Denise got to her feet, crossed to her mother, bent down and reached out a timid hand to touch her mother’s shoulder—just as the downstairs buzzer rang. Startled, she straightened. Involuntarily muttering, “Shit. It’s them.”
“Oh, dear. No.” With her hands to her face, covering the ruined makeup, her mother was scrambling to her feet, turning desperately toward the hallway, and the bathroom. Escaping. Still escaping.
Twenty
“WELL—” ACROSS THE ROOM, her father was levering himself forward in the room’s only easy chair, ready to rise to his feet. “I think we’d better be going, Denise. Our plane leaves in an hour and forty minutes. How long does it take to get to the airport from here?”
“About a half hour, at this time of the day.” She looked at her father, asking, “I thought you had an airplane—a company airplane.”
Elton answered the question: “We do. But it’s in the shop. Every hundred hours, it has to be checked. It’s the law.”
“So we came courtesy of United,” Holloway said, speaking in his deep, rich voice, falsely hearty. In reply, she nodded and smiled, realizing that, yes, her nod and her smile were as false as her father’s. During the past half hour, ever since her mother emerged from the bathroom, makeup restored, the four of them had been sitting like strangers in a public waiting room, exchanging small talk.
“We probably should have chartered an airplane,” Elton said. “But at least Hertz had a limo for us, and a driver. So the hassle could have been worse.”
Typically, Elton would want words like “chartered airplane” and “limo” on the record. Just as typically, he would use a with-it word like “hassle.” Demonstrating that, even though he existed in a world elevated from that of his peers, he nevertheless still retained the common touch—still spoke the language of the masses. On The Hour, it was Elton’s job to appeal to the young—despite his banker’s jowls and a paunch of middle-aged proportions.
Hopeful that her distaste showed, she deliberately looked away from her brother—to find her mother looking at her directly. Her mother was trying to smile as she said, “Thank you, Denise. Thank you for everything, these past two weeks. Will you come and see us? Soon?”
“I—I’ll try, Mother. I really will.”
“Christmas,” Holloway pronounced, as he braced his hands on the arms of his chair and heaved himself to his feet. For a moment he stood unsteadily, like a groggy fighter trying to get his legs under him. His face was gray and drawn, his eyes lusterless, his lips bloodless. Since she’d seen him last, he’d lost weight. The bones of his head and face had become more prominent: a dead man’s skull, showing through thin, sallow skin.
But the voice was the same—his eternal stock in trade, the foundation of the family fortune:
“Christmas,” he repeated, smiling at her now. Intoning: “She’ll come for Christmas, and stay through New Year’s.”
She knew it was unnecessary to reply. No one really expected her to do it. Yet her father’s mellifluous pronouncement created the momentary illusion that, yes, the family would be united over Christmas.
The artful evangelist could make the moment’s illusion seem eternal—at least until the collection plate was passed.
Also on his feet, Elton spoke heartily: “Definitely. Christmas. Do you realize, Denise—” He turned to face her, dropping his voice to a deeper, more unctuous note—a fair imitation of his father’s style. “Do you realize that Amy, my youngest, has only seen you twice in her entire life?”
“You can always come up here, Elton,” she answered quietly. “Take a trip. Visit San Francisco. Bring the family. Ride the cable car.”
Elton’s heavy, overfed face sagged into an expression of pious reproach. “It’s not the same, Denise. You should know that.”
Also on her feet, arms folded as she faced her brother, she stared at him in silence. Could he see the contempt that she knew must show in her face?
Probably not. Because, after only a brief glance at her, following the delivery of his homily, he was turning to face her mother, who was also struggling to get to her feet.
“Are you ready, Mother?” Advancing a measured stride, Elton was gravely extending his arm, crooked to dancing-school perfection. “Shall we go?”
Silently she watched her mother take his arm. Both turned away, to the apartment door. Ahead of them, her father was opening the door, gesturing for the anonymous blue-suited bodyguard who waited in the hallway outside to take the suitcases. The bodyguard nodded stolidly to her, picked up the suitcases and murmured to Holloway that he would be downstairs, in the car. As the bodyguard disappeared, her father, mother and brother turned in unison to face her. Speaking for all of them, Holloway raised his hand to her, unconsciously striking his pastor’s pose. “Goodbye, Denise, for now. We will be seeing you soon, I hope. At Christmas, as I said. And, meanwhile, thank you, Denise. I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that, in the past, our paths have separated. But I want to tell you, Denise—I want you to know—that the help you’ve given, these last two weeks, has shown me that, when it really matters, I can count on you. Just as you can count on me.” As he said it, his eyes were slightly raised, suggesting heavenly sanction for the speech. Now he was smiling at her: his famous smile, beloved by millions.
“Yeah, Denise,” Elton was saying, mock-heartily, “You really came through for the home team.”
Without replying to either of them, she turned to face her mother. Reaching out to touch her mother’s cheek, gently, with the tips of her fingers, she said softly, “Goodbye, Mother. God bless you.”
She opened the Toyota’s hatchback, put the canvas bag inside and slammed the hatchback shut. Across the street, standing behind his cash register, Mr. Byrnes was handing a brown paper bag across the counter to a short, stocky, middle-aged man dressed in a scuffed leather jacket and wearing a blue watch cap pulled low around his ears. She waited for a pickup truck and a green Porsche to pass, then crossed the street to the grocery store. Still at the counter, the man in the leather jacket was speaking in a loud, truculent voice:
“Okay, Harry. You go ahead. You hope for the best. But I’m telling you—I’m promising you—that this country is going down the tubes. And I’m also telling you, in no uncertain terms, that it all started in 1954, when the Supreme Court wrote it out on a slip of paper that the blacks was just as good as the whites. Which is just another way of saying that the whites aren’t any better than the blacks. Which, sure enough, is just what happened. Look at football. Look at baseball. Christ, just look anywhere. And then think about it—” He raised a short, grimy forefinger, pointing across the counter.
“You’re full of crap, Roger,” Byrnes said amiably. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been full of crap.” As the stocky man grabbed up his sack of groceries and stalked indignantly out of the store, Mr. Byrnes turned to her, smiling.
“Hello, Denise. I saw you throwing your duffle bag in the car. You going somewhere?”
“I’m going up to Mendocino, Mr. Byrnes. I’m going to go get Peter, and bring him home.”
Mr. Byrnes nodded decisively, saying, “Good. It’s about time, I imagine.”
She smiled. In a few words, Mr. Byrnes had always been able to suggest that, yes, he was interested in her life with Peter—and, yes, he understood its particular rewards and also its problems. All of this he was able to convey without once stepping over the line of impropriety. Just as, now, he was intimating that he realized how much her body must ache for Peter, after the last two weeks alone.
So, nodding agreement, still smiling, she repeated drily, “I imagine.”
“Did I see your mother leaving a little while ago?” he asked.
“Yes. She’s going back to Los Angeles. That’s why I came over. Will you pick up our newspapers and things? We should be back in two or three days. Or, at least, I will. I’ve got to get back to work.”
He nodded. “Glad to. Anytime—” He let a moment of silence pass, then
said, “That’s some car your mother left in. With a chauffeur, and everything.”
She let a beat pass, deciding how to react. Finally, pitching her voice to a light, quizzical note—still smiling—she said, “My family’s rich. Didn’t I ever tell you?”
“Well—” He waved a deprecatory hand. “Not in so many words. But I remember Peter saying, once, that your father was Austin Holloway. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever seen him preach, being that I’m not a religious man myself. But, of course, I’ve heard of him. So I imagine that was him, huh—with your mother? The older man?”
She nodded. “That was my father, and my brother, too, in the gray sports jacket. The other man, in the blue suit—” She hesitated, somehow unwilling to say it. But, dropping her eyes and speaking in a lower voice, she said, “He’s Dad’s bodyguard.”
Mr. Byrnes nodded in return, then asked, “What about the other one—a relative,” he said. “How come he didn’t leave with them?”
About to turn away, giving a signal that she was anxious to leave, she frowned. “My relative?”
“Yeah. Fella about twenty-five, I’d say. Slim, with real dark brown hair. He was asking about you. An hour ago, maybe.”
“My relative?” she repeated again, now looking him full in the face, searching for some clue to the riddle. “But I don’t have any more relatives. I mean—” Impatiently, she waved away what she’d just said. “I mean, the only relatives I have are my father and mother and brother. Except for a sister-in-law and three nieces.”
“Huh—” Thoughtfully, Mr. Byrnes turned toward the plate-glass show window to look across the street. “Come to think about it, the fella didn’t exactly add up. Or, at least, he doesn’t add up now, knowing what I do about your folks’ visit.”
“How do you mean, ‘knowing what you know now’?”
“Well, I guess your folks must’ve arrived while I was in back, trying to locate some wine I’d ordered. Because, when I got back to the front, here, I noticed that Cadillac sitting in front of your place. I mean, I couldn’t hardly miss it, with the chauffeur, and all. But, naturally, I didn’t connect it with you, especially.
“So then, a few minutes later, I noticed this young fella go up to the entry way of your building, and check the names on the mailboxes, like he’s looking for someone. Which, of course, wasn’t suspicious, or anything. And then I saw him ring a bell, and wait, and ring again. He acted like he was trying to find either you or the people downstairs, but couldn’t. I saw him shake his head, and leave. Or, rather, he looked around the neighborhood, and then came across the street, here. He came in, and asked me if I knew you. I said I did. I mean, I didn’t see any harm in it. Then, as if he was making absolutely sure he had the right party, he said, ‘She’s Austin Holloway’s daughter.’ And I said that, yes, you were. ‘You’re positive?’ he said. Well—” With his jaw set pugnaciously, Mr. Byrnes stroked his gleaming bald head with a chunky, muscular hand. “Well, something about the way he said it—like he was trying to pin me to the wall—it ruffled me, a little. But then he said that he was a relative of yours. Which, of course, cooled me down. So I said that, yes, you’re his daughter, for sure.” Scowling now, Mr. Byrnes said, “Turns out, my first hunch was right, I guess. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
She raised a hand, to reassure him. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Byrnes. This happens all the time, believe me. After all, my father’s in the business of catering to some very strange people. Which means that they’re constantly turning up at odd times, in odd places! That’s why he had a bodyguard with him. He needs protection from his fans. Or, at least, he needs a buffer. Down in Los Angeles, he has a whole security staff, just to keep the nuts away.”
“Yeah, but this guy wasn’t asking about your father. He was asking about you. And, besides, I didn’t much like his looks.”
Involuntarily, she looked out into the street. “Has he been back? Have you seen him since my folks left?”
“No. I just saw him that once. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t still around.”
“Yes it does, Mr. Byrnes. I promise you.” She smiled, thanked him and turned toward the door.
Twenty-One
TAKING HIS RIGHT HAND from the steering wheel, he switched off the country music station. For the first hours of the trip, driving through the darkness with his eyes fixed on the two twin points of red light ahead, the music had helped. First he’d listened to rock, but the beat had been too hard, too heavy. Next he’d tried a few minutes of the golden oldies—until the sappy, syrupy lyrics began to echo and re-echo from memories of his childhood, distorting the words and the music. Finally he’d found the country music. The easy, familiar rhythms had helped to calm him, as they always did. But now, only silence could help.
Silence, and some answers—some urgent, essential answers. Some life or death answers:
Where were they going? Where? He had to know, had to find out. Because, suddenly, the strain of following the Toyota’s taillights down the dark, two-lane country road had become almost unbearable. For minutes at a time, no other headlights were visible. It was as if his car and the Toyota were the only cars in the world—as if he was helplessly attached to one end of a string, being hauled through the endless night like some child’s toy, pulled by an invisible monster. He had no control over where he was going, or when he would get there. Suddenly this drive through the night had become an abbreviation of his whole life: unplanned, uncontrolled. Unresolved.
Ahead, the two circles of red light suddenly glowed brighter. Stoplights. She was braking. Her right turn indicator was flashing.
Both in front and in back, except for the two of them, the road was deserted. The road they traveled was only two lanes: a narrow, uneven road, in bad repair. A blacktop road, far from any town. A county road.
So, certainly, she would turn off on a smaller access road: another blacktop road, or a gravel road. Because, to the right, there was nothing. No lights. No sign of life. Only a vast, empty darkness between the county road and a low range of hills, dark against the night sky.
Her car was slowing, turning slightly to the left, then swinging sharply to the right, passing between two white posts, briefly illuminated by the glare of her headlights. Beyond the two white posts, he saw three mailboxes. A dust plume drifted in a cloud behind her car. It was a gravel road, then—probably a private road, that served three houses located somewhere in the darkness that stretched beyond the gently bouncing swath of her headlights.
So, therefore, he must bypass the two white posts. He must continue on the county road beyond the first curve, until he found a concealed place to stop and turn around. Then, cautiously, he would drive back the way he’d come. He would park where he could watch the private road, guarding against the possibility that she had only come for a few hours’ visit. When he was satisfied that she’d come to stay—and when he’d copied down the names on the mailboxes, to identify the turnoff—he’d drive to the nearest town, where he’d sleep. He wouldn’t sleep in his car beside the road. He wouldn’t risk certain questioning by state troopers the second time they passed on patrol, and saw his car still parked as they’d seen it before.
Then, at first light tomorrow, he would return. He would find the Toyota, and so discover where she was staying. Then he would make his plans.
Twenty-Two
AHEAD, IN HER HEADLIGHTS, she saw the enormous redwood stump that marked the last sharp curve in the road before Peter’s cabin would come into view. Beyond the curve, she would see the soft glow of kerosene lamplight in the cabin windows. She would see Peter’s pickup, parked beside the porch. She would stop at the gate, to unfasten it. Pepper would begin barking. Until, as she drove up the driveway, Pepper would recognize the sound of her engine. Peter would let Pepper out of the cabin. Bounding and frisking, Pepper would come to meet her, leaping beside her car as she drove to the cabin.
Steering carefully between the ruts in the road, she gripped the wheel, turned—
&nb
sp; —and saw nothing but darkness. He’d gone. Either that, or he was asleep—at eight o’clock.
But, when she stopped the Toyota with its headlights on the gate, she saw a padlock. He was gone, then. For the day? Or gone for good—back to San Francisco? She got out of the car, unlocked the gate, swung it back and hooked it to a small stump, so the gate wouldn’t close before she’d driven through—as it used to do before Peter installed the hook. She drove through, unhooked the gate, swung it shut. After a moment’s thought she snapped the padlock. Tonight, she would stay here. Tomorrow, she would return to the city.
She drove up the driveway and parked beside the cabin, clear of the driveway. Because, even though he’d snapped the padlock, it was still possible that Peter might return. He could have taken Pepper and gone into town for groceries. He could have met friends, and stayed for dinner and drinks. For tonight’s story—for the occasional erotic fantasies with which she’d titillated herself during the long drive—there might still be a happy ending.
The porch creaked under her weight as she fitted her key in the lock, opened the front door and stepped into the small living room. The room was warm; embers glowed in the massive fieldstone fireplace, Peter’s pride and joy—the fruit of an entire summer’s work.
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