Graven Images

by Jane Waterhouse

  I moved away. “I’ll handle Blackmoor my own way.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t talking about him. I meant about us.” He ran a fingertip down the back of my neck.

  “There is no us.” It came out more roughly than I’d intended. “I’m sorry. The other night was a mistake—”

  The intensity of his reaction shocked me. “A mistake. A mistake?” he repeated. “How about all those other times? Jack, come on over for a beer? Jack, stay for dinner. Jack, Jack, Jack. We were a fucking family—you and Temple and me. I didn’t just dream that up, did I?”

  “We work together,” I told him. “You’re a friend. That’s all it was.” But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t entirely true.

  In one sudden movement, he swept everything—the papers, the blotter, the phone—off his desk. “This is great.” He rammed his fist into the wall. “So like, I’ve just wasted two years of my life, is that what you’re telling me? Two years of breaking my ass—nights, weekends, taking the flak for your prima donna act, holding down the home front when you went off, traipsing around the country—”

  “You wanted the job,” I reminded him.

  “I thought it was leading somewhere. I didn’t know you’d use me, then throw me out on my rear—”

  “I’m not throwing you out.”

  “Throwing me out, throwing me over.” Jack shrugged as if it were a moot point. “You’ll see.” His voice dripped venom. “You think you can make it without me, Garner? Well, go ahead and try. You don’t know—you don’t have the vaguest clue of what I do around here!” The words bounced loudly off the walls, and an echo came back: Elizabeth Rice demanding, as the studio burned around her, “Who do you think is responsible for this?”

  An insistent buzzing sound was coming from the telephone on the floor. I wanted to put the receiver back on the hook, but I was afraid to move.

  Jack put out his hand to me, repentantly. “Garner—”

  I couldn’t help it. I recoiled from him. His face darkened. He picked up the wastepaper basket and hurled it against the filing cabinets. “One of these days,” he said in a bitter whisper, “you’re gonna play one of your games with the wrong person.”

  After he slammed the door, I walked like a zombie over to the filing cabinet. The T’s were in the second drawer from the bottom, on the right. Jack’s file was less than a quarter inch thick. I have only a skinny millimeter’s worth of knowledge about this man, I thought, thumbing through tax forms, our early correspondence. I remembered asking for references, and there they were—three names printed in Jack’s cramped handwriting.

  Acting totally on impulse, I picked up the angrily buzzing receiver with shaking hands.

  FIFTEEN

  On my way to the guest house, I noticed Cilda bringing a tray of muffins to the workers. They swooped around her like birds, slickers flapping, hands pecking at the food.

  Take your break, I muttered under my breath. I’m sure the storm will wait.

  Blackmoor answered the door, unshaven, in a gray sweatshirt and jeans. “Hullo,” he said.

  I walked in, uninvited. Wineglasses, empty bottles, and several used coffee mugs littered the workbench. He’d been sketching again. When he noticed my interest, he gathered the drawings up and stuffed them into an open carton.

  The marble stood in the center of the room, under the skylight. I squinted my eyes. The ghostly shape of a female torso seemed to be struggling, fighting to emerge from a chrysalis of stone.

  “That’s quite a beginning.”

  “Well, it’s the ending that counts, isn’t it?” He picked up his hammer and chisel. With each quick thrust, a sliver of marble flew into the air, settling like soap shavings at our feet. Chip-chip-chip-chip-chip-chip-chip. Stop. Chip-chip-chip-chip-chip-chip-chip. Stop.

  “Stop,” I said. “Could you stop?” He focused on me with effort. His eyes were bloodshot. “How come you asked me to throw the cassette in the canal?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The night of the fire. You told me to throw it in the water. So it would end with her, you said.”

  “Did I?” He sounded unconvinced.

  “Yes, you did.”

  He went back to attacking the stone with the tip of his sharp, pointy chisel. Chip-chip-chip-chip-chip-chip-chip…

  “Elizabeth Rice didn’t act alone.” I spoke quickly, in the small silent space between sets of thrusts. Blackmoor set his tools down on the table, but said nothing. “Someone was with her the night she sealed Torie’s head in the plaster. The camera zoomed in for close-ups. Some mounted camcorders can do that without a person operating them, but not the one in your studio. Jack checked.”

  “Jack checked.” Blackmoor’s mouth twisted into a flinty grin. “And I suppose Jack also has a theory about who the mystery camera-person might be. He can be quite thorough, I imagine, Jack. When it serves his purposes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t trust him,” he said. “I’ve caught him skulking around outside, and some of my things are missing.”

  Only minutes before I’d been desperately dialing references as if my life depended on it, my heart sinking with every disconnected number, every disembodied voice on an answering machine, I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number—”; but in the face of Blackmoor’s sarcastic innuendo, I felt strangely protective of Jack Tatum.

  “If Jack came in here, it was to do his job. Nothing more.”

  “So where does this leave us, Garnish, now that I’m back on the hot seat?”

  I felt something inside me crumble. I didn’t want to believe it was my heart. “I want you out of here,” I said.

  Blackmoor turned the chisel over in his hand. “I suppose this is all a big relief to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know,” he replied. A cold ripple of fear ran down my back. You know, the hooded man had said.

  That’s when I heard the scream, and the other voices—overlapping, terrible in their urgency.

  Blackmoor reached the door first. “Stay back,” he warned. I shrugged off his arm, rushing toward the circle of slickered men clustered around the crane.

  Cilda lay on the ground, not moving. “Somebody call for help,” I yelled.

  Dropping to my knees, I cradled her head in my lap. “Hold on,” I whispered into her ear, “I’m here. It’s going to be all right.”

  No one knew how it happened. One worker said he’d noticed her raking up gravel near the seawall before the crane lurched forward. It had been parked on an incline, but the operator insisted he’d activated the emergency brake. No one could offer any plausible reason as to how it might have given way.

  I rode with Cilda in the back of the ambulance. “Temple.” She grabbed my arm. “She’s all alone, with school lettin’ out.”

  “She’ll be all right. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  Cilda thrashed her head back and forth on the stretcher. “Temple,” she cried. “Temple…”

  “Shock,” the paramedic said. “Sometimes they become agitated.”

  I pressed her hands. They were clammy and cold, stiff as feet. “Shhh.” The ambulance hit a rut. Cilda groaned. I held her tight. The seawall was just a soft blur against another iced-lemonade sky.

  SIXTEEN

  “Acouple of fractured ribs, a sprained wrist, and a broken leg. All things considered, she got off pretty easy.” I stood at the payphone, jangling some extra quarters in my hand.

  “WILL she haVE to stAY in the hoSPITAL?” The connection was spotty, probably because of the oncoming storm.

  “The doctor wants her to, but you know Cilda.” The line crackled. “We should be here awhile longer, though. Listen, honey, do me a favor, and pull out the sofa bed? We’ll never get her upstairs.”

  “I was supPOSED to go to EMory’s.”

  “Call her and tell her you can’t come.”

  “MOther—”


  I held the quarters against my cheek. They were cool and smelled like greasy thumbprints. “We’ll discuss it when I get home.” A volley of static obliterated the reply. “I love you,” I called.

  But the connection had already been broken.

  The sky lay low on the horizon, nestling layer upon layer of color over the sea, as if trying to dazzle it down. But the ocean kept rising.

  I parked the Volvo behind Blackmoor’s Range Rover. Getting Cilda out of the car was even more difficult than I’d expected. Between the wrapped wrist, taped ribs, and plaster cast, I couldn’t figure out where to grab her. After a few attempts I leaned on the horn.

  “Where is she?” The place seemed to be completely deserted. “Looks like we’re on our own.” I smiled through gritted teeth.

  “Temple!” The name echoed in the empty kitchen.

  We stopped so Cilda could rest. I knew she was in a lot of pain. “I’m fine on me own,” she protested. “Go find our girl.”

  “I want to get you settled first.”

  We hobbled through the silent great room. At the bottom of the staircase I called again, “Temple?” No answer. Even the piano was tightly shut, its teethy ivories betraying nothing.

  The downstairs sofa bed had been pulled out and made up with fresh sheets. “She must be here somewhere.” I eased Cilda onto the mattress, taking care to keep the fear out of my voice. “It’s good to be home, huh? Should I put on the television for you?” She shook her head impatiently.

  I went into the bathroom, looking out of the window as I ran the water. The guest house was dark. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink. My hair was tangled. My cheeks looked scorched, as if they’d been pressed with the tip of a steam iron. I carried the glass of water back into the other room along with the tiny amber bottle of painkillers. “Why don’t you take one of the pills the doctor gave you?”

  “Got no use for that stuff.” Cilda motioned me away. “Makes me dopey.”

  “You might need them.” I set the bottle on the table, next to the water.

  “Go find Temple,” she whispered hoarsely. “Go.”

  “Temple?” The door swung on its hinges, creaking a little. I walked into the bedroom. She’s gone to Emory’s, I thought miserably, and didn’t even bother to leave a note.

  But, then again, that wasn’t quite true.

  Looking out the window, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the seawall, flapping bravely, a tiny white flag. Temple had left a message for someone, although I was quite sure it wasn’t meant for me.

  The wind was so fierce that it almost got away. The paper flew out of my fingers and landed in the surf, skimming the water like a toy raft. I waded up to my calves. I was afraid the ink would blur, that I’d never know what it said. I snatched it up with both hands and stuffed it in my jacket.

  Pockets of air swirled around me in strong, silent currents, pasting my hair to my face, pushing me backward, toward the ocean, shoving like a pair of invisible hands. It took forever to reach the seawall.

  The rusty metal stairs clapped noisily against the stone. I clung to them, feeling salt spray on my back. When I finally managed to pull myself up onto the hump of the wall, my eyes were immediately drawn to the office.

  The door was wide open. It swung loosely in the wind. I lowered myself off the wall and broke into a lopey, head-down run. Were they there, Blackmoor and Temple? Or was it just Jack?

  Just Jack.

  The door teetered back and forth. It seemed strange that the lights should be off, unless—I found the switchplate. One quick flip illuminated a scene of absolute chaos. Papers had been strewn everywhere, some torn in half, some rolled up into little balls. The filing cabinets gaped, lantern-jawed, spewing files, upchucking folders onto the floor. The walls were splattered with India ink—black, blue, purple, and a shock of blood red—like some modernistic mural. I moved like a sleepwalker into the inner room.

  A hammer stuck obscenely out of the blank screen of the Macintosh. My chair had been hacked to ribbons. I picked up the photograph of Temple. The glass from the frame showered my desk, small and glinty, crunching under my feet. Someone had drawn a pair of wide, red, lascivious lips over her mouth. When I put my finger to it, the lines smudged. It was greasy, like those pencils Blackmoor used to mark his plaster.

  I started to cry.

  The phone rang. I backed away from it. It rang again, and again. Finally I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Is this Miss Quinn?”

  “Yes,” I said, tentatively.

  “Miss Quinn, this is Larry Thorbes. You left a message about Jack Tatum?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounded ethereal, untethered, out in space. “I remember.”

  “Look, Miss Quinn, I’m afraid I just can’t get involved,” Larry Thorbes was saying. I wanted to respond, had my lips pursed and ready, but somehow nothing came out. “I mean, Jack’s a friend, but I’m married now. Settled down. I just can’t keep bailing him out.”

  “Bailing him out?” I repeated dully.

  “Well, that’s why you’re calling, isn’t it?” the man said. “He’s gone apeshit again, right? Had one too many and leveled some bar? I mean, I’ve been there. I know what he’s capable of when somebody crosses him.” My mouth fluttered open, uselessly.

  “But I’m sorry,” Jack’s personal reference went on, “I’ve got a family now. I’d like to help him, only I just can’t this time, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whispered. “Thank you anyway.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The guest house was locked. I stood in the shelter of the porch, pounding the door until my fists were sore. Inside, it might have been a tomb.

  Wind tapped on the kitchen windows as if it wanted to get in. My boots were soaked from wading into the ocean. They squished as I walked across the floor. I sat at the table, carefully unfolding the note. The dampness and the heat from my pocket had softened the paper so that it felt almost like cloth. Temple’s big, curly writing leapt off the page, splotchy in places, but still quite legible.

  Help!

  Things are really heating up here. I think she knows something’s going on. She’s on my case all the time. I was supposed to go to Emory’s but now I’m not sure. One thing I know is I’m not going to give you up, no matter what SHE says. You think I’m a baby, but you’ll see. It wasn’t just talk (at least on MY part). No matter what I’ll meet you at the usual time, in the usual place.

  LUV YA, Temple

  Her signature was bubbled in a heart.

  I put both hands on the table, palms down, as though to steady it, and not them. A thin ribbon of fear undulated from my abdomen, up to the back of my throat. I felt light-headed, on the edge of a faint. At the usual time, in the usual place.

  The wall clock read ten after seven. It had been almost an hour since I’d checked on Cilda. I walked through the empty great room, not bothering to turn on the lights. A huge shadow—myself distorted, tiny head, massive thighs—preceded me. My boots left damp prints on the carpet.

  The door was open, the way I’d left it. Cilda was sleeping on her back. The saliva trapped in her throat gurgled a little with each drawn breath. A fringe of steel-gray hair stood up from the pillow, blunt-edged, like a broom.

  “Cilda?” No answer. The water glass was almost empty. She must have taken her pills. I turned around and tiptoed out the door.

  Emory’s number was no longer tacked to the corkboard in Temple’s room. I began rifling through the desk, keeping one eye out the window. Expecting to see what? A lantern bobbing, or the soft white cone of a flashlight? Would they meet that way? In a tempest? In the dark?

  My head had cleared some. It was comforting, somehow, being up here, eye to eye with the storm. It gave me a sense of power. The rising tides had already reclaimed the beach. Waves rapped angrily on the back of the decrepit seawall. In a few hours they would swell over the shoulders of the rock and creep inland. But there was no use thinking about that now.
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br />   I was supposed to go to Emory’s but now I’m not sure. Temple’s telephone book was in the bottom drawer. I found the number there, under P.

  “Hello, Cindy?”

  “Ye-es?” Cindy Pratt’s voice was perky, the way I’d remembered it.

  “This is Garner Quinn. Temple’s mom.”

  “Garner! Why, you poor thing, we were just thinking about you, in this storm.”

  “I wanted to let you know I’m coming by to pick up Temple.”

  Emory’s mother sounded confused. “Oh, Garner, honey, there must be some misunderstanding,” she said. “Temple isn’t here.”

  My jaw moved in jerky spasms. “Are you sure? I mean, could you check? Maybe she came in without you knowing.”

  The voice on the other end lowered, sympathetically. “Well, I’ll ask. Emory’s sitting here in the kitchen with me now, making cookies.” I stabbed the front of the desk with the toe of my wet boot. Cookies? What kind of person made fucking cookies in the middle of a hurricane? AND WHERE THE FUCK IS MY DAUGHTER?

  Cindy Pratt came back on the line, apologetically. “No. I’m afraid Emory hasn’t seen her since school let out.”

  Downstairs, someone was thumping loudly on the front door, ringing the bell. Temple! And it was locked. She couldn’t get in. “I have to go now,” I said, abruptly. I heard Cindy Pratt calling “Please let us know when you hear from her” before I settled the receiver back into its cradle.

  I raced downstairs, fumbling with the knob. “Temple—”

  A policeman in uniform huddled on the front steps, bracing himself against the wind. “Mrs. Quinn?” He was young, well built, a beach-bum-turned-cop.

  “I’m Quinn.” My voice sounded loopy and drunk, even to me. “What…what is it? Is anything the matter?”

  The officer grinned as though I’d just told a funny joke. He had very small teeth. “Nothin’ much, as long as you don’t mind your basic hurricane and tidal wave conditions.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh. You’re here about the storm.”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’re evacuating this end of the peninsula.” My face must have gone blank, because he went on, this time more urgently. “Look, lady, you got terrific digs here, but there’s nothing you can do. I been coverin’ this area for years, and I’ll tell you, you don’t want to be around when this baby hits.”