No Cure for Love

by Peter Robinson

  47

  CHICKEN PIECES SIZZLED AS THEY HIT THE HOT grill and released the mingled smells of cumin, coriander, garlic and ginger. Fat and marinade dribbled onto the coals, hissed and turned to smoke. Above, a few milky swirls of cloud decorated the pale blue sky. Seabirds wheeled and squealed over the rippled blue water, which winked with diamonds of sun. Breakers crashed in a chaos of foam on the beach. Like the postcards said, it was “Just another day in paradise.”

  It was only two weeks after that terrifying night on the same beach, and even now Sarah found it hard to look out there in the moonlight, especially when she was alone.

  But she wasn’t alone now. As soon as Sarah had given her a brief account of what had happened, Paula had taken the kids out of school and brought them and her father over to visit.

  They had been here a week now and were taking off to see the Grand Canyon for a few days before coming back to LA then heading home. Paula had some idea that the air in Arizona would be beneficial for their father’s health. Sarah doubted it. Her father was probably past that kind of help; besides, from what she had read, the air in Arizona was getting just as bad as it was in Los Angeles, thanks to all the Angelenos and their automobiles moving out there. But she didn’t say anything; she didn’t want to discourage Paula, especially when she seemed to be on a rare optimistic streak.

  Paula had seemed like a woman with a mission the moment she arrived. Gently, she had assumed command, given Sarah space to heal and talk when she wanted to talk. She had already rented a car and taken the kids to Disneyland and all the way to Sea World in San Diego. She seemed to have taken to driving on the wrong side of the road, even on the freeways, like a fish to water.

  Sarah was amazed at the transformation in her sister. The last time she had seen Paula, at Christmas, she had been bitter, mean and unadventurous. Also, like a lot of Brits, she hadn’t had a good word to say for Americans or anything American.

  Still, it was a good thing that Paula had determined to be so independent over here, because Sarah had been so busy on the series most days that she hadn’t been able to spend as much time with her family as she would have liked. She had fixed up a visit to the studio, of course, and the kids had loved that. Paula had been impressed, too, Sarah could tell. In fact, she could also tell that Paula liked it here.

  Visitors often did, Sarah knew, maybe because they only saw the paradise and not the inferno, just as she had for so long. And, of course, Brits loved the weather. Especially in January. As it turned out, they were in the fourth day of a heatwave—the high 80s—after a week of heavy rains had washed half of Malibu onto the Coast Highway. Paula hadn’t even complained about the rain.

  If her father had still been well he would probably have been spending his time in the King’s Head in Santa Monica, Sarah thought, drinking Boddington’s pub ale. Maybe he would even join the cricket club. He had been a fair pace bowler in his day. Still, he had seen the stars on Hollywood Boulevard, and that had brought a smile to his face and a tear to Sarah’s eye.

  Wearing cut-off denim shorts and a white Good Cop, Bad Cop T-shirt, Sarah turned the chicken pieces, basting them with tandoori sauce as she did so. A big pot of rice was cooking on the kitchen stove, in chicken stock with turmeric and salt, and Paula was back there in the kitchen, mixing up a salad.

  The children were playing on the beach, throwing pebbles, running at the waves and back, as if being chased by them, squealing with delight. A few yards further down, a man stood up to his thighs in water, holding a fishing rod. Optimist, Sarah thought. And to think what had happened on that same beach only a couple of weeks ago. Sarah gave a little shudder. She looked at her watch. He should be here by now. She realized she was anxious to hear what had happened.

  Her father sat in his wheelchair at the other end of the deck, wrapped in a light blanket, staring out to sea. He looked lost in his own sense of impending death. Though it had exhausted him, he had made the journey to what must have seemed like the other side of the earth, and Sarah knew he had forgiven her. She loved him and wished there were something she could do other than watch him die, but she knew there wasn’t. All the doctors in California couldn’t cure what he had.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Paula yelled from the kitchen.

  “Okay,” Sarah shouted back.

  A moment later, Paula walked through to the deck with Arvo in tow.

  “Look what I found on the doorstep,” she said. “Is he yours?”

  Sarah blushed and thumped her sister on the arm. “Paula!” She turned to Arvo. “Please forgive my sister,” she said. “She never did learn any manners.” Then she introduced him to her father, who nodded and shook hands. The children stayed on the beach. They had already eaten hot dogs for lunch, having fallen immediately in love with real American junk food, and they were easy to keep an eye on down there. They knew not to go out into the sea, and even if they hadn’t been told, the size of the waves would have given them ample warning of the danger.

  “You can put those beers in there, if you like,” Sarah said to Arvo, pointing to the cooler. Arvo did so, detaching a can for himself first. “Anyone else want one?” he asked.

  “Can’t stand that weak American stuff,” said Paula. “Tastes like gnat’s piss.”

  Sarah smiled. Ah, good old Paula, back on form now she’s got a new audience.

  “I suppose it’s too cold for you,” Arvo said. “Don’t you English like your beer warm?”

  “Get away with you,” she said, laughing. “Do you know, you sound just like one of those blokes on telly.”

  “Which one?”

  “Americans. On telly, back home.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I am an American, I guess. You sure you won’t have a cold beer?”

  Paula gave a coy smile. “Oh, go on then. You’ve twisted my arm.” He passed her a can of Michelob.

  Paula actually looked quite attractive, Sarah thought, without condescension. It wasn’t that she had changed her style much: Frederick’s of Hollywood might have beckoned, but Paula was a Bullock’s girl at heart. Still, she had a good enough body to look good in her jeans and Disneyland T-shirt, and she had picked up a tan very quickly. But it went deeper than that, Sarah thought. Paula was more relaxed, she was actually enjoying herself, and the frown and worry lines that had seemed so deeply etched in her face had faded.

  “Want one?” Arvo asked Sarah.

  “No, I mustn’t,” she said. “I’ve got a Diet Coke on the go somewhere. I hope you like Indian food.” She turned the chicken pieces again.

  “If it tastes as good as it smells,” he said, “I can’t see any problems there.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Sure I can’t do anything?”

  “No. Everything’s under control. Paula’s making a salad, aren’t you, dear?”

  Paula stuck her tongue out and went back inside.

  Arvo sat and put his feet up on the low wooden railing of the deck. He cradled the can of Michelob with both hands on his lap. He was wearing white cotton slacks, sandals and a dark green golf shirt with a tiny knight on horseback embroidered on the breast pocket.

  “You a copper, then?” Arthur Bolton wheezed.

  “Yes,” Arvo answered. “A detective.”

  “Never did like coppers. Never friends of the working man, they weren’t. And certainly no friends of the miners.” Then he went back to staring out to sea. Sarah looked at Arvo and winked, giving a “What can I do with him?” shrug. Arvo shook his head and smiled.

  Soon the food was ready and they all sat around the wooden picnic bench to eat. Sarah helped herself to a glass of chilled white wine. Arvo and Paula stuck with beer. Arthur Bolton tried a Michelob but didn’t drink much of it.

  “It’s okay to talk about it,” Sarah said to Arvo. “You know, about what happened. I’ve told them just about everything. But there’s still a lot I don’t know.”

  Arvo nodded and tasted some chicken. “Delicious,” he sai
d. “How’s Stuart?”

  “He’s at home. I think he’s still on fluids. The knife did some intestinal damage. The doctor says it’ll be a while before he’s up to par. It’ll certainly be a while before he’s up to Indian food. Can you imagine Stuart having to change his diet?” Sarah took a mouthful of rice and smiled at Arvo. “What did you find out?” she asked.

  “Quite a lot, really. Mitchell Cameron was pretty keen to talk after he found out Mark was dead. I believe he really did care for his kid brother, in an odd sort of way.”

  “Why did he run away from you?”

  Arvo shrugged. “It’s habitual with some people. Mitch is a small-time felon. When he left San Francisco, he owed a lot of people money, people who wouldn’t go that easy on him if they found him. He also owed the phone company and utilities. That’s why he put them all in Mark’s name here in LA. Mark Lister. Which is also why we couldn’t track him through phone or utility records. Anyway, Mitch had been into dealing drugs with a couple of crooked cops from Hollywood Division. They’d arrest someone, take their stash as evidence, then it’d find its way back onto the street again via Mitch and his club connections. Trouble was, he’d been robbing them blind, and he thought they’d finally found out and sent someone over to get him. These people break limbs and shoot kneecaps. That’s why he ran.”

  “And meanwhile, Mark had come out here?”

  “That’s right. He must’ve thought he’d died and gone to heaven when he saw you come home. We screwed up. I’m sorry.”

  Sarah said nothing. She was remembering her confrontation with Mark on the beach. Heaven? She doubted it. “Why?” she asked. “What made him do what he did?”

  Arvo took a sip of beer before answering. “You’d have to ask a psychiatrist that,” he said. “And I doubt if even they would be able to give you the full answer. I don’t know. His family background was one factor. His mother was a real piece of work.”

  “How?”

  “She hung around with a rough crowd, bikers mostly. Liked to live fast and dangerous. She died of a drug overdose.”

  “What happened to the children?”

  “Fostered. Best thing that could have happened to them. They got fed, schooled, well taken care of.”

  “Then why did they turn out the way they did?” Sarah asked.

  “Again, we don’t know,” said Arvo. “Maybe it was just too late. They’d suffered abuse and neglect when they were kids, in their most formative years. The sister turned out best of the three. Lives in Boston, got a good job with a publishing company. She wants nothing to do with her half-siblings. And who can blame her? When you get right down to it, Mitch is just another asshole with an attitude, a petty criminal. Only Mark was genuinely sick and nobody really knew because he didn’t talk.” Arvo took another sip of beer to cool the heat of the spices and went on. “Mitch told me a story which might explain part of what happened, though I don’t think we’ll ever be able to explain it all.

  “Apparently, when Mark was a kid he was on a picnic with his mother and the bikers, so the story goes. They were on a remote beach, somewhere in Mexico. A fight broke out between his father and one of the other bikers. A fight over his mother. Apparently this guy had been sniffing around her for some time. Anyway, she egged them on and the other biker killed Mark’s father. Stabbed him.”

  “While he was watching?” Sarah said in disbelief.

  “It gets worse.” Arvo cast a glance at Paula and Arthur Bolton.

  “It’s all right,” Sarah said. “Go on.”

  “As soon as he’d killed Mark’s father he and the mother . . . well . . . they did it, made out, right there in the sand. He was still covered in the father’s blood. Everyone cheered them on. Mark hasn’t spoken a word since. Mark’s father was the only one Marta Cameron had actually married. That’s why he has his father’s name: Lister.”

  Sarah paled and pushed her plate aside. “My God.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Arvo. “You asked.”

  “Please, it’s all right. What did they do with the body?”

  “Cut it up and buried it under the sand.”

  Sarah had a sudden image of the body she had found on the beach what seemed like decades ago. Let’s bury Daddy in the sand. “How did Mitch know this?” she asked.

  “He says one of the bikers who was there told him when he was older. Apparently this was one guy who didn’t cheer them on but didn’t do anything to stop what was happening either. Mitch wasn’t there himself that day. He was in school. But remember, Mitch is a compulsive liar. It could be just a story he made up to try and give his half-brother an excuse for his behavior.”

  “Except that it makes so much sense.”

  “Yes. Do you want me to go on?” he asked.

  “Yes. please. I just feel as if a cloud passed over the sun, that’s all.” Sarah looked down to see the children still playing on the shore.

  “Mark was mentally ill, but because he didn’t speak and his brother protected him, he slipped through the cracks. At school he was bright and well behaved. And a loner. They say it’s the squeaky wheel that gets the grease. Mark Lister never made a sound. How could anybody know what was going on in his mind?”

  “But surely Mitch should have known? They did live in the same house, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. But, remember, I said Mitch protected Mark. Mostly that just meant giving him a home, a roof over his head, taking him out occasionally. The big difference between them was that Mitch was active, outgoing, and Mark wasn’t very sociable. He preferred to be left alone with his computer and fantasies most of the time. They also kept very different hours. Mitch worked most of the evening and night in clubs and slept during the day, when Mark did most of his computer work. They hardly saw each other. And Mitch said he didn’t pry into Mark’s everyday life, let alone into his deepest fantasies.

  “He hadn’t actually been inside Mark’s room and seen the shrine and all the computer collages. He didn’t know about the letters. And he certainly hadn’t seen John Heimar’s wallet and Jack’s coke spoon, trophies on the altar. He’d stood on the threshold, yes, and he’d seen the photos. But like he said, what’s so unusual about that? Plenty of teenagers cover their walls with posters and photos of rock stars and movie stars. Mark was his little brother and he wasn’t that long out of his teens. Besides, he was different, he was gifted, a computer genius.” He glanced at Paula, then back at Sarah. “Would you believe your sister was a stalker and a murderess if you saw a few pictures on her walls?”

  “He’s right, you know, love,” Paula said. “A person overlooks a lot of things in a brother or sister. We make excuses for our own, maybe when we should be helping.”

  “I suppose so,” Sarah said. “How did he find me?”

  “We think he got your address through a computer bulletin-board. It makes sense. He didn’t speak, so he couldn’t go around asking. And a bulletin-board would be more discreet, too.”

  Sarah cleared the plates and passed out more beer, then she helped herself to another glass of wine. The way things were going, she felt she needed it. The hell with the diet. She’d start her new regimen tomorrow.

  They all drifted away from the table and sat in the lounge chairs, listening to the waves and looking out at the diamonds dancing in the sea.

  Love. Love. Love. Sarah would never, so long as she lived, understand love. She loved her family, no matter what. They were kin and blood, and she was happy they were with her now. In his way, she supposed Mitch Cameron had also loved his disturbed, silent half-brother, Mark, too.

  And she had loved Gary, yet she had watched that love die the way a patient, anesthetized but still conscious, might watch a surgeon cut out a malignant tumor. They say that happens sometimes, that you wake up during an operation and feel it, but you’re still paralyzed by the anesthetic and you can’t communicate your pain. That was what happened. And she had walked away. Since then, family aside, she hadn’t been capable of loving anyone. Maybe that, too,
would change.

  And unknown to her, someone had been standing in the wings taking it all in, twisting and coloring it all until it took on the form he wanted and needed for his own obsession. And in his own way, this someone had loved her. Mark Lister had loved her so much that he had killed for her. Now he had died for her, too.

  No, she would never understand love.

  She felt someone nudge her. It was Paula. “Sorry, I was miles away.”

  “He’s going now,” she said, nodding toward Arvo.

  Sarah stood up. “Oh, must you?”

  “I’ve got a few things to do.”

  “Okay. Let me see you out.”

  “No need,” Arvo said.

  Sarah stood awkwardly. “Well, then . . .” she said. She might never have another reason to see this man again. She didn’t even know if she wanted to. She liked him now, but the thought of a relationship, even a date, terrified her.

  And she had a feeling that he might be involved with Maria. She didn’t know why, it was just something she had sensed when she saw them together, something in the way they related to one another.

  On the other hand, Sarah did feel something between herself and Arvo, some kind of spark, and after everything that had happened, she didn’t feel she could bear it if he just walked away, right out of her life forever.

  Christ, she was shifting from one foot to another like a silly teenager. She could feel Paula mentally urging her to say something.

  But Arvo spoke first. “What next?” he asked.

  “Work,” she said, feeling silly as soon as the word was out. “I mean, I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on, what with Jack’s replacement and all. We’re really behind. The public can only stand reruns for so long.”

  “Right,” he said. “Well, good luck.” He stuck out his hand, and they shook.