She poured a brandy and raised her glass to the girl in the painting. “Suzie,” she said dispiritedly. “Sometimes I think you have it better than I do.” She drained the glass, grimacing as though swallowing medicine. Then she slumped in a chair facing the mute television, let the glass slip to the floor, and dragged her palms down her face.
“Woof?”
A bark of inquiry. Even the inflection, toward the latter part of the woof, rose an octave. Woof…woof? Woof? Genna stood, opened the kitchen door, and the huge Doberman rushed through, smothering her with laps of its tongue. Backing away, she patted and fussed him for a minute. “What’s up, furball,” she said. “Muriel been locking you in the kitchen again?”
“Woof woof!”
“Could have used your fearsome company a minute ago,” she went to the window and peeked through the blinds. In the street below, the Chevy Nova she had lost at the intersection was parked at the curb. As she watched, Oliviera and Rolands crossed the road and got in. She watched for a minute, her breath fogging the glass, waiting for the car to drive away. It didn’t.
She decided she would pay her father a visit.
On the road
After thanking the old man for his hospitality Joshua returned to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The dizziness left him, only to be replaced by a growing feeling of desperation. Benjamin Jefferson had pressed for more information about his interest in the Invisible Assassin. In the end Joshua had chosen discretion. To Benjamin’s credit the subject was duly shelved, and they downed a couple more beers apiece.
Unable to settle, Joshua got up and went into the bathroom, leaned on the sink and stared once more at his reflection. It seemed to him the longer he stared, the less he recognized himself. Who are you, really? In New Hampshire he had known who he was, what he was, and what was expected of him. In the outside world he was an odometer at zero, re-inventing himself as he went. Although his reflected features appeared no different than on the morning he left New Hampshire, he suspected that deep inside the man was changing.
Too tired to make sense of his new feelings he left the bathroom and let himself fall onto the bed. In the periphery of his vision the phone sat mutely. He imagined Barlow on the other end of the line back east, pacing the house, his tattered gown trailing behind him, hunkered over his pain like a hunch back, sustained by a diet of pain-killers, staying alive to wait for the next call.
What would Barlow think if he knew Joshua had almost spilled his story to a motel manager? He sighed, turned away from the thought, and closed his eyes; but a long time passed before he drifted into an uneasy slumber.
At dawn light, Interstate 80 several miles west of Des Moines was deserted as far as Joshua could see. By ten o’clock, he was several hundred miles into his journey, well back on track, heading straight as a ruler toward the western horizon where the last shadows of night faded. Few trees and shrubs dotted the Iowa flatlands through which the interstate cut. The slowly brightening terrain was blanketed by a layer of ground mist, which swirled at the Camaro’s passage.
Now that Joshua was miles into his journey, the memory of last night’s conversation with the motel manager rested easier on his mind. After all, he had disclosed nothing to the old man you couldn’t find in the papers. His alcohol-inspired ramblings surely fell short of the hundreds of conspiracy theories out there. In the cold light of dawn, Benjamin probably thought him a simpleton, a halfwit, inventing tales of monsters and murderers for attention’s sake. Or, in the old man’s own words, full of piss and wind.
By mid day the sun was a brilliant silver disc high in the sky. The temperature rose steadily. Joshua closed the windows and cranked up the air-conditioning. The highway terrain blended from brown to green as he cut through corn country. The nigh-on endless sea of green, dizzying in its vastness, basked under the sun to the limit of his vision at all four points of the compass. In places cornstalks grew right along the roadside, appearing to nod and gesticulate at his passing. Like crowds of cheering people, an endless honor guard, as if he were a returning king parading before his subjects.
After driving a hundred miles listening to country music and the ranting of a backwater Evangelist, he pulled the Camaro off the road, needing to relieve himself. “God is watching you always.” the radio threatened. “Watching you from the day of your birth until the day of reckoning that will grant either salvation or damnation – the only absolutes.” Unsettled at the Evangelist’s Barlowesque sermon, Joshua wandered away from the car, and in the quietness unzipped and urinated at the roadside. He looked along the rows of cornstalks, marveling at their uniformity. “Deny love for your neighbor then to God you are an abomination!” The evangelist cried.
After relieving himself, instead of returning to the car, he left the road and wandered into the corn. The evangelist’s sermon faded to a whisper. He picked his way in among the stalks, pushing through the fragrant plants, mindful of snapping the stems. After walking fifty or so meters he stopped, listening to the wind sending waves of soft noise across the stalks. It conjured an extraordinary image – like he was privy to a million souls whispering to one another.
Alone in the cornfield, listening to the rustle of the wind, Joshua felt something stir within him, like a childhood memory, full of nostalgia, which lingered on the outer limits of his understanding. Out here no traffic, no aircraft, nor for that matter any other sounds associated with man reached Joshua’s ears; only the dry rustle of the wind.
He reached out and plucked a cob from the nearest plant, turned it over in his hands, examining the texture and shape. He peeled away the husk from the pale yellow beads. They were cool to his touch. Then he closed his eyes, raised the corn to his mouth sank his teeth into it. Rich juices burst on his tongue and dripped from the corners of his mouth. The taste was sweet. Instead of tearing off a mouthful, he simply held the corn in his mouth, his teeth penetrating the swollen yellow beads. Juice flowed onto his tongue and down his chin. Finally he removed the corn and studied his teeth marks.
An overwhelming desire to unleash his inhibitions grew in him. To strip to his bare skin, to sprint through the corn, to embrace his true self. Want swelled in him like a balloon, and he began to draw in harsh breaths. Change came upon him. His consciousness shifted on its axis, entered a more elemental state. Sensing what was happening, he quickly suppressed it. Willed his heartbeat to return to normal. He blinked rapidly, coming back to himself.
The moment passed. Once again he was in a plain field of corn. He dropped the cob at the base of the plant from which he’d taken it, brushed his hands on his jeans, returned to the car and slipped behind the wheel.
Joshua switched off the radio and stared at his reflection. A trace of corn juice trickled down his chin. He smiled wistfully. Perhaps, after all of this ended, he could return to this exact location, where he could simply be. Wander far out into the corn, clear a space far from the road, hidden from every direction but the air, and just be.
If he ever made it out of Los Angeles alive.
At 10:30 pm he cruised the streets of Glenwood Springs, western Colorado, in search of a motel. After an hour on the road, he’d still found no place quite deserted enough for his comfort. Finally he settled for a hotel called the Red Roof Inn, situated a mile or so off Interstate 70.
The receptionist, Polly, according to her name tag, was quick and polite and in minutes handed Joshua a room key. The large square foyer bustled with people where, as usual, no one paid him any particular notice. Instead of going to his room, he wandered over to the vending machines, delving in his pocket for change. He counted out four quarters and fed the coin slot.
A group of tourists were gathered at a glass display case by the coke machine. Through the crowd Joshua saw an adult male, fully grown Timber Wolf, lips curled in the unrealistic snarl born of a Taxidermist’s imagination.
Joshua scooped his drink from the machine, grabbed his bag, and turned away. Head down and eyes on the floo
r, he retreated to his room. Inside he locked the door and set down his drink. He stripped naked and took a hot shower. The water pressure was intense, relentless, and he remained beneath the scalding jets long after he was showered.
When he was done he sat on the edge of the bed and dragged his bag toward him. From the contents he took a fresh shirt and jeans. While delving into the bag he caught sight of the black case, which he’d taken from the Camaro’s trunk for fear of thieves. He fished the case from the bag and laid it on the bedspread, thumbed the catches and raised the lid.
Inside, cold and enigmatic in its velvet nest lay the silver Beretta. With a touch of veneration and fear, he took the weapon in his hands, contemplating the pistol’s threat, the latent power of the doctored load. The few pounds of steel would spit like a cobra and kill far more quickly.
He raised his head and saw his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Water dripped from his hair and beaded on his skin. He thrust the gun at his image. “You’re an abomination,” he said, standing and moving toward the glass. “You have no right to live.” His breath caught in his throat and his heart hammered. He touched the trigger; started to squeeze. Then he dropped his hands. A feeling of despondency came over him.
He turned from the mirror and put away the Beretta. For a few minutes he paced the room, glancing frequently at his watch. It was twenty-four hours since he’d last called home. He sat on the bed and picked up the phone.
Barlow answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?” the old man demanded to know. “Why didn’t you call?” His shallow breath wheezed in and out of his lungs.
“I’ve been on the road,” Joshua said. “I ’m in Colorado.”
“Colorado,” For a few seconds the old man muttered to himself. “Then you should reach Los Angeles soon. Find a quiet motel. One that doesn’t have a nosey manager. Call me with the address when you’re done.”
Joshua was silent for a beat, thinking of the Nebraska cornfields. “Some interesting country out here,” he said. “Perhaps after all of this business is…is over...”
Barlow hung up.
Joshua stared at the silent handset. Had similar thoughts plagued his brother? Nathanial had been the extrovert, ready to follow his intuition. What must this journey have been like to him? Perhaps Joshua was tracing his brother’s exact steps. Was he destined to suffer Nathaniel’s fate? Maybe the renegades Nathaniel had hunted knew of Joshua’s existence and were waiting for him.
The renegades…
A strange and disturbing thought struck him: Nathaniel had betrayed them and abandoned the cause. Perhaps he never even reached Los Angeles. What if the pull of freedom and a life of discovery had tempted him? Right now Nathaniel could be living a normal life among normal people, running through the cornfields, laughing and living. Being.
Joshua stretched out on the double bed and stared at the ceiling, allowing himself thoughts of living along-side ordinary folk, unnoticed and unrecognized, sharing laughs with friends, hoisting a beer with Benjamin Jefferson, queuing for a movie with a girl on his arm, washing the car, mowing the lawn......
Thinking these thoughts, Joshua succumbed to sleep.
The final leg of his journey into California passed without incident. He arrived mid-afternoon on the eighth of September. Beyond the state line a steel road sign read: You are now in California. When he crossed the line butterflies invaded his stomach.
They were here. Somewhere.
The Mojave Desert proved significantly more blistering than the stretch of badlands behind him, so he pumped up the air conditioning as high as it would go. On route to Los Angeles he passed a band of American Indians driving a pickup. They stared at him with a resigned nonchalance that appeared as natural a part of their expressions as a frown or a smile. This added to the unsettling belief Los Angeles knew of his quest, lay waiting for him, promising all things unpleasant.
As the streets became clogged with traffic on his approach to city limits, Joshua noticed his hands were trembling. The radio picked up a lively rock station, which punched out track after track of raucous music; the commercial breaks were equally raucous and fast paced. While Jon Bon Jovi screamed of being shot through the heart, Joshua took interstate fifteen through to Corona. The heart of the city beat at a faster tempo than he was used to, and he found that his own heart now beat in time. California seemed composed entirely of sunshine, white sidewalks, winks of chrome, tall palm trees, and heat.
The reason for his being in Los Angeles, by no means forgotten, slipped toward the back of his mind. Caught in the throes of big city excitement, he knew he would have to get by this sprawling metropolis before starting work. So often he had seen Los Angeles on TV. But now he was here for real, in another world, in the television itself, where all things became possible.
After the first hour the eerie feeling of being watched dissolved in a thousand winks of sunshine on windshields, in the countless faces of preoccupied citizens. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The city seemed far too preoccupied with itself to notice him.
For several hours he drove the streets, listening to the fast music, marveling at the vistas of downtown LA, absorbing the feel of the city. Flora was varied and widespread and wonderfully sculpted; many of the streets lined with huge palm trees, their thick trunks and lofty fronds a testament to years of unbroken sunshine. What sights had these trees seen during their lives growing out of the pavements? Stalwart witnesses of strange and wondrous events. Joshua lost himself in the history, the fame and the infamy that was its heritage.
Only when he reached a point where the stunning panorama of the Pacific Ocean opened up in front of him did he give thought to the passage of time. Yet he felt no real concern. Los Angeles harbor, dotted with all manner of watercraft, stretched out like a picture postcard. He could smell seawater. The ocean’s color, an impressive blue, differed in shades and intensities wherever the current or depth altered. The passage of boats dragged slow-to-dissolve wakes behind them.
Compelled to glance every few seconds at the ocean, he cruised north along the San Diego freeway until he reached Long Beach. Several vehicles were parked in a lay-by overlooking the ocean. He signaled left and cut across the oncoming traffic and pulled in alongside a camper van. The sun was still high and the fragrance of the ocean floated in on a moderate, warm breeze. He leaned against the car and watched the surfers catching the waves.
For a dreamy hour, he stared out over the ocean, finding the vastness both majestic and terrifying. When suddenly buffeted by the dusty backwash of a passing greyhound bus, Joshua blinked away the grit and reluctantly climbed back into his car.
Sticking to the Coast road, where he could still see the ocean, he drove the thirty or so miles north to Santa Monica. The sun gradually closed on the seaward horizon, yet the temperature clung to the mid seventies. A freshening sea breeze swept across the outlying beaches and threw sand against the car. Finally, and somewhat unwillingly, he turned inland and headed away from the coast.
On a quiet street off Santa Monica Boulevard, he found a motel he thought suitable. A nondescript twenty-unit complex called the Hollywood Jewel; a shrub-shrouded ‘L’ shaped building in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. Only the reception was visible from the road; the rest of the structure was shielded from immediate view by overgrown shrubbery. Beyond the shrubbery shafts of sunlight spangled on the swimming pool. The sweet smell of nectar pervaded the air and the constant drone of honeybees gave the motel a sleepy, tranquil air.
“Stuckey – Ralph Stuckey,” said the manager as he unlocked the door and led Joshua inside. “You got a utility kitchen, bathroom, wall-safe - usual knick knacks.” Stuckey appeared fifty-five or sixty years old, balding, with freckles on his scalp the size of gull’s eggs. He wore faded blue flip-flops and ambled along with the time-worn indifference of a man who had performed this ritual for decades. “Staying long?”
Joshua set down his bag and watched a cockroach busily climb the
kitchen wall. “A few weeks – I can pay in advance.”
Ralph grinned. “Good man. That’s a…” he struggled for the words, “a very urban trait.”
Joshua didn’t have a clue what Ralph meant – he had offered to pay in advance only to keep interaction with the manager to a minimum. Shielding his wad of bills, he paid for three weeks rent, and then ushered the guy out of the door. In contrast to Benjamin Jefferson, Ralph Stuckey dragged with him an air of quiet disdain. On the surface he was all hellos and handshakes, whereas underneath, he exuded contempt.
Stuckey returned a moment later with a receipt. “We got a dozen loungers by the pool,” he said. “But if solitude and relaxation floats your rowboat, try the roof. Nobody else here can be bothered with the climb. Just don’t go jumping into the pool from up there”
“Sure,” Joshua said, closing the door.
It was 7:09 p.m. Barlow would be waiting for his call. Instead of reaching for the phone he waited a moment in the stillness. He imagined Nathaniel in similar circumstances, waiting to make the call to Barlow. For all Joshua knew, Nathaniel might have made a call from this very motel, perhaps thinking similar thoughts. The notion left Joshua with a discomfiting afterthought, for that was the last they heard from his brother.
Finally he sat on the bed and reached for the phone. Barlow answered on the tenth ring. “’lo,” he said sleepily.
“I’m in Los Angeles,” Joshua informed him. While Barlow listened he recited the name and address of the motel.
Barlow read back what Joshua told him. “Good. You’ve placed yourself close to both Durant and the Jamaicans.” The old man swallowed and deep-breathed a moment. “Do nothing tonight – read up on Durant. Start tomorrow. And be damn careful.” he stayed on the line moment as though he had something to add, but he finally hung up saying nothing.
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