well, she can cook up all the excuses in the world for what she did in there. I’m not going to utter a word in my defense for playing it, not a word. I don’t owe anyone an explanation, let her be the one to—”

  “Dana!” It was Polly, galumphing onto the terrace out of breath. He must have run the entire way after us.

  Dana took a breath as she turned on him. “Polly,” she said, with all the regard she might have for the man who had tried to steal her inmost secrets.

  “Your aunt is very upset,” he said forcefully.

  “My eyes are as good as anyone’s. I know that swan-diving into a tray of canapés is not what calm people do.”

  Polly tried to pack some terror. “She may have injured herself. Your father is trying to assist her now.”

  “Is he the one who sent you?”

  “He is.”

  “Of course. He knew you’d come dashing out here like Lassie on crack. Rosie and Gale might play spy, but they don’t play fetch.”

  “You might be interested to know that your behavior has made quite an impression on him.”

  Dana laughed and sauntered over to me. “Lovely,” she said as she plopped onto my lap. She draped her arms over my shoulders. “What daughter doesn’t dream of impressing her father?” I rested my hands on her waist and smiled up at Polly. Fuckface.

  “Do you want me to deliver his message to you or not?” Polly growled.

  “Let’s see if I can guess,” said Dana, twirling her finger at his pelvis. “Two tail-wags for yes, one for no. Now, is he upset, too?”

  “If I were you I would go see him.”

  “And if I were you—oh dear, there are too many ways to finish that sentence. Horst, help me.”

  I patted her waist. “Do you want to talk to your dad?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She turned back to Polly. “Did you get that? Or should I write it on a stick and put it in your mouth?”

  Polly turned his glare to me, then back to Dana, and strode off.

  Dana slid down my numb, boney legs and onto her knees. “Now my head is exploding. Help me, Horst. Was I too hard on him?”

  “Are you kidding? That spying freak?”

  “I can’t keep it in anymore, I’ve got nothing to lose. Now I really don’t know if I’m going to CR. The flight’s first thing in the morning.”

  Stupid CR, I’d forgotten about that. “Do you want to go?”

  “Might be good to get a few thousand miles away from the smoking ruins. I might fuck up around here, I don’t trust myself.”

  “You don’t have to go all the way to CR.” There was a big, comfortable ranch in Santa Barbara where she would be welcome.

  “I’ll see how it goes. Who knows, Rosie and Gale might not want to go anyway.”

  “You’d still go with those two?”

  “They can’t do anything.”

  “Be careful, Dana. Dana. Your aunt killed someone.”

  “I’m listening to you, Horst. She can’t do anything to me in CR.”

  “Just don’t let Rosie or Gale fix you a drink.”

  “Jeez, Horst. Listen to you.”

  “Someone has to worry about you, Dana.”

  “I promise I’ll be careful.” She drew back from me. “I should go see my dad.”

  That trusting, upturned face—how could it not reduce any man to a puddle? “Father-daughter time.”

  “For now. Horst-and-Dana time later.” She got to her feet and took half a step towards the house. “Wait a minute. What about you? Where do you want to go?”

  I hadn’t thought about it. “Anything else I need to do for you?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  A stupid, creepy light bulb went on in my head. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t think I’m nuts.”

  “I won’t. What?”

  “I don’t really relish the idea of getting kicked out of here tonight, or waking up here tomorrow with you gone, and—there are a couple of ways this could go wrong, but I could try it, and it’d be a nice going-away present for you if it works—so how about if I shove off now, and on the way out I steal the fat fuck’s laptop for you?”

  TIME TO ACT

  As Dana left the terrace, she slowed her steps. That preposterous Polly. Spying toad. Had her dad actually sent him to her? She had her phone on her, either of them could have called. But never mind, there was another villain to think about. Doctor Black, Doctor Black. Dana found herself outside the solarium with its moody lights. She walked in, to the center of the room. She slipped off her shoes and pressed her bare soles against the cold tiles. Calmness penetrated upward. She bent her knees slowly, set her palms on the tiles, then lay down flat and rolled her limbs slowly over the cool, hard floor. Her father could wait.

  Her eye fell on the underside of a glass table. A silver frame was propped on it. Ah, she knew that picture. She crawled to the table, lifted the picture, lay back down on the floor with it, and cradled it in her hands. Her mother. Never mind that she—Danielle, Mrs. Hamlet, Dana’s imperial and imperious matriarch—was ten times more beautiful than the death-doctor, ten times more intuitive, ten times more virtuous and capable. People had looked up to her. They had respected her judgment, feared her bad opinion, relied on her principle. They looked sideways at Claudia. A fawning phony. Mistress of a reptile ranch. She couldn’t even dream of filling the shoes of Dana’s mom as a friend, a wife, a mother, a leader; no one could. But never mind all that. Dana’s mom was dead and Claudia had killed her. The one who had been to Dana the most loving and forgiving on earth, who had selflessly given Dana her life itself, who had smiled on her and comforted her, caught her when she fell, read to her, dressed her, the one who had for
med her and set her free, was gone. The one whose knees Dana longed to lay her head on, the one for whom she had a lifetime of apologies and an ocean of sorrowful tears, was gone. Those tender knees were dust, the smiling face, the embracing arms, the voice, all stiffened, stilled, benumbed by the killer’s poison and reduced to ash by indifferent, deceived survivors. The murdering, grasping, lying doctor stood in her place unaccused.

  The aborted screener had begun playing at seven eighteen and finished at seven twenty-one. It was now seven twenty-eight. Mr. Hamlet had gone to his room, Polly had gone off on his mission, Phil had escaped to the cottage, Dana and I had run for the terrace, and Perla, Miguel, and Marcellus had scattered to God-knew-where. Meanwhile, back in the media room, Dr. Claudia had gathered her few friends in the brown light of the old control booth. She leaned over a cup of coffee set among the knobs and sliders, with Rosie and Gale at each side. Oscar drew out a stylus and tablet. “You don’t need to take notes,” Dr. Claudia said to him. Her lids might have sagged, but her voice was clear and firm.

  He looked questioningly. “We came in here for—”

  “For some privacy. This won’t take long.” She rubbed a bruised shin. “Costa Rica is out. Could I have some ice, please? There. Cancel everything. We need a bizjet, for an emergency one-way to the Maldives, three passengers. Emergency.”

  Oscar wrote on his tablet. “Sorry, it’s easier this way.” The decisive, unjudging voice of the consummate servant. “Private charter?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, I’m sure there’s first-class commercial tickets to Bangkok before midnight.”

  “Please.”

  “Of course, darling. LAX to the Maldives, private charter. I could probably have something ready in four hours. Three hours if we press it. Is that too soon?”

  “Three or four hours would be perfect.”

  “Long flight. It’ll be hopping down there like a tiddly-wink if we don’t get a pretty big jet.”

  “I guess we’d better do that.”

  “A super medium could refuel twice. Just to let you know, we’re over a hundred and fifty thou.”

  “Please take charge.”

  “Right. What else?” he said, writing.

  “Don’t tell anyone. Not a word to anyone.”

  “Privacy.” He got to his feet with a grunt and went out.

  Dr. Claudia sighed and gave cigarettes to Rosie and Gale. “Sorry for the short notice.”

  Rosie’s eyes narrowed. The two girls looked like a pair of cyborgs. “Do we get to find out anything else?”

  “I don’t want her in the same hemisphere as me.”

  “What makes you think we do? For two weeks?”

  “It won’t be two weeks. Keep your phones charged. The jet will have wi-fi I’m sure. What an evening.” A small, incredulous smile twitched beneath her sad eyes. “Did you girls know Perla gives a lovely neck massage? It’s the most incredible thing you’ve ever felt. I’ll send her to the spa for you.”

  She was alone. It was time to act. Dr. Claudia noted the second hand on the big electric clock in the control booth. One minute would be enough for the girls to be out of the way. Her first stop would be to her private room. Afterwards, to the van. The keys would be hanging in the—she squirmed. Sixty seconds weren’t up yet, but she could at least get out of the control booth. She closed the door behind her and slunk down the carpeted steps to the door of the media room. She leaned out—a giant white balloon bobbed at her, and she jumped so hard she bit her tongue.

  “God!” she said. “You scared me.” She was looking into the moonlike face of Polly.

  He answered tonelessly. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “What?”

  “I guess Dana’s had some issues for a while.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  He took a step closer. “I have some issues, too.”

  “We all have, but—”

  “Before she died, Danielle spoke to me about some concerns she had. You were involved. But I guess you’re busy right now. I’ll let you go.”

  “Thank you. We can talk later.”

  “Good.” An insinuating smile, cat-like, spread beneath his nose. Dr. Claudia had to shut her eyes—she was starting to picture little triangular ears and a set of whiskers.

  She turned away, then turned back. He was still smiling after her. Was it a smile? In her eyes, his image doubled and flickered. She focused. He was one again. “Polly, you said, ‘issues’?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Well, can you actually remember them all? Danielle passed away a while ago.”

  “I have notes. I have some items from her own hand.”

  “Oh,” she barely said. “Would you like to wait for me in my office? I’m just going to check on something for Rosie and Gale. I can join you in about ten minutes.”

  “Yes, I’d like that. I’ll see you in ten minutes. In your office.”

  She forced herself to turn away from him and walk. One foot in front of the other, heel-toe heel-toe, his eyes burning holes in her back at every step, to the stairs and up.

  The door to her private room was ten feet ahead. Polly’s dull, determined eyes were still on her, she realized. Behind her, closing. Suddenly, a hand shot around her mouth and she screamed—the hand melted away and she was free. It hadn’t happened. She was alone in the hall, leaning against the door to her room, trying to keep herself vertical on jellied knees. Christ, where was reality? She opened the door, shut it behind her. She was going to have to do something about him. On a thought, she left the lights off. She could work in the dark. She felt her way to the place where she kept the things she sought. Her fingertips moved over seams and fastenings. Precious time dribbling away as she undid them by touch. Her fingers on small, smooth items, paper labels. One, two, a delicate clink in her pockets as she turned away. Wait. Clean up? No, leave it all, she was losing time, she would remember to come back before the night was out and—no. Methodical or dead. She worked quickly. Dana and her father might start roaming the house. Was that treacherous Polly out there? Keep—control. There was no hand, there was no hand. But it would be just like him to plant himself in the hallway, the big, bobbly incubus. She peeked out.

  Empty. She walked swiftly towards the stairs, pausing on the way to listen at the door to her husband’s room. Silent. Was Dana in there yet or not? Should she wait? No, later would be as bad as now. As she pressed the call button for the elevator she caught a fluttering movement in a mirror. Polly. This time she really saw him. He disappeared into a nook at the end of the hall. He had seen every move she made.

  I didn’t know if Polly had a laptop. And if he did, I didn’t know where it would be. But Dana was jubilant about the idea of getting it, so my hot hands were going to grab it if it existed. It might be locked, bolted down, passworded, hot-wired, booby-trapped with pepper spray, or mined, I was going to get it. Dana had gone ahead of me by two minutes, and I didn’t see anyone else in the halls. I was one door away from Polly’s office when I heard thick footsteps running sloppily down the stairs. I wheeled back around a corner, held my breath, and listened. Door open. Footsteps in. Movement. Footsteps out. Door not closed? I can’t peer around corners in my wheelchair—the wheels precede my face by half a foot—but I can slip out of my chair and get on my belly and slither. So slither I did. My eyes down at floor level, I saw Polly at the end of the hall, scurrying back up the stairs like a giant rat. Yes, and I was a giant snake. I didn’t care; Dana would laugh when I told her.

  I got back into my chair and rolled into his office. There it was! Polly’s laptop, perfect score, sitting right on his desk. I snatched it along with a wireless mouse and a power cord, stashed it all behind my back, and wheeled back around the corner. Polly’s laptop on the top of my lap, the tables turned. I didn’t want to waste time wheeling somewhere supposedly safe, so I sat there in the hall and powered it on. It would all come out on the surveillance tapes anyway, but that would be another explanation for
another day. Hell, no one had a good excuse for anything tonight. Fucking slow system boot. Damn it, I knew it, a password prompt. I could take the machine back to my room and use my own laptop to download a crack. Or surely that obsessive snoop Polly had one in his office. I crammed the machine behind my back again and rolled back into his office. Let the bastard walk in, I barely cared now. I pulled all his desk drawers. Chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk—all locked. The flat, top one slid open. Office stuff—pens, CD envelopes, labels, staples, paper clips, business cards. I turned over all the papers, flipped through notepads. Nothing I could make sense of. I slid my hands to the back and felt something stiff. I pulled it out. A stack of photos. Polly’s dear departed ex-wife. Some of them with Polly. She’d been dead for a year and they’d been divorced for around ten years before that, so the pictures were at least that old. His wife smiling in bed under the sheets, wife lying on the bed naked, wife on her hands and knees looking over her shoulder, Polly on wife on bed on hands and knees, wife in nothing but boots, tight shot of wife, tight shot of two people fucking, tight shots, Polly and wife again, just Polly. She was gorgeous, he was younger and just as ugly. The pictures were tattered and scratched with handling—were they sticky, too? Fuck, I shoved them back, grabbed a pen and paper, and sped on my wheels out of the office, down the hall, more halls, elevators, more halls, into the room I called mine.

  Door closed, all alone. I opened the laptop and took notes as I typed at the prompt.

  esmeralda

  3smeralda

  3sm3ralda

  3sm3r@lda

  3sm3r@!da

  3sm3r@1da

  3sm3r@!d@

  3sm3r@1d@

  No shut-out after eight failures, but there were seven hundred twenty permutations even without case sensitivity, which Windows passwords had, which pushed the number into the millions, and I still might be barking completely up the wrong tree. I’d give it five minutes and then look for a crack online. I pecked and scribbled away for three and a half minutes.