"Hike?"
"Back when he was living at home and stayed out all night, he'd sometimes come home with mud on his shoes, looking pretty dusty. At least one time I'm sure he was out camping. This was maybe a year ago, when he was home taking care of Mom. Our rooms are next to each other, and when he came in I woke up, went to see what was going on. He was folding up this nylon tent, had this backpack, bag of potato chips and candy, pepperoni sticks, whatever. I said, 'What's all this, some kind of loner-loser picnic?' He got angry and kicked me out of his room. So maybe that's what he did last night— went out hiking. There are lots of nice places around Palo Alto. Maybe he just wanted to get away from the city lights so he could look up at the stars. He used to love astronomy, had his own telescope, all these expensive filters, the works."
I heard her breath catch.
"What is it, Stacy?"
"I was just thinking . . . We had a dog, this yellow mutt named Helen that we got from the pound. Eric would take her with him on long walks, then she got old and lost the use of her legs and he built her a little wagon thingie and pulled her around— pretty funny-looking, but he took it seriously. She died— a year before Mom. Eric stayed out all night with her. That's got to be what happened. When I asked him about it, he said he did his best thinking late at night, up in the mountains. So that's probably it, he's a little stressed, decided to try that. As far as the test, he probably figured he could talk his professor into a makeup— Eric can talk his way into anything."
"Why's he stressed?"
"I don't know." Long silence. "Okay, to be honest, Eric's having a real hard time. With Mom. He had a terrible time with it right from the beginning. Took it much worse than I did. Bet that's not what my father told you, though. Right?"
My son deals with his anger by organizing. . . . I think it's a great way of handling stress. . . . Get in touch with how you feel, then move on.
"We didn't discuss Eric in detail," I said.
"But I know," she said. "Dad thinks I'm the screwed-up one. Because I get low, while Eric does a great job of looking okay on the surface— keeping up his grades, staying achievement-oriented, saying the right things to my father. But I can see through that. He's the one who took it really hard. By the time my mother died, I'd already done my years of crying, but Eric kept trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Saying she'd get better. Sitting with Mom, playing cards with her. Acting happy, like nothing was any big deal. Like she just had a cold. I don't think he ever dealt with it. Maybe hearing about Dr. Mate brought the memories back."
"Did Eric talk about Mate?"
"No. We haven't talked at all, not for weeks. Sometimes he e-mails me, but I haven't heard from him in a while. . . . One time— toward the end of my mother's . . . a few days before she died, Eric came into my room and found me crying, asked what was the matter. I said I was sad about Mom and he just lost it, started screaming that I was stupid, a wimp and a loser, that falling apart would accomplish nothing, I shouldn't be so selfish, thinking about my own feelings— wallowing in my feelings was the phrase he used. It was Mom's feelings I should be concentrating on. We all needed to be positive. To never give up."
"He was tough on you," I said.
"No big deal. He yells at me all the time, that's his style. Basically, he's this big huge brain machine with the emotions of a little kid. So maybe he's having some sort of delayed reaction, doing what he used to do when he got uptight. Do you think I should be worried about him?"
"No, but I think you did exactly the right thing by calling your father."
"Walking in on that detective . . . Guess what my father did? Chartered a plane and flew up to Palo Alto. He looked worried. And that bothers me."
"He doesn't get worried too often?"
"Never. He says anxiety is the province of fools."
I thought: The lack of anxiety is the province of psychopaths. Said, "So you're alone in the house."
"Just for a couple of days. I'm used to it, my father travels all the time. And Gisella— the maid— comes every day."
The phone cut in and out during the last sentence.
"Where are you, Stacy?"
"At the beach, some big parking lot on PCH. I must have driven here from Dad's office." She laughed. "Don't even remember. That's weird."
"Which beach?" I said.
"Um, let's see . . . There's a sign over there, says . . . Topanga . . . Topanga Beach. Kind of pretty out here, Dr. Delaware. Plenty of traffic on the highway, but no one on the sand— except for one guy walking around near the tide line . . . seems to be looking for something . . . he's holding some kind of a machine . . . looks like a metal detector . . . I know this place, you can see it from Dad's office."
Her voice had softened, turned dreamy.
"Stay right there, Stacy. I can be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes."
"There's no need," she said. It sounded like a policy statement.
"Humor me, Stacy."
Silence. Crackle. For a moment I thought I'd lost her. Then: "Sure. Why not? Got nowhere else to go."
• • •
I drove too fast, thinking about Eric. A brilliant, impetuous loner, used to getting his way. The one person who seemed able to elude Richard's dominance. Working hard at maintaining control, but powerless over what had mattered most: his mother's survival.
Close to his father, and his father despised Mate, expressed his hatred openly.
Eric. A hiker who disappeared when he wanted to, liked the mountains, knew the terrain. Dark, hidden places, like the dirt road stretch of Mulholland.
Impetuous enough to get violent? Smart enough to clean up thoroughly?
How far had filial devotion taken him?
After Joanne's death, Richard had tried to contact Mate, but the death doctor hadn't called back. Had Joanne warned Mate about Richard? Knowing Richard would fight her decision— that's why she'd kept it from him. From her children, as well.
But what if Mate had answered a call from Eric?
Poor, distraught kid wanting to talk about his mother's final passage. Had there been enough of the physician left in Mate to respond to a cry for help?
Dark BMW parked down the road.
Borrowing Daddy's car . . .
I kept racing west on Sunset, turning it over and over. Pure speculation, I'd never breathe a word to Milo or anyone else, but there was nothing that didn't fit.
A red light at Mandeville Canyon stopped the Seville, but my mind kept revving.
Stacy had offered a sibling's eloquence: a big brain machine combined with emotional immaturity.
Combined with boiling, adolescent rage. Perfect for the meld of compulsive planning and reckless daring that had transformed the brown van into a charnel house on wheels.
Broken stethoscope . . . Beowulf. Happy Traveling, You Sick Bastard.
Slaying the monster, as if it were just another myth— just another video game.
There was an adolescent feel to the phony book. To sneaking into Mate's flat and leaving a note. The message itself. Primitive gamesmanship, but backed up by an intellect that was starting to scare the hell out of me.
Where had Eric been last Sunday? The trip from Stanford to L.A. was no big deal, shuttles from San Francisco ran all day. Easy enough for a college student with a credit card. Do your business, jet back to school, show up for class as if nothing had happened.
But now the perfect student had missed a test for the first time. Unable to run from what he'd done? Or had some other stress worked apart the fissures that had spidered their way across the perfect porcelain image of the Doss family?
Richard jetting up to Stanford, leaving Stacy alone, sitting at the beach, oblivious . . . I sensed she'd always been alone. Squeakless wheel not getting any grease.
A car horn honked. The light had turned green but I'd sat there— obliviousness was contagious.
I shot forward, warning myself not to get caught up in it. Not good for the soul, all this hypothesizing. Besides, Milo
had other suspects.
Roy Haiselden. Donny Mate.
Richard Doss.
None of the above? None of my business. Time to concentrate on what the state said I was qualified to do.
• • •
Stacy was easy to spot. Little white Mustang coupe facing the water, one of the few cars stationed in the city lot that paralleled the beach. Low tide, miles of beige kissing Wedgwood-blue water, all of it topped by the same clear sky as inland. The ocean was pretty but roiling. As I hooked across the highway and pulled onto the asphalt beside her, I saw the man with the metal detector, a hundred feet past Stacy's car, knees bent, hunched over a find.
Stacy's windows were closed. As I got out of the Seville, the driver's panel rolled down. She glanced at me, both hands on the steering wheel. Her face was thinner than six months ago. Deepened hollows around the cheeks, darkened flesh beneath the eyes, a few more pimples. No makeup. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail, bound by a red rubber band.
"Didn't know doctors still did house calls." Weak smile. "Beach calls. I must have sounded pretty screwed up for you to drive all the way here. I'm sorry."
The man with the metal detector straightened, turned and faced us. As if he could hear our conversation. But of course he couldn't. Too far away and the ocean was roaring.
Before I could answer, Stacy said, "Why'd you come, Dr. Delaware? Especially after I snotted off to you like that."
"I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"You thought I'd do something stupid?"
"No," I said. "You sounded worried about Eric. You're by yourself. If there's some way I can help, I want to."
Her eyes faced forward and her hands whitened around the wheel. "That's . . . very sweet, but I'm fine. . . . No, I'm not. I'm screwed up, aren't I? Even our dog was screwed up."
"Helen."
She nodded. "Two legs that couldn't move, and Eric pulled her around. That's why you drove all the way— you think I'm cracking up."
"No," I said. "I think you've got good insights."
She whipped around, stared at me. Laughed. "Maybe I should be a psychologist, then. Like Becky— not that she'd ever get to be one. Talk is, she's barely passing. That's got to be making Dr. Manitow and the judge real happy. . . ."
"You sound angry at them," I said.
"I do? No, not at all. I'm a little resentful of Becky, turning into a total snob, never even saying hello. Maybe she's getting back at me for Eric. He and Allison Manitow were dating and Eric dumped her . . . but that was a long time ago. . . . Why am I talking about this?"
"Maybe it's on your mind."
"No it's not. Helen is. After I told you about her on the phone, I started thinking about her." Laughter. "She had to be the dumbest mutt ever put on this earth, Dr. Delaware. Thirteen years old and she was never completely housebroken. When you gave her a command, she just sat there and stared at you with her tongue hanging out. Eric called her the Ultimate Canine Moron Alien from the Vortex of Idiocy. She used to jump on him and paw him and lick him and he'd say, Get a brain, bitch. But he ended up feeding her, walking her, cleaning up her poop. 'Cause Dad was too busy and Mom was too passive. . . . That stupid little wagon he rigged up, it kept her alive. My father wanted to put her to sleep, but Eric wouldn't hear of it. Eventually, even with the wagon, she started failing. Toward the end, he was carrying her outside to poop, cursing the whole time. Then one night, he took her with him on one of his overnights. She looked awful— rotting gums, her hair was falling out in clumps. Even so, when Eric wheeled her out she looked thrilled— like, Oh boy, another adventure. They were out all night. The next morning Eric came home by himself."
She turned to me. "No one talked about it. A few weeks later, Mom died."
Her fingers snapped away from the steering wheel, as if shoved by an unseen demon, flew to her face, grabbing, concealing. She bent forward, touched her brow to the steering wheel. The ponytail bounced, black curls fibrillating. She shook like a wet puppy, and when she cried out the ocean blocked nearly all the sound. The man with the metal detector had moved fifty yards up the beach, back in his own world, hunched, probing.
When I reached through the window and placed a hand on Stacy's shoulder, she shivered, as if repulsed, and I withdrew.
All those years listening to people in pain and I can do it like a pro, but I've never stopped hating it. I stood there and waited as she sobbed and shuddered, voice tightening and rising in pitch until she was letting out the raw keen of a startled gull.
Then she stopped shaking, went silent. Her hands flipped upward, like visors, exposing her face, but she kept her head low, mumbled at the steering wheel.
I bent forward, heard her say, "Disappearing."
"What is?"
She shut her eyes, opened them, turned toward me. Heavy, labored movements.
"What?" she said sleepily.
"What's disappearing, Stacy?"
She gave a casual shrug. "Everything."
I didn't like the sound of her laughter.
• • •
Eventually, I convinced her to get out of the car and we strolled north on the asphalt, following the shoreline, not talking. The man with the metal detector was a pulsating speck.
"Buried treasure," she said. "That guy believes in it. I saw him up close, he's got to be seventy, but he's digging for nickels— Listen, I'm sorry for making you come all the way out here. Sorry for being bratty over the phone. For hassling you because you're working with the cops. You're entitled to do whatever work you want."
"It had to be confusing," I said. "Your father okayed it, but he didn't tell you. If he changed his mind, he didn't tell me."
"I don't know that he did. He was just getting peevy because the cop came to question him and he doesn't like not being in charge."
"Still," I said, "I think it's best that I drop off the—"
"No," she said. "Don't do it on my account. I don't care— it really doesn't matter. Who am I to take away your income?"
"It's no big deal, Stacy—"
"No. I insist. Someone killed that man and we should be doing everything we can to find out who it was."
We.
"For justice," she said. "For society's sake. No matter who he was. People can't get away with that kind of thing."
"How do you feel about Dr. Mate?"
"Don't feel much, one way or the other. Dr. Delaware, all those other times we talked, I was never really honest with you. Never talked about how screwed up our family is. But we are— no one really communicates. It's like we live together— exist together. But we don't . . . connect."
"Since your mother got sick?"
"Even before then. When I was young and she was healthy, we must have had fun together, but I don't remember. I'm not saying she wasn't a good mother. She did all the right things. But I never felt she . . . I don't know, it's hard to express. It's like she was made of air— you couldn't get hold of it. . . . I just can't resolve what she did, Dr. Delaware. My dad and Eric blamed Mate, it was this big topic in our house, what a monster he was. But that's not true, they just can't deal with the truth: it was her decision, wasn't it?"
Turning to me. Wanting a real answer, not therapeutic reflection.
"Ultimately it was," I said.
"Mate was just the vehicle— she could have chosen anyone. She left because she just didn't care enough to keep trying. She made a decision to leave us, without saying good-bye."
Snapping her arms across her bust, she drew her shoulders forward, as if bound by the straps on a straitjacket.
"Of course," she said, "there was the pain, but . . ." She chewed her lip. Shook her head.
"But what?" I said.
"With all that pain, she kept eating— she used to have such a good figure. That was always a big thing in the house— her figure, my father's physique. They both used to wear the skimpiest bathing suits. It was embarrassing. I remember once, the Manitows were over for a swim party and Mom and Dad were in the
pool . . . groping each other. And Dr. Manitow was just staring. Like, how tasteless— I guess that was good, though. Right? The fact that they were attracted to each other. My father would always talk about how they didn't age as quickly as everyone else, they'd always be kids. And then Mom just . . . inflated herself."
She took a step, put her foot down heavily, stopped again, fought back tears. "What's the use of going on and on about it? She did it, it's over, whatever. . . . I have to keep thinking of the good memories, don't I? Because she was a good mother. . . . I know that."
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