From the porch Shel watched as the cars backed up in the gravel and drove off. Their headlights sprayed the house and the sagging fence and then the rain-wet hill as they made their way from the property in a slow parade.
She turned and went back into the house and wandered. Rowena and Duval were gone, sent to a movie by Roy. She was, in a sense, free.
As though pulled by gravity she returned to the window where Dayball had found her earlier and she sat back down in the same chair. She picked up the package of cigarettes she’d left on the sill, probed the package for a smoke, then put it back down again and put her head in her hand.
Felix was right. What Frank had done went far beyond the orbit of “mistake.” He’d been keening down one disastrous path since the very beginning. Nothing she’d done had changed a thing. Except she’d learned something. She’d learned why she felt for him the way she did, learned what fueled the little machine of pity in her heart. What thou doest for the least of my brethren. There but for fortune. It could be you.
She’d always believed that she and Frank weren’t all that different. Poor, white, luckless, children of busted homes, bruised bodies and cheap promises. American deadlegs. Had she been born male, she might well have wandered a path like his. A fuckup careening toward a tragedy. And though she hadn’t meant for it to happen, she’d cherished the intensity, the drama, the sense of purpose Frank had brought to her life. It had filled the vacuum Danny’s absence had created. She hadn’t foreseen the trap it would become.
In particular, she hadn’t seen that Frank’s psychic vulnerabilities had a killing edge. She woke up often, thinking of the twins. She felt guilty, felt used and foolish and betrayed, and at the same time realized why he’d done it.
The secret lay in that mournful little phrase he was always muttering: Everything I do, I do for you. Like a pup that brings you a mangled bird in his teeth, blood all over, tail wagging like mad. So proud. He did it for me, to get my attention, to make me understand—there but for fortune, it could be you—to make me suffer the way he does. To make me guilty, like him.
She reached for her cigarettes again.
Abatangelo remained hidden in his hilltop shelter of oak and laurel, poised behind his tripod and camera. Overhead, the cloud front had broken. The sagging meadow, the ribbon of asphalt, it all came alive beneath the winter moon, charged with unearthly detail.
For the first three rolls of film he’d shot, he’d used the Passive Light Intensifier, and until he had the chance to fiddle and prod in the darkroom he’d have little idea how the prints would appear. Now, with the moonlight, he used 3200 Tri-X with the telephoto, closing down as far as he could and exposing each frame for as long as ten seconds. For the longer shots, the ones of the compound at the back of the property, he’d used an even slower telephoto, a 300 mm. He shot three frames for each composition, to yield a continuum of detail and compensate for botched exposures. The shots would take some pushing in the bath, just to produce a semblance of detail.
To what end, he wondered.
He’d managed to shoot the cars coming and going, but due to the timed exposures they’d most likely reduce to nothing more than a blaze of headlight and blurred masses of shadow. Still, he’d caught a few shots of the men coming in and out, milling around the cars, and that might lead to something. The truck that had left just a while ago would resemble a long, milky smear flanked by moth-like wings of haze. One spot would be clear, the truck’s grill and cabin, maybe even the driver in silhouette, caught as the aperture closed. Abatangelo would bathe the prints in Acufine to sharpen the grain, then blow them up fivefold to see if he could make out the license numbers.
For all the preceding activity, the place seemed strangely quiet now. He presumed the truck had taken off the last incriminating whatever; the compound was locked up, any contraband removed, he supposed, and if they had a meth lab back there they’d hauled off the chemicals and dregs and dumped them, probably in a neighboring rancher’s well water. The man who had been posted at the county road had driven off with the others and hadn’t come back. The ranch house was lit up here and there, squares of light curtained dully, just another lonely house in the shadow of Mt. Diablo in eastern CoCo County. A scented wind rustled the trees. From within the drowsy herd milling below, a bull let out a moaning roar and shook its head, rattling the clapperless bell strung around its neck.
Bending down to peer through the viewfinder again, he spotted a distant, solitary figure. A woman. Dry-mouthed, he watched each step. Even after all this time, the years of having nothing but memories of her in his mind’s eye, he knew.
She hurried down the gravel lane away from the ranch house, walking with her shoulders hunched, arms tight to her body, battling the cold. As she passed the barn he dug the lens cap from his pocket, fit it into place and bagged his equipment, shouldering the tripod for the run downhill. Shel reached the first outbuilding, lifted the rolling aluminum door and disappeared inside. Shortly a truck engine shrieked then purred and headlights sprayed the gravel outside.
He scrambled down the moonlit hillside scattering cows. Reaching the Dart in its blind of pampas grass, he threw his tripod and camera bag into the trunk and climbed behind the wheel. He put the keys in the ignition but did not engage the starter. Instead, he sat low in the seat, waiting.
Minutes passed. It was possible she’d taken the road west instead, he thought. He should hurry then, follow. He didn’t move. His mind raced, his body sat. Then headlights broke the hill and a Pathfinder streamed past in low gear. Abatangelo caught a glimpse of her profile.
Shel drove with one hand on the wheel; the other hand held her head. She had to get out of the house, needed to drive, be out in the open air. For just a short while. She felt reasonably certain they wouldn’t begrudge her that. They hadn’t even bothered to post a man at the gate, which was normal for uneventful nights when the compound sat dark and empty, nights when it was left to Frank and Shel and Rowena to make the place look like any other out here, nothing more than occupied. Just another off night, she thought, that’s what this was. That said something. It said she’d held up her end of the bargain. Frank had stayed in the saddle, he’d gone out to do his bit. And what she’d told Felix was true: She knew nothing. She could not connect anyone directly to anything, no matter what happened; she posed a threat to no one. That said, she told herself, not too far. They’ll sense it somehow, track you down just to brag about how they did it, if you stray too far.
In her rearview mirror she spotted the pair of headlights. They were two curves behind her, gaining. It was Felix, she thought. It had all been a test, see if she’d stay put. Her throat clenched. This wasn’t the sort of thing he’d want to handle personally. Maybe it was Bud Lally. Maybe it was the Mexicans everyone was bitching about. Maybe they were coming for Frank. And when they found her instead, what then?
She slowed, and the lights kept coming. Whoever they were, they weren’t just following, they meant to catch her. She tapped the accelerator once to gain some distance, floored it suddenly, but no more than a thousand yards later she eased her foot off the pedal entirely. The truck slowed to a stop. No more running, she thought. Too far to any crossroad, no turnoff, no escape. Make your peace. If they mean to get you, they will.
The car in pursuit rounded the turn and drifted to a stop behind her, headlights remaining on. Please don’t drag this out, she thought, so I won’t be tempted to beg. Only one man left the car. She could not see if others remained behind. But of course, she thought, he’s huge. She swallowed hard, fighting an impulse to retch, and leaned her head against the window glass, peering into the mirror. Something in the walk, the docking hips, the loping gait and the cock of the head, it seemed familiar.
The figure came up alongside and rapped lightly on the window glass. She found herself taking deep breaths through her mouth, eyes closed. Get it done with, she thought. Opening her eyes, turning, she bolted at the sight of the face, screaming, “Oh good God!”
“It’s me,” Abatangelo shouted through the glass. He pressed his hands to the window. “Hey, hey, don’t be scared. Just me.”
CHAPTER
10
The music from the barroom jukebox blared so loud the ladies’ room mirror shivered above the white row of sinks. Shel had been standing there several minutes, unable to muster the will to step out into the bar where Danny sat waiting.
At the sight of him, the moment she recognized his face and realized she wasn’t daydreaming, a knot unraveled in her chest. It had gotten worse as they’d driven to town, him following behind in his own car. She’d started sobbing so hard she’d thought of pulling over. But then he would’ve pulled over, too, and she couldn’t let him see her like that. It was ridiculous, really. The complications boggled her.
In better times, younger times, such dim prospects would have inspired in her a steadying defiance. Now, with Danny at the bar, she wondered if she was equal to the task of simply sitting next to him and holding up her end of the conversation. She couldn’t tell him what was going on. He’d want to take charge, pull her out of the pit she was in, and that would get him killed.
Several sinks down, two youngsters fussed at themselves, yammering at their own reflections. The nearest was a sinewy blonde in a spangled shift that clung to her shape like a body stocking. She was pretty in the local manner, everything in place, nothing too stark or ethnic. Straight teeth. Boyish of hip and wow of boob.
The other girl was on the chubby side, wrapped tight in a pink dress that pinched up her cleavage. Her hair erupted above her head in coils of syrupy henna. She brought to mind something Shel had read years before on a bathroom wall: CUTE—LAST STOP BEFORE UGLY.
The blonde gripped her clutch and snapped it shut. Using her hip, she nudged the door open. Music blared through the opening like a train horn. The blonde and her homely sidekick left without so much as a glance back at Shel. The door swung quietly behind them.
Shel stared at her hands, clutching the sink edge, avoiding her reflection. When she did look up finally, she confronted the middle-aged woman she had become. How long will it take him, she wondered, to decide this was all a wild mistake?
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and bit her lip to make it flush. Overall, she thought, addressing her own image, you look used.
Abatangelo positioned himself at the bar in such a way as to put the greatest distance between himself and the jukebox. It was the size of a tanning stall and the music it bellowed consisted of throbbing mush punctuated by schoolboy grunts. He disliked it less from a distance.
The bartender was a tall and rangy man with large, strong hands. He stood alone with his arms crossed by the ice bin, nursing a tonic water. A twelve-stepper, Abatangelo guessed. Ordering a dark rum neat with a soda back, he paid with a twenty and let his change sit. This is exactly the kind of joint, he thought, we used to avoid. Shel was sending him a message, no doubt. Don’t expect much. Or, more to the point: Go home.
From long habit he began to view the room one-eyed, appraising shadows, framing possible angles and assessing depth of field. The decor called to mind a dozen interchangeable cities—Des Moines, Ft. Wayne, Columbus, Tulsa—cities in which he’d once grabbed a quick drink in an off-ramp motel bar. No one looked at home. The women were mouthy and overdressed. The men were scrubbed blue-collar types, recent entrants to the service sector, he supposed. Here and there a few souses loomed, hunched over beers, eyeing one and all with horny menace. Ready to fuck or fight. They lent the place its only character, them and the ax handle the bartender had tucked beside the ice bin to keep them in line.
Abatangelo sipped his rum. So what’s the plan, Dan? First, he surmised, don’t let on that you know her situation. She’ll read that as charity and spit everything else you say right back at you. Don’t try too hard to charm her, either. She’s got built-in equipment for sniffing through charm, and besides, your mechanism there is rusty.
Judging from her eyes, Shel hadn’t enjoyed much in the way of charm lately. It was odd, seeing in the flesh what he’d detected in her letters. He didn’t want to pin a word like “depression” on it—words were particularly cheap at that end of the psychological spectrum—but she looked like it was all she could do just to function.
He checked his watch, sipped his soda, felt his pulse skip around. Two made-up vamps strutted from the ladies’ room, braying at the boys. Shel didn’t follow. What was taking her?
He pictured her scrambling out through a propped-open transom, jogging to her car and fleeing. That would be exotic, he thought. Then he pictured the two of them lying side by side, an impulsive stroke of tenderness, a motel room, naked. She would hike the sheet up around her chest, head propped on one hand. The lamp behind would cast a warming glow along her body. How many centuries had passed since he’d touched her? She would pluck gray hairs from his chest. She would crack unseemly jokes about his prison muscle.
Shel emerged from the ladies’ room with a tentative stride. Abatangelo, watching her, felt every step break his heart. You’re here for the same reason I’m here, he thought. Admit it.
Shunning eye contact, she crossed the room and slid a bill across the bar, nodding with her head toward the jukebox. The bartender palmed the bill, leaned down, reached for the throw switch, then turned around and flipped on the radio as the jukebox grew dark and the music faded into dissonance then silence. A roar of disapproval erupted from the crowd, to which the bartender turned his back. He adjusted the radio volume to a level compatible with talk.
“What was the fee?” Abatangelo asked.
Shel hiked herself onto the stool next to his. “Enough, apparently,” she said.
“Doubt it made you any friends.”
“Pete’s my friend here,” she replied, nodding toward the bartender. As an afterthought, she added: “We used to work together. Long ago.”
She said this without sentiment. Down the bar, Pete the bartender set about mixing a double Stoli Bloody Mary. A dab of Worcestershire, several shakes of celery salt.
“I fear,” Abatangelo said, “Pete finds me unworthy.”
“Pete thinks everybody’s unworthy,” Shel responded. “It’s his curse.”
Pete concluded his preparations and carried Shel’s drink toward her like a chalice. He spun a napkin down and pinned it with the glass stem. Abatangelo nudged a five from his change but Pete lifted a nay-saying hand.
“Thank you,” Shel said to both of them.
Pete smiled toward her, eyed Abatangelo, then retreated. Shortly he resumed his position at the ice bin, far enough away to imply discretion, close enough to overhear if voices were raised.
Shel regarded with relief the cocktail before her—fuss of celery, lime squeeze, peppery ice. The first taste went down with a delicious greedy snap and she promptly considered draining the glass, ordering a second. Instead, she took the celery stalk in her fingers and used it to stir.
A long silence followed. Sensing Abatangelo about to break it, she launched in first, saying, “Who are you?” Listening to her own voice, she decided the words did not sound coy or malicious. She meant to sound curious, as though they were strangers. A bit of make-believe, to lighten things up, give them a little emotional leeway. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she added.
Abatangelo stared back at her with a look of bafflement. He picked up his glass and rolled the rum around, sniffing it, sipping.
“I am,” he said at length, “a photographer. I work in the city.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“I came out to see an old friend. Lost touch over the years. I’m hoping she’ll turn up soon.”
He smiled gamely. She felt herself grow sad. She wanted a kiss from him.
“How did you lose touch,” she said, “you and this old friend of yours.”
“I’ve been away,” he said. “The desert.”
“Studying with a guru?”
This provoked a helpless cackle. �
��Oh yeah,” he said. “Me and all my hermit pals. We were studying with our guru. We were paving the road to enlightenment.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Well, it got a little dull.”
“Maybe your guru was messing with your head.”
“That’s all part of the process.”
“Then who needs it?”
“Me,” Abatangelo said. “Wicked me. The wise ones decided: Send the sorry motherfucker to the desert, that’ll straighten him out. Let him learn the ancient secrets of boredom and humiliation.”
“Listen …”
“That’s enlightenment in the desert, my dear. That and an inkling, that, back in civilization, the people you used to know quite easily abide your absence. They, how does one put it, move on.”
He looked at her inquiringly. She felt her throat tighten.
She said, “But hey, now you’re back.”
“Waiting,” he said.
She reached for her drink. “What did you do before this bit in the desert?”
“I was in import/export. Exotic greenery. My turn now: Who are you?”
She felt stung by his tone and yet oddly relieved. He was getting pissed. “I used to work in property management,” she said. “Beachfront homes. But the partnership dissolved.”
“How sad,” Abatangelo said. “I mean, I suppose. Was it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It was sad.”
He stared at a spot two inches inside her skull. “Tough luck,” he said. “Hard to find good partners. And now?”
Shel puffed her cheeks and winced. “I run a day-care center,” she said, “for hard-to-discipline children.”
She offered him a knowing smile. Once upon a time, she thought, we did this in Vegas. We were young and crazy with hope and brand-new to each other. Every word crackled. It seemed a thousand years ago.
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