He held up an abalone shell and said, “This might have been part of La Brea Woman’s business.”
“She sold seashells?”
“Not exactly, but she might have traded to get them.”
“For jewelry?”
“Nope, this was a practical woman. She used shells like these for scooping up the hot tar and transporting it.”
“What’d they use it for?”
“All sorts of stuff. It made a good adhesive, and we’ve also found it on the remnants of early canoes; tar was good for waterproofing.”
Carter pushed the tray to one side of the table, then retrieved another, equally wide but deeper.
Deep enough to house the skull of the woman herself.
Miranda, he could tell, was impressed. And that was a good sign. If you were going to work in anthropology or paleontology, it was good to have a sense of wonder; most of the scientists he knew had never really lost it. No matter how many digs they went on, and how many bones or fossils they recovered, there was always something miraculous and breathtaking about it. Especially when the bones were those of an early hominid.
The skull of the La Brea Woman was small—she’d been diminutive by modern-day standards, standing well under five feet tall—and osteologic studies, based on the skull and the dozen or so other skeletal fragments that had been recovered, had revealed not much more about her. The pelvic bones did suggest she’d already given birth. But there was one thing that was not in any dispute.
“How come there’s a different-colored patch here?” Miranda asked, indicating a section on top.
“Because her skull had been crushed,” Carter replied.
Miranda paused, and brushed a wisp of blonde hair out of her eyes. “Do we know how?”
“It’s possible it happened during the excavation; the left side of the lower jaw is also broken.”
Miranda, hearing something in Carter’s voice, said, “But you don’t think so.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You think she was . . . murdered?” It was odd, but Miranda had to wonder for a second if a person could be murdered long before that crime might have technically existed. Was there some anthropological term for the killing of a prehistoric human?
“I think she was struck with a heavy, blunt object,” Carter said. “The discolored patch on top is plaster; it was used to fill in the missing portion of her skull.”
He looked steadily into the empty eye sockets and the gaping jaws. In today’s world she’d been only a teenager, but in the ancient and dangerous world in which she lived and died—was she a sacrifice of some kind, or a casualty of war?—the La Brea Woman was well along in life. A natural life that was, in the famous formula of Thomas Hobbes, nasty, brutish, and short.
Little different, Carter thought, from the life led by La Brea Man, who’d stretched out a poor, solitary hand to him from the depths of Pit 91.
“I’m getting kind of cold down here,” Miranda said, with a visible shiver.
And Carter nodded; she wasn’t reacting to the temperature alone, he knew. He put the specimens away and said, “Let’s go back up into the sunlight, shall we?”
Miranda nodded eagerly and clung like a puppy to Carter’s side until they were once again in the atrium garden, with nothing but blue sky and palm fronds overhead.
CHAPTER NINE
TURNlNG UP THE long private drive to Summit View, Beth’s heart lifted; in just a few minutes, she knew, she was going to have her baby, Joey, in her arms again.
When she’d taken the job at the Getty, she’d made it clear that she could not work a full weekly schedule, that she expected to have a lot of flexibility and to be able, once or twice a week, to work from home. But so far it hadn’t worked out that way. Mrs. Cabot expected her to be at the Getty Center nearly all the time, and whenever Beth was plainly not there—when she had to field a call from her house, for example—Mrs. Cabot sounded distinctly displeased about it.
And now, with the al-Kalli project under her supervision, Beth suspected things were only going to get worse.
To her surprise, Beth actually saw three people on her way up to the house. True, two of them were security personnel, but the third—a woman in a tracksuit and headphones—actually looked like she lived in one of the expensive, cookie-cutter houses that lined the broad streets of the development.
Beth parked her Volvo in the short driveway, next to the nanny’s Scion; the bumper stickers, which she’d never noticed before, said WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER and OIL EQUALS BLOOD. Who said young people weren’t getting involved anymore?
On the way in, she also noticed, of all things, a cereal bowl resting on the grass not far from the front door. What, she wondered, was that doing there?
“Robin?” she called out, but she got no answer. “Robin?” A warm breeze, blowing from the rear of the house, beckoned her out back.
The French doors on the ground level were open to a small patch of now desiccated lawn; the drought restrictions made watering your grass a capital offense. Robin was on a beach towel, reading a magazine, and Joey was happily bouncing in his red and yellow playpen. He positively chirped when he saw his mother.
“Oh, hi,” Robin said, putting down the magazine. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“And how’s my little angel?” Beth said, reaching down to pick up Joey. She nuzzled her cheek against his, marveling all over again at the smoothness, the perfection, of his little face. She knew all new mothers thought their own babies were the cutest in the world, but in her case she felt the empirical evidence was there; this was the cutest baby in all the world, with perfectly sculpted features, delicate blond ringlets, and eyes . . . eyes that seemed somehow wise, as if they were taking in everything at one glance.
“How’s he been today?” Beth asked, expecting—and getting—the usual answer.
“Good as gold.”
“Did I see a cereal bowl near the front door?”
Robin chuckled, and said, “You did. We’ve had a visitor the past few days.”
Holding the baby in her arms, Beth waited for more.
“I hope you don’t mind, but he looks so pathetic. A big yellow dog, mostly Lab I’d say, who kind of hangs around. It was so hot, I put out a bowl of water for him.”
“Is he a stray?”
“Yes, I didn’t see any collar on him.”
Beth was torn—she loved animals, but she wasn’t so sure she liked the idea of a stray dog hanging around the house where she had to leave Joey all day.
Robin, guessing what Beth was thinking, said, “He’s friendly—kind of skittish, but friendly. And I never let him get anywhere near the baby.”
Beth knew Robin would act responsibly; she might be young—twenty, and just out of community college—but she was a nice kid, and a real find. Already Beth had heard enough nanny horror stories to last her a lifetime.
“Are you in a rush?” Beth asked, “or could you hang around while I take a quick bath?”
“No problema,” Robin said, taking up her magazine again—now Beth could see it was In Touch Weekly—“it’s nice to see the sunsets from here.”
Beth had to agree—the houses here were built along a ridge, facing the Santa Monica Mountains. From the tiny backyards, you had a staggering view out over the canyon, toward the looming, chaparral-covered mountainsides, and the sun setting behind them.
Beth put Joey back in his playpen and went upstairs. She started filling the tub, but not with hot water. The temperatures in L.A. had been running in the low nineties, and nothing would feel better than something cool and cleansing and refreshing. When she got in, she felt as if she were shedding everything from the hot, gritty city to the pressures at work.
She could hear her cell phone ringing on the bed. She’d pick up the message—probably from Carter—when she got out. She hoped he’d say he was bringing home some food. One of the things she found so strange about living up here, especially after so many years in New York City, was how removed it was from every
thing. There were no delis, no dry cleaners, no pizza parlors, no newsstands. You couldn’t just walk out your front door and get something. You either had to get it delivered or you had to drive way back down to Sepulveda, and from there head back toward Brentwood or down to the Valley. It meant you had to sort of organize your time and errands; when you were out, you had to remember everything from the post office to the pharmacy, because once you got back home again, it was too late. Once you were home, in the quiet confines of Summit View, you were just plain home.
Like most things in life, Beth reflected, Summit View had its good points—this tub alone was twice the size as the one in New York—and its bad—she missed having neighbors she knew and liked.
She put on a sky blue silk robe—her first Mother’s Day gift from Carter—and picked up her message. It was indeed Carter, and he was calling, God bless him, from Dynasty Chinese, where he’d just picked up some dinner. How’d she get so lucky?
She went back downstairs in bare feet. And though she’d always thought wall-to-wall carpeting was kind of tacky, now that she had it, she had to admit that it sure felt good under your feet. Carter was just coming through the door, white plastic bags in hand.
“You get my message?” he said.
“I did.” She kissed him hello. “Robin’s in back with Joey. I’ll go and tell her she’s released from her bondage.”
“Say, did I see a bowl on the lawn?” he asked as he took the bags into the kitchen.
“I’ll explain later,” Beth called.
They ate in the breakfast nook, with Joey propped up on the window seat, a cushion or two keeping him from rolling off. Carter had picked up her favorite—shrimp with glazed walnuts—and a couple of other things just to lend some variety to the feast. Over a glass of cold white wine, she told him about the stray dog, and he told her about exhuming the La Brea Woman’s bones from their drawer in the museum. He also told her that he’d used the occasion to teach Miranda Adams something about doing anthropological work.
“Uh-huh,” she said, “isn’t this Miranda kind of a babe?”
Carter knew he had unthinkingly sailed into treacherous waters. “Some men might think so.”
“Some men?”
“Okay,” he conceded, “men with eyes.”
She tossed the uneaten half of her fortune cookie at him. The fortune was still inside.
Carter unfolded it and read it aloud:“‘Patience is a virtue worth waiting for.’”
“What’s yours?”
He unwrapped another cookie, read it, then paused.
Beth had her feet propped up on his thigh and said, “So?” She wriggled her toes. “What’s it say?”
“It says, ‘Fear is your friend—learn from it.’”
“Whoa,” she said, with a laugh, “that’s pretty heavy for a fortune cookie.”
“You’re telling me,” Carter replied, oddly discomfited by it. “Maybe I should complain to the management.” He couldn’t help but think of the skeletal hand, reaching up from the pit. What was he meant to learn from that, he wondered?
The sun had gone down behind the mountains, and they turned on the lights to clean up and do the dishes. Beth carried Joey up to the nursery—he seemed pooped, and felt like a sack of potatoes in her arms—while Carter got undressed and took a shower. When he came out, looking dashing as ever in a pair of boxers and a T. rex T-shirt (Beth had never guessed one person—much less a grown man—could own so many dinosaur-themed clothes), Beth was already turning out her bedside light.
“Not so fast,” Carter said, plopping himself on the bed beside her. “You’re not planning on going to sleep so soon, are you?”
Beth could hear the hopeful note in his voice, and much as she wanted to keep him happy, the fatigue was washing over her like a tide. “I’d like to, you know that, honey . . .”
She heard the drawer of Carter’s bedside table open, and she knew what he was taking out. Carter drew the sheet down off her body—it was too hot these days to sleep under anything more—and then he was removing her nightie. Beth didn’t fight it, in fact she tried to cooperate, but her limbs felt like lead, and she wished she hadn’t had that wine with dinner.
There was a splooshing sound as he squirted the lotion into his hands, then rubbed them together to warm it up. “Roll over on your belly,” he said.
That much she could do. She rolled over in the dark, and felt Carter’s hands rest gently on her shoulders. She could smell the sandalwood scent of the body lotion. And then she felt his hands moving, first in small circles on her shoulder. Then in widening circles. It felt wonderful . . . too wonderful in a way. If she wasn’t careful, she could drift off into unconsciousness. And she knew that was not what Carter was aiming at.
“How’s that feel?” Carter asked, kneeling now with one long leg on either side of her.
“Good,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Very . . . good.”
His hands moved lower, down her back. Then out to her sides. He was being very gentle, very solicitous. Beth thought, I’ve got to stay awake. I’ve got to get with it. His hands moved lower, caressing her waist, and then below.
He moved down the bed, and adjusted his weight above her. The mattress squished down, then up again. She sensed, without even having to look up, that he’d somehow managed to get his T-shirt and shorts off.
Wake up, she told herself.
He was lying beside her, his hands still moving on her body. He was aroused, too—she could feel him nudging her hip, anxiously. Damp already.
But something in her was still failing to click. Ever since the baby, she’d been slow to arousal, and quick to sleep. Maybe it was the pressure of everything, from having a baby to moving to L.A., from the new house to the new job. He slipped one hand between her legs, parting them.
She was still dry, and knew it. He’d know, too, in another second.
“Do you not want to do this?” he said, his voice husky. He was trying to sound okay with that, but she knew he wasn’t.
“It’s just that I’m so tired.”
He moved his fingers against her, in one last-ditch attempt. And Beth willed herself to squeeze down against them, to rub herself on his fingertips. He licked them, and tried again.
He was kneeling now between her legs. Lifting her hips.
Her hair hung down in her eyes, her face pressed down against the pillows. She spread her knees.
He reached past her, grabbed the pillows, and pushed them under her. She let her belly rest on the cool, smooth cloth.
His hands gripping her, holding her in place, he pressed himself against her from behind, first probingly, then hard. But she was still dry, and she could tell it must be chafing him as much as it did her.
“Should I get some . . . lubricant?” he said in a strained voice.
“No,” she said, arching her back, “just go on.”
“You sure?”
She didn’t answer, just nodded her head.
And he pushed harder—slowly, then deep. He was in, but to Beth it still felt rough and tight. She wasn’t really ready, she wasn’t really receptive.
He pushed again, even deeper, and it felt—to both of them now—like every centimeter was a battle.
“Can I . . . ?”
“Yes,” she said, “yes . . .”
She knew his rhythms, she knew what he was asking. And where she used to want him to wait, to wait as long as possible—and he was good at that, very good—right now all she wanted was for him to finish.
And she knew he knew that.
His hands clenched her hips, and he pulled her back against him. She moved her knees as wide as she could. He moved into her, then out, then in again, several times. Faster. Suddenly, he groaned, and grew very still, arched, immobile, against her hot skin. She, too, stayed still, waiting for him to subside. A few moments later, he bent forward, resting his head between her shoulder blades. She could feel his breath, ragged, on the nape of her neck. She let her knees, starting to ache no
w, come together.
Carter rolled off of her and onto his back, one hand resting flat on his chest.
Beth moved the pillows out of the way, and lay on her side, facing him.
His eyes were closed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just—”
“It’s okay,” he said, his eyes still shut.
“No, it’s not, I—”
“Beth,” he said, “it’s alright. I shouldn’t have pushed it.”
She moved closer to him, and he draped one arm around her head and shoulder. She did love the smell of him. Now if only she could get that . . . feeling back.
She wanted to tell him that, she wanted to explain, and make it up to him somehow, but before she was really aware of it, before she was able to utter another word, she was fast asleep.
And Carter could tell—her breathing went suddenly low and steady. Her lips were slightly parted against the pillowcase.
He lay on his back, in the dark, thinking. While, most of the time, sex left him nicely drowsy, it wasn’t having that effect tonight.
He knew that new mothers often had some trouble getting back into the groove; he’d read the articles, he knew about the bonding process she was going through with Joey. He would have liked to have the old Beth back—their sex life had always been vigorous, to say the least—but he understood that he was going to have to give it some more time. No, that wasn’t really the reason his mind was still churning.
What was keeping him awake was everything else—Pit 91, the La Brea Woman, Gunderson’s publicity plans. He wanted to turn it all off, but the longer he lay there, the more his mind continued to go over it all. He envied Beth the deep, untroubled sleep she seemed to be enjoying. There was no way, he knew, that he was going to get there himself, not this early. Without waking her, he moved her head away from his shoulder, brushed the long dark hair away from her lips, and got out of bed. He put on some jeans, the T. rex T-shirt, and his rubber thongs, and went across the hall to check on Joey.
The moonlight was coming through the blinds, but even without that, he would have known Joey was awake. Not that he was making any noise; he seldom did that. But as Carter leaned over the edge of the crib, he could see that Joey’s eyes—a kind of gray blue—were open, as if he’d been simply waiting for his dad to come in. It was nearly always like this, and Carter often wondered if that was the way babies were—were they such finely tuned instruments that they woke up the minute anyone got near them? Never having had one before, he had no means of comparison.
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