Feeling warm, Althea moved further away from the enormous stone fireplace in which a blaze was raging, and carelessly bumped into a man who turned out to be Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. He flashed the smile she had often seen on the screen to her and nodded in apology, and Althea tried to smile back, but felt her breath catch. Just then a scream pierced the cavernous room. Immediately all chatter died down, and all eyes were focused on a young woman in a platinum Marie Antoinette wig, which was somewhat incongruous with the Italian Renaissance theme, who was clamping her hands over her mouth in terror. In front of her, on the floor, lay a canvas. “My god, what is this thing!” the woman cried. “It moved! The painting moved!”
Althea could see Fairbanks rushing to the woman’s aid, but she continued to stand, frozen, as though a statue. Then she screamed again, and kicked at the canvas.
Another man dressed as an Italian duke picked the canvas up while Fairbanks and now Marion Davies tried to calm the woman. They could not.
“Destroy it!” the woman now shrieked and, breaking away from Fairbanks and Davies, she tore the canvas out of the grip of the “duke,” ran it to the massive fireplace, and flung it in. Confused silence reigned, and Hearst himself finally lumbered over to see what was going on. The “duke” intercepted him and began putting on an act that included prancing around eccentrically and pretending to laugh, hitching his shoulders as he did so. Althea was now able to see through the Renaissance costume enough to realize that it was Charlie Chaplin, unrecognizable because of his gray hair and the absence of a toothbrush moustache, but identifiable through his gestures and movements. Chaplin’s antics not only drew a chuckle from Hearst, but released the tension of the room for most of the guests, who were now laughing at him. Meanwhile, Marion Davies and a servant were now leading the hysterical guest away. Within seconds, the entire incident had blown over and some of the guests treated it is though it had been part of the planned entertainment for the evening.
Althea, however, continued to stare at the hearth and the flames within it that were consuming the canvas. She was not the only one: a man stood in front of the fireplace, watching equally intently. She recognized him as the artist who had painted the picture. If he was upset about the ignominious end to his work, he was not showing it. Standing with his back to the room, hands on hips in dramatic fashion, he exuded a sense of pride as he concentrated on the flames.
Then he turned around and his gaze met Althea’s. It was almost as though he had known she was watching him. The man’s face, fire-lit, glowed reddish-orange, and his eyes, which appeared to have no color but black, bore into her own. He wore a moustache and goatee—probably false—and had a head of thick, bushy, dark hair. The man smiled at her seductively, licked his lips, and nodded her way, and Althea felt a chill course through her. While he was not particularly brutish or threatening looking...his wild hair was almost comical, in fact...she sensed there was something about this man that was dangerous.
No, not dangerous. Evil.
A collection of people walked in front of her and by the time they had passed, the man was no longer standing in front of the fireplace. Althea looked around the room, but was unable to spot him. It was as though he had disappeared.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TODAY
Jack Hayden, Robynn and Althea Kinchloe got to the Tide Pool Inn a little before four, and he was glad to see the Vacancy sign lit, since he had not bothered to phone in for a reservation. As they trudged into the lobby, Jack was a little disappointed that Dani was not waiting there for him. He had no right to be disappointed, but he was.
Jack signed in for one room shared by him and Robynn, and took the one next door for Althea. Maybe once everybody had gotten to know one another the old woman might be able to move into Dani’s room, which would give his MasterCard a needed break. He had yet to resolve in his mind what Althea’s part in this strange adventure was, but he was convinced that she had one.
He lugged his hastily packed bags to his room, where Robynn turned on the television and immediately found the Disney Channel. Althea took her small bag to the room next door, while Jack desperately tried to think of a reason to get away from them and have the woman watch Robynn while he was gone. He could really use a cold one right now, ideally with Dani, but he knew he had to come up with a better excuse.
Finally, he got one. “Punkin,” he said to Robynn, who was glued to Phineas and Ferb, “I’m going to go see Noni right next door. I’ll leave the door open so you can hear us, okay?”
“Uh huh,” she said absently.
Going out into the hall, Jack knocked on the door to 121, waiting until the old woman answered it. “Althea, I hate to impose upon you,” he began, “but would you mind watching Robynn for a bit? I noticed the truck was a bit low on gas, and I don’t want to take a chance on running out up here, since I have to go into the woods tomorrow to the site that I’m inspecting, and all.”
“Not at all,” she said, smiling. “It will be a pleasure, in fact.”
Making sure that she had her card key, Althea shut the door to her room and followed him into 119. “Punkin, Noni’s going to watch you for a while, okay?”
“Cool,” Robynn said, still staring at the TV.
Cool; he had never heard her say that before. It was such an un-Robynn word. Had Althea used it in conversation and he’d missed it? No, it probably came from the television. Jack jotted down his cell phone number and pulled out twenty, handing it to Althea. “That’s for food, in case Robynn gets munchy, or whatever else you might need. Call me if you have any questions. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Take your time,” she said. “We’ll be just fine, won’t we punkin?” Hearing his pet name for his daughter coming out of the mouth of someone else gave Jack a funny twinge. Still, he trusted the woman. He was still not sure what to make of her story of being visited by a dead boyfriend, but he trusted her with his daughter. Or was it that he was just desperate to talk to Dani again and get a beer that he would have left anyone in charge of Robynn?
No, he couldn’t be that far gone.
Leaving them, he went down to the front desk the front desk, back to the smiling, fleshy young man who had registered him. “Hi, do you happen to know if Dani Lindstrom in room 207 is in?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said the clerk, whose nametag identified him as Alex. “Guests can come and go without checking in or out. I can call her room if you like.”
“No, that’s fine, I’ll just go up and knock.”
“You can take the elevator to the second floor, then go down the hall.”
“Thank you.” Jack stepped over to the elevator, which seemed like a waste for someone not dragging luggage through the place, and punched the button, listening to the metallic hum that announced its arrival. When the elevator stopped on the second floor, he jumped out and practically ran to room 207 and knocked. There was no answer. After a few seconds he tried again, louder and more forceful this time. When nobody answered, he tried calling through the door, “Dani, it’s Jack, are you there.”
No reply. He tried again.
Where was she?
Standing in the hallway the motel, Jack realized he was acting like the kind of person that women often accused all men of being: unreasonable and controlling. It was not like he had any claim over Dani Lindstrom, legally, emotionally, morally or otherwise. She was her own person. But in that moment, Jack realized just how much he needed her to be there. Whether she realized it or not (and she probably did not), she had become the closest thing he had to an emotional anchor. He relied on Robynn, too, but that was different: Robynn was a five-year-old who needed a parent. As much as his daughter gave back to him on an emotional level, she would hardly be able prop him up if he got into trouble.
He reached for his wallet and pulled out a business card, on the back of which he wrote: I’m in room 119 now, please call me when you’re back, and then slid the card under the door. It looked like his hour of freedom really would
be spent seeking out a gas station.
Jack decided to go on to Glenowen instead of driving around the San Simeon loop. There had to be a gas station there someplace and maybe the price would be better than the highway-access stations. There should be a toy store, too, where he might be able to get some kind of little surprise for Robynn.
The station was right at the edge of the town and it took no time at all to tank up (though he did not get his desired price break). Heading up the street he spotted a gift and toy store that had a plush otter in the window, the sort of thing that he knew Robynn would love. Finding a parking spot on the street, he pulled in and bought the otter, despite the fact that its twenty-five dollar price was outrageous. At this rate, he’d have to find an ATM soon. He also thought about getting a loaf of bread and some bologna, just to have on hand at the motel, and a six-pack since drinks with Dani appeared to be out, and asked the shop clerk where the closest market in town was. She directed him to go two blocks up the street. Jack decided to walk instead of driving, but he stashed the otter inside the truck before heading off to find the market. It was supposed to be two blocks up, the woman had said, but after three blocks he still had not seen it. He was about to turn around and head back when he spotted the old saloon, just up ahead and across the street.
The place looked like it could have been the setting for an old Hollywood Western. It was a three-story building with a clapboard façade the color of brick—which looked to Jack to be original—and it was dotted by a half-dozen windows. The entrance was a stereotypical swinging door. It probably had originally been a hotel (though he knew enough to know what most old Western hotels with bars were really used for). There was a tiny balcony just above the entrance, which had probably been used for many a late night escape from the second floor. The place was called The Saddleback, which seemed to fit it perfectly.
Jack glanced at his watch: he had been gone from the motel only twenty minutes. But Althea had told him to take his time. Buildings in general interested him, which was why he did what he did for a living, but he found old buildings particularly fascinating. He liked to study the construction and finishing, outside and in. Crossing the street, he gave a cursory examination to the façade and front window before going in.
The interior of The Saddleback was very dark, which made careful study of the architectural features difficult. Portable neon signs, most advertising brands of beer, glowed from every wall, and over the bar there was an age and smoke-stained painting of a dance hall girl, barely contained in her frilly dress, seated on a saddle. In films and on television, this kind of Western bar always had a long mirror backing it, which invariably one of the cowboys would get catapulted into during the obligatory barroom brawl, yet this place did not. Maybe that was simply a Hollywood touch. A juke was playing an old Doors song (like there was another kind of Doors song) and the only other people in the bar were a couple down at the end. The man was beefy trucker type with a shaved head, moustache, goatee, and tattoos that crawled out of his sleeves. The woman was stacked like a centerfold and was packed into her tee and jeans like a sausage in its casing. They were clearly having a party of their own.
“Hi, what can I get you?” The bartender was a woman, maybe forty, or maybe only thirty but with a lot of miles, who wore a tee-shirt with the bar’s logo on it, a crudely-sketched picture of a cowgirl whooping it up on a saddle.
Jack surveyed the beer taps, finding the usuals: MGD and Pabst; imports Heineken, Bass and Guinness; microbrews Alaskan and Firestone, and one that startled him to the point of eliciting a gasp. A square box at the top of the pump said: Wood City ESB. Some microbrewery actually named a beer after the ruined town? Maybe the place was not as forgotten as he had assumed. “What’s that Wood City?” he asked the woman.
“I’m not sure, we just got that in,” she said. “I think it’s local. I can pull a sample for you, if you like.”
“Please.”
The woman took a shot glass and filled it with a dark amber brew and placed it in front of Jack. He smelled it first, and found it to have a rich, almost chocolaty aroma. Sipping it, he found it smooth and not at all hoppy; almost wine-like. No, make that ciderish. It was unlike any other kind of beer he had ever had. “Interesting,” he said. “I’ll take one of these.” The bartender pumped a pint glass full of the ale and placed it in front of him. As he drank, Jack tried to think about things. His life; his family; Dani; what the hell he thought he was accomplishing by running off with his daughter only to leave her with a near-total stranger. He took another long swallow of the ale, and this time detected a kind of nutty flavor. That was certainly fitting; everything about this week so far had been pretty nutty.
Before he knew it his glass was empty and the bartender was asking him if he wanted another, and he sure as hell did. As he sipped his eyes were drawn down to the couple at the end of the bar. The woman was now crouched down under it, like she was hiding. Maybe she dropped a contact lens, or something, Jack thought. But a second later, registering clearly over the vocals of Morrison, he heard the sound of a zipper. Jack watched as the woman on the floor unsheathed the grinning man’s cock and began blowing him.
“Christ,” he uttered, strangely unable to look away.
The guy getting head took a bottle of Corona upturned it, the movement of his throat as it accepted the beer matching the woman’s under the bar, pull for pull. Easy in; easy out.
Finally Jack was able to break his gaze. The bartender was standing right in front of him, a sly grin on her face. “Does, uh, this sort of thing happen often in here?” he asked.
She smiled broadly, revealing small, crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. “You’d be amazed what happens in here, Jack.”
He stiffened. “How do you know my name?”
The bartender laughed. “You’re really a Jack, huh? That’s so funny. I just call everyone Jack, kinda like Mac or Doc or Bud. Ready for another one?”
“Sure, why not.” It would have to be the last one, though, since he was starting to feel them, surprisingly so. Maybe Wood City was one of those microbrews that was crafted with a higher alcohol content than the average beer.
The woman was back up on the bar stool now, and the still-grinning man bought her a beer, which seemed like the least he could do. As Jack glanced over, the woman met his gaze and smiled, then winked at him and licked her lips. Christ, was she about to come onto him now? He looked away, actually embarrassed, and heard the woman laugh raucously. Jack felt like a teenager who had stumbled into a party for which he was not quite ready. Forcing himself to look somewhere, anywhere, other than the woman at the end of the bar, he glanced back up at the painting of the saloon girl.
Jack blinked. Something was wrong.
When he had first looked at the picture, he had a seen a blowsy woman who was barely contained by the low-cut bodice of her dress and was showing a lot of cleavage. But now the figure in the painting was topless. Her breasts were large and skillfully rendered, showing such realistic details as being slightly different sizes, which while not all that uncommon in real life, was virtually never displayed in art, photography or film. Or maybe it was just a perspective flaw. The figure’s dark nipples stood out as though three-dimensional, and looked wet.
“Good god,” Jack moaned.
The face now looked different, too. Previously, the painted woman had worn an open, happy, if slightly naughty expression. But now it was not so much naughty, as demented. Her eyes were just a little too widely open, glaring madly, while her mouth was not so much smiling as grimacing. But the biggest change was that her skimpy dancehall trunks now had a slit in them; the woman was not simply sitting on the saddle now, she was using the saddle horn for a dildo.
Jack felt hot. Dizzy. He had to go to the bathroom.
What in god’s name was in that beer?
“Where’s the restroom?” he asked the bartender, who directed him to the end of the building and to the right. Jack ran for it, his bladder near-bursting. He made
it to the men’s room just in time, and ignored the general condition of it, which was smellier and grimier than those of most of the off-ramp gas stations he’d been in. Fearing he did not have the time to pull his dick through the openings in either his pants or briefs, he just jammed both down his legs and stood there, bare-assed, flooding the reeking urinal. The feeling of relief was almost orgasmic. He was nearly done when he heard the door open, and swiftly wondered how he was going to explain to the other guy from the bar why he was standing there with his pants and shorts around his shins, like a three year old just getting used to a public urinal.
He did not have to; it wasn’t the bald tattooed man from the end of the bar. It was the woman who had been with him.
“Shit!” Jack crouched and pulled his shirt tails down to cover his penis.
The woman laughed. “I love a man who knows how to curtsey. And from where I stand, you got nothing to apologize for.”
“Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind nobody,” she laughed. “How about I get out of these?” The woman unfastened her skin tight jeans and slid them down. She wore no underwear. Once the woman had shed her jeans, she slid her top off, revealing her full heavy breasts with large brown nipples, standing erect. As she grinned hungrily at Jack, whose breathing was becoming labored, what was left of his rational mind realized that there was something vaguely familiar about her face, beyond having just seen her out in the darkened saloon, but he could not place it. The woman’s face was pleasant, but not drop-dead gorgeous. But she did not need to be drop-dead gorgeous. Such an aura of animal sexiness was coming from her that her face was almost immaterial. Her full auburn hair looked clean and there was not a mark on her body anywhere, no scars, no tattoos, nothing. Unlike the bartender, she did not look like she’d had a hard life.
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