The Mural

by Michael Mallory

  “Just got off duty, huh?” Jack asked.

  “Something like that. You’re not driving, you’re staying here, so you don’t have to worry it, and to paraphrase a friend of mine, it takes more than one to get me wasted. But I’m going to show you the reason why I don’t lock you up, and I figure we both might need the extra fortification before I do.” Creeley pulled a folded piece of heavy paper from his back pocket. “You remember my telling you about my friend Nicky at the historical society? He called me this morning and said he’d found another old photo of the Saddleback Inn. Prepare yourself.”

  Creeley handed Jack the paper and at first Jack hesitated taking it. He finally did, unfolding it and looking at the image. He had tried to steel himself for anything, but what he saw in the old brown photograph almost made him lose control of his bladder. “Oh no, Creeley, c’mon. This is a fake, right? You’ve got one of those souvenir photo shops in town and you had this made, right?”

  “It’s a color copy, Jack, but I saw the original, which was absolutely genuine. My friend Nick authenticated it. It even had a date written on the back. May 1918. More than ninety years ago.”

  “But...this can’t be.”

  “I know. But this is why I’m not writing you off.”

  Jack continued to stare at the copy of the photograph, which showed the Saddleback Inn on a dirt street. There were no other buildings immediately around it. A man was standing in front of the place, a man Jack recognized.

  It was him. Jack Hayden was standing in front of the Saddleback Inn in a nearly hundred-year-old photograph.

  * * * * * * *

  Elley Gorman Hayden’s hands were shaking so badly that she could barely catch hold of the items in the bedroom closet she was tearing apart. Her distress, combined with the fact that she had just emptied an entire bottle of wine like it was water, was having a serious affect on her ability to move. She came across a box containing shoes that she had not seen in a good five years and lobbed them across the room. She was not looking for shoes, or outfits, or gloves, or even old photo albums. “Where did you stick it, you fucker?” she spat, yanking things off the closet shelves and pitching them onto the floor of the bedroom with such carelessness that she was scraping and bashing her fingers red.

  Then she found it.

  It was in the original box, and buried under a pile of sweaters. Elley remembered when Jack had bought it; it was while she was pregnant. Jack had come home late one night and spotted someone snooping around the house, peering in a window. The lights from his car scared the would-be burglar away, but it gave him a lingering sense of nervousness about being gone and leaving her home, in his words, defenseless. Elley had never considered herself defenseless but she went along with him that time, in part because it was easier than arguing with him during pregnancy.

  Bringing a gun into a house that would shortly be inhabited by a child; who was the lousy parent now, you fuckhead?

  Lifting the lid of the box, she stared down at the .38 caliber handgun, which was small enough to fit comfortably in her hand. Elley had never actually fired it, and to her knowledge, Jack never had either. Like ninety percent of suburban gun-owners, he believed the very act of possessing it was protection enough. The bullets were in a small box inside the larger one, and Elley tried to remember how to open the barrel and load it, and then tried to get her fingers to comply. Christ, her head hurt. Her heart, too. She wanted more to drink, but had brought up only one bottle of wine. She’d had pain medication at the emergency room, too. Would that mix with the alcohol? Elley stopped and gave a racking, sobbing laugh. At this point, what difference did it make if she mixed wine with medication?

  Grow a goddamned brain, Elley. Make it a big one, too, so that it splatters well against the wall.

  Stumbling over the piles of stuff she had torn out of the closet to get to the bed, she sat down on the edge, in her nightgown, holding the loaded gun in her right hand. It was heavy, but oddly pleasurable to hold. She held onto the gun, weighing it, for some time. Since her call to Jack and her realization of what was going on, time had become an abstract anyway.

  Her husband was gone.

  Her daughter was gone.

  Her job was gone.

  Her lover was gone, the rat bastard.

  There was nothing left.

  Who was the worthless wife/mother/worker/lover now?

  She put the barrel of the gun in her mouth. It didn’t taste good, but she wasn’t doing this for the flavor. Elley squinted her eyes shut and put pressure on the trigger. She heard a strange whine coming from somewhere in the room, but did not realize it was coming from her.

  Presently, the telephone rang.

  Elley opened her eyes and lowered the gun. Maybe it was news about Robynn. Dropping the gun, she ran to the phone and picked it up. “Hello,” she said, her voice hoarse from sobbing.

  “Elley, don’t be a fool,” a man’s voice said. She had heard it before, only then it had been on the inside of her head. It was the voice that had suggested to her that Jack knew why Marcus had taken her child.

  “Who is this?” she demanded.

  “Your savior,” the voice said. “I know what you were about to do.”

  “Can you see me in here?”

  “Only the weak sacrifice themselves. You are not weak. You are not a worthless parent.”

  “What should I do then?” she begged.

  “You know as well as I,” the voice purred. “Trust your instincts.”

  At once, she did know. It was so obvious. It was as though she had always known.

  Elley pushed the button to cut off the call and laughed. Then she released the button and dialed a private number. When it picked up at the other end, an irritable voice said, “What?”

  “Blaise, don’t hang up. It’s me.”

  “What the fuck do you want now? The fucking cops were here, you know. What more do you want from me?”

  “Look, this isn’t easy for me, but I want to apologize.”

  “Apologize?”

  “You were right, it was all my fault, everything, and I feel like such a shit. I shouldn’t have walked out on you in New York. And I certainly should not have slapped you.”

  “Well, I kind of lost my head today, too. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have. Did some things, too. Are you all right, by the way?”

  “I’ll heal.”

  “Look, I’ve been hammered on all day by the fucking cops and my own personnel department, and my goddamned lawyer, but maybe we just need to work this out between the two of us. You think?”

  “I’m home alone. No husband, no kid. Come on over, and we’ll talk. I need to see you, Blaise.”

  After a pause, he said: “If that’s what you want, I’ll be over within the hour.”

  “Be discreet,” she said. “Park a few blocks away and walk. Try not to be seen. I’ll leave the back door unlocked for you. Come straight upstairs to the bedroom.” She hung up the phone.

  Padding down the stairs, she went into the kitchen and made sure the door was unlocked, then returned to the bedroom where she slid out of her nightgown, picked up the gun and stretched herself out on the bed, her head squarely on one pillow, and her right hand, clutching the .38 tightly, hidden under the other one.

  Elley smiled to herself as she wondered how long it was going to take Blaise to arrive.

  * * * * * * *

  It wasn’t even five yet, but it seemed to Marcus Broarty like they had been driving for days. For the last twenty miles the brat had sat there and whimpered. Marcus had offered the hatchet faced little cramp candy, treats and ice cream—which the girl finally accepted—but she would not stop that damned sniveling. He couldn’t take much more of this. Marcus had never been more convinced that his early vow to conduct his life without children was a stroke of brilliance. Or that the all-expense-paid night at the Coat-hanger Hilton he had treated the one girl at U.C. Davis that he’d managed to knock-up had been more than worth it.

 
; “Okay, kid, I give up,” Marcus said, more to himself than to the girl. “I’m going to pull off and we’ll have to spend the night somewhere.”

  “Is my daddy going to be there?” Robynn asked.

  “No, your daddy’s not going to be there.”

  “I want to see my daddy.”

  “You will. You will tomorrow. But we have to get some rest first. I’m tired.”

  “I’m tired too,” Robynn said. “And this car smells funny.”

  It was a smoker’s car, but that was all they had available back at the car rental place in L.A. Broarty had ditched his own car and taken out the rental, knowing that would buy him several days of unencumbered travel. It was a safety precaution, just in case Emac’s body was discovered sooner than he was counting on. The faint stale odor of cigarettes that had become impregnated into the upholstery didn’t bother Marcus, but it seemed to bother the brat.

  Tough shit. At least she was tired.

  They had only gotten as far as Santa Maria, but it was far enough. Broarty exited the freeway and pulled into the first motel whose sign boasted of HBO. As he had done with the rental car, he paid cash for the room, which had two beds, and left a false name and address on the registration. No one could accuse him of being stupid; not now. Never again.

  Inside the room, Robynn immediately gravitated toward one bed in particular, which made no difference to Broarty. He looked over the room service menu for dinner options, while she clicked on the television and discovered a half-dozen or kids channels. That might keep her from whimpering for a while.

  When Robynn got up and went into the bathroom, Marcus Broarty got his first moment of peace that day. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have the whiny little she-demon fall into the crapper and get sucked out to the ocean! But he knew that was not part of the plan. He needed to have her intact, all the way back up to Wood City.

  Those were his instructions.

  He was going to have to provide food for the brat, too, before she began whining about how hungry she was. Maybe he could find a bag of potato chips for her. Most kids would think that a fantastic treat. Surprisingly, Marcus himself was not hungry at all, only tired. He hoped the girl would fall asleep early so he could get some shuteye. Even though it would be a shorter, tomorrow’s drive would probably be an ordeal, too. Marcus was not used to driving long distances, and particularly not with gnats in little girl costumes. He had put more miles in over the last two days than he normally would in two months. Cars for him were status symbols, not transport.

  When Robynn came out of the bathroom, she looked over at Marcus and almost smiled, prompting him to almost smile back. It was a good thing she didn’t know the details of the plan that the God of Wood City—his new deity—had devised.

  Marcus Broarty almost felt sorry for Robynn Hayden and what was going to happen to her.

  But not really.

  BOOK THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

  Howard Kearney opened his eyes inside the tent and wondered if his head was still attached to his body. It was eleven in the morning and the sun was breaking through the treetops enough to heat up the heavy canvas roof, making the inside warm and humid. The spot between his eyebrows felt like he had used it to challenge John Henry to a steel driving contest.

  Despite his Irish heritage, Howard had never been a drinking man, which cast him as the junior partner in the previous night’s escapade, in which he and three of the other artists from the Castle party had gone into the village just south of San Simeon and tried to relieve themselves of some of the money old Hearst had paid them. It was to help the local economy, the agreed. A couple of the guys were spending pretty freely, but not Howard, who still had more than a hundred and eighty left, not including the ten-spot he always carried in his right pocket, insurance against being picked up as a vagrant in the course of his travels. That sawbuck would stay well and truly hidden. He was not even sure if WPA rules allowed them to earn money from any other source, but only he worried about such things. His mentor Fergus, for instance, would have laughed at him had he voiced such a worry.

  Fergus had been the leader of the group’s efforts to drink the town of Glenowen dry, emerging as the most valuable player, though some of the other guys kept up with him pretty well. Only one of the artists at the Castle, Louis Norman Igee had not been invited to join the party, which was fine with Howard. Igee was a talented artist, maybe even a genius, but Howard did not like him, and he did not know anyone else in the Northern California arts community who did. Most had a hard time even looking directly at the man. Igee’s eyes were black, the blackest Howard had ever seen in a human, so black that they seemed to act like a light vacuum.

  Managing the daunting task of sitting upright, Howard Kearney tried to remember how many drinks he’d had last night. He started with a couple of beers, and then was coerced into something stronger. After that, he did not have much memory of the evening. Thank heavens Althea had not been along, just in case he embarrassed himself at the dingy saloon.

  He managed to muster enough strength and focus to look over to the other side of the tent to see if Fergus was there. All he saw was an empty sleeping bag. Fergus Randall was about twenty five years older than Howard Kearney but had a century’s more worth of experience. He had the kind of carrot-colored hair that often accompanied a knack for mischief. Over the past few months Fergus had taken Howard under his wing, first as an artist, teaching him some of the perspective tricks necessary to creating murals on a wide variety of surfaces, and then as a man. He liked Fergus a lot, and Fergus liked him, but had to be careful not to get drawn too deeply into the older man’s lifestyle, since he doubted his liver could take it.

  Outside of the tent Howard could hear footsteps leading up to the flap, which quickly opened, revealing a rumpled looking Fergus Randall, holding a section of newspaper. “Hallelujah, the sleeper wakes,” the older man said. “If you’re in need of a jakes, lad, there’s a nice short bushy one about fifty yards that way. Just watch where you step.” He tossed him the newspaper, and Howard knew what it was to be used for.

  “Man,” Howard groaned, remaining in his sleeping bag, “remind me not to go carousing any time soon.”

  Fergus cackled and stepped back outside. It had been the older man’s idea to live in a tent while they were on the Central Coast rather than take a room somewhere, even at an auto camp, and while Howard at first thought the notion a bit strange (fortunately, he knew Fergus well enough not to waste any time worrying about possible ulterior motives), he was for the most part glad that he had come along. They built a campfire to do their cooking, lugged skins of water from a brook and tiny waterfall about a mile away from the campsite, and whenever they wanted to go somewhere, they hiked out of the woods to the highway and hitched a ride into Glenowen. That was how they ended up at the bar last evening—now, if only Howard could remember how they had gotten back.

  “This is how the real people of this country are living, close to the land,” Fergus had told him. “You can’t know them or understand what they want, or like, or need unless you try living like them.” Fergus Randall had a penchant for categorizing the underclass or working class of America as “real people,” while disdaining, if not outright hating, the wealthy. Before spending that night in the Castle, Howard had only paid lip service to Leftist dogma. But after Miss Davies (or Marion, as she instructed everyone to call her, and whom Howard decided he liked) had put the artists up in rooms at the hilltop monument to one man’s galactic ego, the outrageous, scattershot opulence of the place left him literally speechless. How many hungry people could have been fed on the price of just one of those medieval tapestries? How many yearly incomes would it take to equal the value of the disparate artifacts in just one of the Castle’s rooms? Hell, how many of the artists and artisans who had actually created the pieces in that collection had enjoyed one iota of one percent of the wealth and comfort that the master of the Prodigal Palace wa
s tacitly taking credit for through the act of assemblage? It almost made Howard Kearney embarrassed to be there, but Althea, who was along for the ride, seemed to enjoy it. He wished he could have shared the cold California night with her instead of with a man who could have used a few more showers and a few less cabbage-and-horseradish sandwiches. But she had taken a room in the village, which was much safer, and undoubtedly more comfortable.

  Howard fished through his knapsack for his journal, in which he had been recording his thoughts and activities since joining the WPA program, with an eye to possibly writing a book someday about the experience. He felt that waking up for the first time in his life with a head that felt like it was going to explode was an experience worth capturing in words. Taking up the pencil that was wedged in between the journal pages, he tried to write, but the horizontal lines on the glowing white page would not stay still or straight, an effect that provoked a sudden wave of nausea. Howard made it out of the tent just in time.

  Fergus was sitting on a camp stool near the fire ring, fishing through his own pack. “Ah, the sound of a successful evening out,” he called upon hearing Howard losing a meal against a tree. “Got some dried pork in my pack if you want breakfast.”

  “Oh, shit,” Howard moaned, his stomach lurching dryly. “You’re a sadist, you know that, Fergus? I may never eat anything again.”

  “Oh, sure you will, and you’ll drink again, too. And you’ll be hung over again. It’s called living, lad, and you’ll never be any kind of a man if you’re afraid of it.” As it to prove his point, Fergus took a swig from a flask that he carried in his back pocket. Then he lifted his head like a dog hearing a far off siren and narrowed his eyes. “We’re about to have company.”

  Five minutes later three men arrived at the campsite. The one in front was a ranger who had a state shield affixed to his crisply pressed shirt and a campaign hat balanced on his head. The other two trudging up behind him were clad incongruously in suits and ties, hardly hiking gear. One of them was a middle-aged guy with a bald head and a roly-poly body which his vest was only barely able to contain. He was flushed from the exertion. Behind him was a much younger man, who bore a fresh-minted look, and who was toting an armful of blueprint rolls. When the bald man saw Fergus and Howard, he shouted in a harsh voice: “What the hell are you doing on our land, you hoboes?”