Flesh and Blood

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Alex.”

  “Thank you, Alex. Thank you very very much. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't . . .” The green-blue eyes took another trip down my wet suit. “Do you live around here?”

  “No, I was just kayaking.”

  “Well, thank God you were. If you hadn't happened to . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “Ohmigod, it's just starting to hit me— what could've— I'm so—” She shivered, hugged herself, looked at me as if inviting a hug. But I just stood there, and she emitted several high-pitched whimpers, plucked at an eyelash.

  Now her lip quaked. Both kids stared up at her. Sage seemed stunned, and for the first time Baxter looked penitent.

  I squatted down beside them, sifted sand through my fingers.

  “Mama kie,” said Sage, with wonder. Her lower lip jutted.

  “Mama will be fine,” I said, drawing a small circle in the sand. Sage dotted the middle.

  Baxter said, “Mommy?”

  Cheryl stopped crying. Crouching down, she gathered both children to her artificial breasts.

  “Mama fine?” said Sage.

  “Yes, I am, nibby-nib. Thanks to this nice man— thanks to Alex.” She held on to the kids as her eyes locked onto mine. “Listen, I want to give you something. For what you did.”

  “Not necessary,” I said.

  “Please,” she said. “It would make me feel better— to at least— You saved my babies and I want to give you something. Please.” She pointed up at the top of the cliff. “We live here. Just come up for a second.”

  “You're sure it's okay?”

  “Of course I am. I'm— I'll bring the car down and we can ride up. You'd be helping me anyway. It scares me— the car. I'm always afraid they'll fall out or something. You can hold on to Baxter, you'll be doing me a favor. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Her smile was sudden, warm, rich as she leaned over and kissed my cheek. I smelled sunscreen and perfume. Baxter growled.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “For letting me give you something.”

  * * *

  She walked over to the straw hat, lifted the brim, and pulled out a small, white remote-control unit. The push of a button triggered the cable car's descent, soundless but for an occasional bump where an odd rail protruded.

  “Neat, huh?” she said. To the kids: “Neat, right? Not too many people have something this cool.”

  Neither child answered. I said, “Sure beats climbing.”

  Cheryl laughed, tossed her hair. “Well, you couldn't exactly climb that unless you were a— a lizard or something, I dunno. I mean, I like to work out— we've— There's a great gym up at the house, and I'm real physical, but no way could I climb that, right?”

  “No way,” I agreed.

  “No-ay,” said Sage.

  “I could climb it,” said Baxter. “Pizza cake.”

  “Sure you could, honey.” Cheryl patted his head. “It is kind of neat, being able to ride down whenever you want. He— it got put in a long time ago.”

  Muffled thump as the car came to rest six inches above the sand. “Okay, here we go, all aboard. I'll take Sage and you hold on to him, okay?”

  The compartment was roofless. Glass panels in a redwood frame, redwood benches, large enough for four adults. I got in last, feeling the car sway under my weight. Cheryl sat Baxter down, but he immediately stood. “No way, José,” she said, returning him to his bench and stretching his arm toward mine. I gripped his hand, and he growled again and glared. I felt, strangely, like a stepfather.

  “Close the door, Alex. Okay? Make sure it's locked good— Okay, here we go.”

  Another button push, and up we went, hugging the cliff. The transparent walls gave the ride a weightless feel— floating in air as the view expanded to infinity. A brief, dank wave of vertigo washed over me as I caught a stunning brain-full of ocean and sky and endless possibilities. Norris might be right about the millionaires and their pitiful scraps of beach, but this was something too.

  The trip was less than a minute of Baxter squirming, Sage growing drowsy, and Cheryl staring at me from under half-lowered lids, as if I had something to look forward to. Her legs were long, smooth, subtly muscled, perfect, and as she flexed she allowed them to spread, offering a view of soft inner thigh, high-cut lace panties, the merest hint of postwax stubble and goose bumps peeking out beyond the seam.

  Baxter was staring at me. I held on tight to his hand. When we reached the top the car paused for a second, changed course, drifted horizontally, bumped to a halt under the metal arch.

  “Home sweet home,” said Cheryl. “At least, kind of.”

  28

  THE FUNICULAR SET us down on a concrete platform, and we walked to a waist-high redwood-and-glass fence set twenty yards behind the cable unit. The barrier stretched the width of the property— at least three hundred feet— and halfway to the northern edge; a husky man in a gray uniform stooped and sprayed glass cleaner from a blue bottle. The area between the cliff edge and the fence was a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of packed brown Malibu dirt. No need to conserve space; the expanse before me was twenty acres minimum, maybe more.

  Twenty calculated acres. The earth had been bunched into too-gentle slopes of a symmetry that would've amused Mother Nature, then cloaked with emerald sod. Beds of tropical vegetation had been cut into the grass, and medallions of flowers sprouted bauble-bright. Granite paths, some hooded by pink marble arbors laced with scarlet bougainvillea, others sun-whitened, sickled through perfect lawns under the selective shade of specimen trees. Maybe half a thousand trees, grouped in copses and pruned sculpturally, as calculated for size and shape as Cheryl's breasts. The beat of the ocean continued to work its way up. But it competed now with new water music— waterfalls, at least a dozen minicataracts, tumbling into rock pools that seemed to sprout from nowhere. The soda spritz of skyward-aimed fountains jetted from free-form rock ponds, some occupied by swans and ducks and pink flamingos. Bird cries in the distance didn't belong to any native species, and something that might've been a monkey shrieked.

  I said, “Sounds like someone's got a zoo.”

  “All kinds of animals,” said Cheryl, smiling enigmatically and moving several steps ahead of me, long, blond hair flapping against her back. Sage was slung over her shoulder, sleeping soundly, cheeks bunched, tiny mouth a vermilion squiggle. Baxter held my hand without offering resistance. His pace had slowed and his eyelids fluttered, and when I lifted him into my arms he didn't fight, and I felt his body go heavy against mine.

  Cheryl walked faster. Lagging slightly behind allowed me to check out the estate. No buildings in sight, just greenery, and now the fountains’ ejaculations had drowned out the ocean. A few acres to the right the lawn sloped to a silver mirror: an unfenced, dark-bottomed swimming pool the size of a small lake. No birds. How did they keep them out?

  No swimmers either. But for us and the glass cleaner, no humanity. The place had all the intimacy of a restricted resort, and I half-expected some officious sort to dart out from the shrubbery and check my membership card.

  Cheryl turned onto a path, and we passed behind beds of tall, flowering pampas grass, hedges of variegated mock orange, a grove of two-story Hollywood junipers studded with blue-gray berries. The trees obscured the rest of the property, and I caught up with Cheryl. When her hip bumped mine a couple of times and I didn't react, her jaw set and she surged ahead of me again. The junipers gave way to a planting of cattails, and I resumed sneaking peeks between the stalks.

  Up ahead and to the right were high, peach-stucco walls. Black, angled court lights hinted at tennis, and a rubbery thump-thump said relaxed competition.

  A sharp twist of the pathway revealed a building— a quarter mile up, at the terminus of a palm colonnade. More peach walls and an Italianate heap the size of the White House under a royal blue roof. The pathway forked, and Cheryl chose the route that took us away from the house, through an allée of orange trees. Several smaller buildings crop
ped up along the way— acres away, similarly colored, heavily plant-shrouded. Then a few people: women in navy blue uniforms sweeping the walkways. Stout, dark-haired women with bowed legs, dresses hanging below the knees. Norris and the parking lot dudes would be crushed.

  We entered a dark, bamboo-lined cul-de-sac, walked five hundred feet, turned sharply east. At the end of the path stood a one-story house only twice the size of the average suburban dream. A trellis-topped front loggia was burdened by a mass of half-dead trumpet vine. More bamboo towered at the back. The same peach walls and cerulean roof. Up close, I saw that the stucco had been sponged to a mottled finish and lacquered glossy. The worn Mediterranean villa look, complete with artificial age scars at the corners, peeled back to reveal ersatz brickwork. Huge double doors of weathered walnut looked genuinely ancient, but any attempt to evoke the Aegean or le Côte d'Azur was killed by the roof tiles— some kind of space-age composite, too bright, too blue, cheesy enough to top a pizza.

  “Here we are,” said Cheryl over her shoulder. “My place.”

  “Nice.”

  She tossed her hair. “It's temporary. I used to have a place of my own, then . . . What's the difference?” She hurried toward the double doors, yanked the handle. Resistance pitched her forward, and Sage's head bobbled.

  “Locked?” she said. “I left it open— shit, someone must've locked it.” Patting the pockets of the dress. “Shit, I didn't take a key. Now I feel really stupid.”

  “Hey, it happens.”

  She faced me, and the blue-green eyes narrowed. “Are you always this nice?”

  “Nope,” I said. “You caught me on a good day.”

  “I'll bet you have lots of good days,” she said, touching my pinkie with hers but making it sound like a character flaw. She licked her lips. Lovely California girl face. Fresh, healthy, unlined. Even the freckles were perfectly placed. Nature's bounty, if you discounted the aggressive mammaries.

  “Okay,” she said, “it looks like I'm going to have to go find someone to let me in. I can leave you with Baxter and take Sage— no, I guess you better come with me.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She gave a soft, breathy laugh. “You have absolutely no idea where you are, do you— no idea who owns this place?”

  “Someone with a good stockbroker, I'd say.”

  She laughed. “That's funny.” Her eyelids shuttered closed, then opened slowly. “Where exactly are you from, Alex?”

  “As in the turnip truck?”

  “Huh?”

  “I'm from L.A., Cheryl.”

  “Where, like the Valley?”

  “West L.A.”

  “Oh.” She thought about that. “Because the Valley can be a far place— sometimes people don't know what's going on over the hill.”

  “So you're saying this is some kind of famous place?” I shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Well . . .” She winked conspiratorially. “I bet you really do know— without knowing you know. Take a guess.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Some kind of celebrity . . . a movie star. If you're an actress, I'm sorry for not—”

  “No, no.” She giggled. “I've acted, but that's not it.”

  “Someone rich and famous . . .”

  “Now you're getting warm—”

  She looped her pinkie around mine, and I thought of how Robin had held my index finger as she slept.

  “C'mon,” she said. “Guess.”

  Then one of the double doors opened and she jumped back, as if slapped.

  * * *

  A couple stood in the opening.

  The woman was tall, thin, slightly stooped, in her late thirties, with broad shoulders and long limbs. Square-jawed face, black, brooding eyes, mahogany hair tied back in a ponytail, too many worry lines for her age. Despite the wrinkles, a chapped slice of mouth, and the grainy vestiges of teenage acne on chin and cheeks, she was attractive in a forbidding way— some men would go nuts for the challenge.

  She had on a slim-cut, burgundy pantsuit with black velvet shawl lapels and matching cuffs. Any curves she might've owned were concealed by the loose drape of the suit, but the gestalt was poised and feminine. No jewelry, lots of foundation masking the blemishes. No problem recognizing her: Anita Duke. Marc Anthony's heir apparent and the new CEO of Duke Enterprises.

  Ben Dugger's younger sister. I searched for resemblance, saw nuances of shared chromosomes in the stoop and the sad eyes.

  The man beside her was a few years younger— thirty-two or -three— and an inch shorter. He wore a cream linen suit, pink silk T-shirt, beige sandals without socks. A platinum watch with a face the size of a snowball flashed from under his left sleeve. Thick wrists, bristly reddish hair curling up to the knuckles. His face was a full, ruddy sphere atop a soft, seamed neck. Long, thick, coarsely wavy hair the color of dirty brass flowed over his ears and trailed past his collar. Some recession in front exposed a high, domed brow. Sooty puffiness below deep-set hazel eyes gave him a sleepy look. He had a small, straight nose, no upper lip to speak of. But the lower slab was full and moist, and when he smiled at Cheryl his teeth were snowy and perfectly aligned. Strongly built, the slightest suggestion of pot above the waistband of his linen trousers. If he took care of himself, he'd remain crudely handsome for a decade or two. If not, he'd end up a Falstaffian cartoon.

  “Cheryl,” said Anita Duke, softly. Her eyes were on me.

  “What are you guys doing here?” said Cheryl. “Did you lock the door? I left it open.”

  “We had no idea where you were so we locked it, Cheryl. Who's your friend?”

  “Alex. He— I was down on the beach and— he ended up helping me.”

  “Helping you?” Anita looked me up and down. Same once-over Cheryl had delivered down on the beach, but this scrutiny was impersonal— flat and suspicious— without the slightest flavor of flirtation. Trained eye accustomed to judging flesh?

  The long-haired man had been examining Cheryl's wet dress. One of his hands began massaging a button of his suit.

  “I had a little . . . trouble,” said Cheryl.

  “Trouble?” said Anita.

  “No big deal,” said Cheryl. “So . . . what're you guys doing here?”

  “We dropped by,” said the man. He had a high, nasal voice. Without looking at me, he said, “Doing some diving?”

  Cheryl said, “He was boating, Kent. Baxter got a little bit in the water, and he helped me. So I thought it would be nice—”

  Anita broke in: “Are you saying Baxter could've drowned?”

  “No, no. It never got to that point— It's no big deal, guys. He just got in the water before I could stop him and the waves got a little . . . I would've reached him just fine, but Alex here was passing by, and he was nice enough to jump in, that's all.”

  “Alex,” said the man named Kent. “Sounds kind of exciting—”

  Anita Duke shot him a sharp look, and he shut his mouth.

  “It was no really big deal, guys,” Cheryl insisted. “You know what a good swimmer Bax is. It's just that I had Sage on my hands too, and by the time— Alex helped me and I wanted to thank him, so I asked him to come up so I could give him something.”

  “A tip,” said Kent.

  Anita said, “Well, that's certainly the gracious thing to do.” To Kent: “Why don't you show him our appreciation, honey, and then you can see him off.”

  Talking softly, but no mistaking the imperiousness. There's nothing men despise more than being ordered around by a woman in front of another man. Long-haired Kent smiled and dipped his hand into his trouser pocket, but the anger settled around his eyes and his mouth, and he threw it back at me.

  A crocodile billfold appeared, and he pulled out a twenty and waved it in my face. “Here you go, my friend.”

  “A little more than that, Kent,” said Anita. “After all.”

  Kent's mouth turned down, and his eyes disappeared among fleshy folds. “How much?”

  “You be the judge.”

 
“Sure,” said Kent, forcing a smile. Another twenty joined the first.

  “I'd say another,” offered Anita.

  Kent's smile hung on for dear life. Out came the billfold again, and he thrust the sixty dollars at me. “My wife's the generous type.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “No tip necessary.”

  “Take it,” said Anita. “It's the least we can do.”

  “It's just as she said, no big deal.”

  Cheryl said, “Anyway, I need to get the kids inside.”

  “I'll help you with them,” said Anita. “Give me Baxter— he's always a handful for you.” Stepping forward, she placed her hands around the boy's rib cage, took him from me, kept her face close to mine. “Let's make it an even hundred dollars and then you can go, Alex.”