"Okay. Let Frank know, too."
She wondered why her old affection for Zamorra hadn't drawn him closer but her recent affection for Wildcraft apparently had. Or was it simple sympathy? Either way, it wasn't the kind of question that really riveted you after watching a fellow deputy fall five thousand feet because he had a bullet in his brain and missed his wife. Or talked to a guy just blinded by road flares.
Mike came quietly into the homicide pen, like a man unwelcome. He shook Zamorra's hand and then offered it to Merci. She shook it while she looked into Mike's clear blue eyes and saw the gears of his heart grinding away behind them.
"I was hoping to drop by this evening with Danny," he said. "Bring some meal worms for the alligator lizard."
"Okay," she said.
"We've got plenty of food," said Zamorra. "Bring some wine if you'd like, stay for dinner."
Mike released her hand and nodded at Zamorra like the boy he was, competent in the male world but largely ignorant of the female. He looked at her with an inquisitive expression.
"Fine with me," she said. "Lynda's welcome, if you want."
"No."
When they had gone, Merci picked up her mail, crammed it into her purse and walked out.
Home at six-ten on a warm August evening, Merci slinging her purse onto the little breakfast table while Tim clunked across the floor meet her: red shorts, black cowboy boots, skinned knees showing between them, a plastic gladiator's vest and an Angels baseball cap.
Her heart lightened when she saw him. Purity. Innocence. The Man. No amount of violence could smother the love; it was always; there, like a sweet bolt of lightning crackling through the dark.
Clark hugged her, regarding Zamorra and his groceries for an extra second before nodding. "The Weber's on the patio."
Tim stared frankly at dark Zamorra.
"Good to see you again, Tim. Nice vest."
The boy nodded. Paul gravely shook his hand then headed for the barbecue.
Merci swung her son up onto her shoulder and mouthed the word Wildcraft to her father, a big silent question mark at the end.
"No, I figured that was for you." He turned to watch Mike's pick come up the drive. "Oh, I see you invited Mike too."
"More or less."
"You okay, honey?"
"I'm okay, Dad."
"I'll run these guys off if you just want to be with us tonight."
"I'm okay."
He looked at her with his bottomless calm. His glasses caught the light and magnified his eyes into faux astonishment. She leaned in her father and hugged him with her available arm. He smiled, then ambled to the front door.
"And how about you, little man?" she asked. "How are you today'
"Good," said Tim. "I'm fine. Is Awchie in the heckilopter?"
"He's done with the helicopter."
"And the flowers?"
"And the flowers."
"Because he loves his wife."
"Yes, he . .. does."
"Danny's here!"
He struggled off her shoulder and she set him to the floor with a thud of boot heels. He ran to Danny and Mike as they came through the door. Danny dropped the tub of meal worms and the top popped off, leaving a pile of meal and worms on the floor.
"I'll get that," said Mike. "Here."
The boys bolted off for the backyard, Clark behind them. Mike set down a heavy plastic grocery bag and knelt, using the lid to sweep the worms back into the container. "Thanks for the invite," he said.
"You're welcome."
"Three or four of these a day," he said.
She hesitated, uncertain.
"For the lizard," he said.
"Ah. Got it."
"Keep the container in the freezer but warm the worms in your hand before feeding. If the worms are too cold, the lizard could get indigestion."
"Okay."
"And fresh water at least once a week."
"We can do that, sure."
Mike stood and held up the plastic bag. "I brought a box of wine so there'd be plenty for all of us."
"I'll get that, Mike," said Zamorra, coming through, coat gone, tie loosened. "Cocktails?"
"Definitely," said Merci.
"Make mine light," said Mike.
All three of them turned when Damon Reese, a big bouquet of flowers in his hand, stepped onto the porch and up to the screen door. He wore a Hawaiian shirt brighter than the sun.
"Damn, I'm sorry to interrupt, Merci," he said. "I just wanted to drop these off."
Mike looked somewhat confusedly at her.
Zamorra opened the screen door and handed Reese the boxed Chablis. "Put this in the kitchen sink and shoot a hole in it with your service weapon."
"And I'll take those," said Mike, ears reddening, reaching for the flowers.
He looked at Merci as his attempt at competitive gallantry backfired and he was left standing with a bouquet of flowers in one hand the container of meal worms in the other.
Reese clapped him on the shoulder on his way by.
Merci smiled. A sit-com. But what a feeling. She felt like she hadn't been amused in a couple of centuries.
She sat in the shade of the backyard patio, increasingly plastered the Adirondack chair by Zamorra's martini. It made her usual scotch and water seem feeble, and the lemon gave it a bright flavor. She changed her slacks and boots for shorts, an ancient blue dress stolen from her father and a pair of clogs that a salesman said flattered her legs. She divided her attention three ways: part to Tim and Danny and Mike playing in the grove beyond the fence; part to Zamorra and Reese differing on the best placement of coals for indirect cooking the Weber; part to the awful memory of Archie Wildcraft and hapless blue wings.
Clark creaked into the chair beside her. "These drinks are strong."
"Very."
"I heard he'd built some wings or something."
She looked at him. Her father's pipeline for department information never failed to surprise her. She imagined geezers cawing into their telephones all day.
"Not or something, Dad. They were wings."
"Wow. Did they work?"
"At first, then it seemed like he fell through them. By the time I got to the edge where I could see, he was really going fast, straight down. He hit so hard."
Clark frowned and shook his head. He sipped his drink and looked out to the boys.
"Did he really think he could fly? Or was it a straight suicide?
"He thought he could fly up and find her, I guess. He actually called me on the cell, said he was on his way to get her."
"I thought that for a while with your mother. Not the flying part, but you know, going to the other side to see them."
"Human optimism," she said.
"Who knows? Maybe it works. None of us will ever know until it's too late to report back."
"Maybe that's good."
"Mysteries are good. So is this drink." He took another sip and chuckled. "It's kind of funny that three guys showed up here all at once, hoping for your attention."
"They think they're taking care of me."
"Let 'em."
Merci thought again about Wildcraft spreading his wings around her. She thought about Hess and his cancer. She saw Archie's body falling through the sky and Hess's hair falling through her fingers and she realized she'd loved them out of some blurry notion that love could heal.
"Arrogant," she said.
"What is?"
"Just thinking out loud."
She watched Tim trudging through the orange grove and knew that there was something else in what she'd felt, though, something more than cures and miracles. It was big and straightforward and simple. But what—desire? Passion? What was the word? What was it that your heart yearned to take big bites of, ingest and surround and own? What was the word for that powerful hunger?
Archie knew, she thought. Whether he had the word for it or not. Because if you think you can fly to it then you know. If it takes you that far then you know. If you act the
n you know. If you feel it then you know, and for a second there on that mountain, I felt it.
For a crazy lilting moment she felt light and blessed, and understood that Archie had worked a miracle on her and not the other way around.
"Get you another drink, Dad?"
"How about a plain soda with some lemon? One of these things is enough for me."
In the kitchen she leaned against the cool counter and poured the soda over ice. She remembered how the tip of her finger fit in Wildcraft's dimple. The words loss and waste came to her again as lightness fell.
I felt everything.
"Hey. I'm sorry I didn't call."
She turned to find Damon Reese behind her, grinning with a touch of wickedness. He came right up to her and brushed the hair from her forehead again, just like he'd done that day in his front yard, smelled cologne instead of fish and gasoline.
"You okay, Merci?"
"I'm okay."
"Rough, what you went through."
"Yeah."
"I've thought about you a lot," he said. "Every day."
"That's nice," she said. She thumbed the opening of the soda bottle, gave it a quick two shakes and shot Reese in the face with it.
"Yeah, no kidding," he said. "I deserved that. Okay."
"You had me for a second."
"Things are complicated."
"No, they're simple, Damon. Do me a favor. Take this drink to Dad."
Reese took the drink, glancing down at his soda-blasted Aloha shirt. "Let's start over."
"Let's drop it and go outside."
"I absolutely want to see you again. Bring the soda bottle if you want."
He smiled and took a step toward her.
"Damon, you're a real punk."
Something in Reese took this as a compliment. He gave her conspiratorial grin and walked away with the drink.
It was then that she noticed that Mike had put Reese's bouquet in a vase on the breakfast table by her purse. The flowers were arranged upside down, blossoms drowning at the bottom, and the stiff green stems with their white supermarket tie jutting from the top.
Boys, she thought: my favorite ages are two to forty.
She sat down and looked through the window at Zamorra while he pondered the coals. She had not yet seen him place a call to Kirsten. Reese sat in the shade, examining his soaked shirt. Clark was where she had left him, fresh drink in hand. Mike and the boys were coming through the gate, back into the yard. A pink house on a white beach in Mexico, she thought: Tim and Hess and me.
She picked the office mail out of her purse and fanned through it quickly until her eye caught an interesting return name and address: Sean Moss, La Jolla.
Dr. Sean, she thought: surf dude, biochemical researcher, entrepreneur, friend and smitten admirer of Gwen Wildcraft, coward. She noted the post date—the same day they'd seen him at his mansion overlooking the ocean.
She opened it and read the handwritten note.
Sergeant Rayborn—I should have handed you this when you were here. It doesn't really contain anything I didn't tell you, but it's personal and physical and I felt at the time that it shouldn't go into a murder file. In fact I should have handed it to someone back when it might have done some good. I had no idea that all of our hard work could lead to this. I'm leaving for a surf camp on Tavarua tomorrow, and won't be gettable for three months. The BD present she refers to was a disc she'd made of her songs—SM
The attached letter was postmarked on August 20, Gwen Wildcraft's birthday:
Dear Sean,
I'm truly happy to know you've found someone to love, and earned the fifty million it will take to keep her happy. Just kidding. All's fine here. Archie's working hard, ready to move off patrol this year sometime, we hope. The home is just beautiful, many improvements since you saw it. Sick, and I love it. I was completely horrified to find Al and Sonny waiting by my car yesterday in the grocery store parking lot when I came out. Told me to keep my mouth shut about serum problems I might have known about. Those random weirdos actually threatened to report MB to the PTC for not divulging the sidewinder problem unless . . . get this . . . unless I came back to work for their latest company, some silicon molecule engineering start-up in Irvine. Apeman said they needed a "money-maker cover girl." Made it sound like he was recruiting a whore, sure looked at me that way. They said they'd pay me twelve an hour to do what I did for you. I told them to quit leaning on my new Dodge and get out of my life immediately or I'd report THEM to the FTC, the FBI, the INS, and the Centers for Disease Control. They didn't laugh at that. They never took one word I said at OrganiVen seriously. Hey, I'm 26 today! Here's my BD present to you. It's my day, so I can do what I feel like, right? Talk soon, Gwen
Rayborn sighed and read it again. There it was, a bluff called with three bullets. A threat that cost three lives, two eyes and countless sorrows. Gwen had fallen once, but she wouldn't fall twice. Her mistake was not going to the Bureau or the Sheriff's. Would that have mattered? Maybe not. It had taken Al and Sonny less than twenty-four hours to execute her.
All for the good life, Merci thought. All for the extra stuff when you already have enough. She pictured the Wildcraft home—beautiful and empty.
She put the letter back and looked through the window again her own life—somewhat chaotic at the moment, but very full. Her heart was beating hard and strong, a beat of sadness for Archie and Gwen, then a beat of promise for everyone left standing.
After dinner Mike had a third martini and passed out on the couch. An hour later Merci woke him up, told him that Clark would give him and Danny a lift home. Mike looked at her blearily, then at Zamorra, finishing up the dishes. She thanked him for coming—the wine,
worms, just fantastic. She hugged him and told him his flower arrangement was right on, too. He smiled and stumbled just a little on his way out the door.
A few minutes later she carried Tim to his room, read to him and felt him melt into sleep in her arms.
She came back out to find that Reese had put on some music and poured more wine for himself. He offered Merci a series of winning smiles.
When her father got back, he said he was beat and went to his room. Damon asked Merci to dance but she just wasn't up for it. Then Damon got loud and Zamorra told him to leave. There was a moment of fight or flight but Reese put up his hands in mock surrender and headed out.
Zamorra thanked her for the evening and put on his coat.
"Wait," she said. "Let's take a walk."
"I'd like to."
She got a flashlight and led Zamorra across the cool grass, through the gate, and down the path along the grove. Her thoughts were a little unusual from the gin and the good wine at dinner. The moon was nearly full, dropping a faint silver light to the leaf tops. Merci raised her nose just a little to let in the stinging fresh smell of the citrus.
"I've got someone I'd like you to meet," she said. She hadn't fully decided that she could go through with this but now the sentence hung in the air, blatant and tactile, like a spider at the end of a strand.
"I could have put my tie back on," said Zamorra.
"It's casual, Paul."
"I made Mike's extra strong. Sorry."
"It's okay. He ODs kind of easy."
She led him across the weeds of the back lot, to the cinder blocks and the floss-tethered tumbleweeds. When she lifted the plywood she caught Zamorra's mute surprise that the weeds were attached. He pitched in and helped her set the sheets against the garage.
"Bubble wrap?"
"You'll see."
She knelt and set the wrap aside, dirt digging into her bare knees. Then she shined the light in.
"This is Frank."
"I'll be damned."
"I found him here. He's from Spain. He's real."
"He looks real."
"I make him for law enforcement. The sword, mainly, a trabuco, which was an early gun, but his department kept his weapon after Francisco bought the farm. I really don't know. It's speculative."
"Seems possible."
"What do you think of him?"
"He's well grounded."
She laughed quietly. "Hess said alone."
"That comes to mind too."
Zamorra continued to look down. He was squatting with his on his knees and his chin on his fists, the way Tim did.
"Kirsten is a lot like him."
Merci was about to make a crack about both having tiny skulls when she felt the sweet awakening of becoming unfooled. "No."
"Yeah."
"You're really kidding."
"I made her up."
"Why?"
"To keep myself away from you."
She almost said something like this changes things, but for once she calculated her words against the situation and kept her mouth closed.
"I wanted to be more than just a furious widower," he said were too many dangling nerves."
"Man, I know that feeling."
"I know you do. I admired the way you bulled right through bad things that happened to you. I loitered around mine. When I saw you and Wildcraft today I understood how strong you are. And how tired I was of self-pity. Thank you."
She wanted to do something meaningful, but what, hold his hand?
Then her words jumped out and it was too late. "Let's go to Mexico and find a place on the beach for a couple of days. Pink walls, blue water, bougainvillea in clay pots. A good beach and a maid to clean up."
He looked at her. She saw the moonlight on his black hair, the glint in his eyes. Too soon, she thought. I just scared him off. You 're a stupid, selfish, greedy, idiotic . . .
"Pack your things," he said. "I'll pick you up in one hour. Tim can sleep on the way down."
"Wait for me. I'll be ready in half of that."
"Even better. Would you make a pot of coffee? I'll sit here with Frank a minute. Tuck him in."
She got up and brushed the dirt off her knees, left the flashlight on the ground. She came around the grave and ran a hand through Zamorra's hair on her way past. An unexpected thrill, that. Always loved a man's hair.
Walking by the fragrant trees her thoughts split into familiar couples of hope and worry: Zamorra and stingrays, Tim and mosquitoes, love and the Federates.
She came through the gate onto the grass. Turned and looked back at Zamorra still squatting behind the streak of the flashlight beam, contemplating Frank. Smelled her fingers. Moving toward the house she felt full. Lucky. She felt like dozing with her head against the cool window glass of a car while the radio played low and a capable man drove her someplace she'd always wanted to go.
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