No Footprints

by Susan Dunlap

  Many, of course, and most of them not good. If I were wont to worry about Declan Serrano, I’d be worrying.

  The law of karma is never broken.

  Actions have consequences, as I discovered after sitting morning zazen in the zendo the next day, then slipping back into bed. I’d left my cell turned off. But killing your phone is electronic deferred maintenance, deferred not so long as I’d’ve liked since Jed Elliot had the landline number.

  I picked it up on the fourth ring. "Good morning!” I’d learned the trick of sounding alert and chipper while still half asleep.

  "I left you three messages!”

  "Oh shit, my phone . . .” Everyone’s had cell phone problems. They don’t want to know yours.

  "Time’s changed. We’ve got the Berkeley pier from nine on. Mac’ll be knocking on your door at eight-thirty.”

  "Not a problem.” How had I left things with the unreliable Mr. Dale? I couldn’t remember exactly, but I was eager to get the truth from him about his involvement with Varine Adamé.

  What time was it? Almost eight already? I checked messages. Besides the three from Jed there was just one: from Adamé: "She’s here! She’s okay! I knew you’d want to know. She’s still asleep now, and . . . I’m sure you understand. So, give us a couple days alone. After that we want to take you to dinner—dinner anywhere you choose. I’ll be in touch.”

  Call you later! That was it?

  No way! I punched in his number now. There were questions I needed answered—this minute! Of course, I got his machine.

  I considered calling Declan Serrano, but if Varine Adamé was, in fact, at home, there’d be nothing more he could tell me. In any case, there was no time. I did a speed shower, threw on "standard stuntwear”: black pants with give, cotton, not synthetic, in case the gag goes bad and there’s fire, and a high-neck black shirt with a zipper in case I ended up not needing one that warm.

  After the last tension-crammed days it’d be good to have one straightforward one filled with no more than normal problems, ones I could easily handle.

  I hoisted my deal-with-any-emergency work bag and headed to the corner for espresso and Renzo’s morning bun with what he called his "special sauce.” It was not only special to him, but special to each day. Today the crisp layers of the bun were filled with a thick pineapple paste spiced with the tiniest hit of chili. For a moment nothing else existed but the hot tangy taste. I took a sip of the coffee—a double. Per Renzo, the only reason for a single espresso was to remind you you should have had a double.

  A man and two women hurried in and grabbed the table nearest the counter and, with it, Renzo’s attention.

  I sat, sipped, pondered Varine Adamé, and it struck me how different my feelings were for the woman I’d saved, now that I thought of her as Varine, rather than Tessa. Not that I knew either one of them! Both illusions, just one that I liked better. I’d been caught by "Tessa” and her "I did one decent thing and now you’ve ruined it.” But as Varine, what would that one decent thing be? She was a rich woman—her problem was being asked to do too many decent things. She wouldn’t have to pay with her life.

  And yet what happened on the bridge happened.

  One decent thing?

  A horn blew insistently. Of course it was Macomber Dale.

  31

  "Empty!” The mouse hole, he meant. Macomber Dale stalked to the old Civic I’d parked in front of the zendo. "What was I supposed to do?” he demanded.

  "What you did—call Jed.” Why was he making such a crisis of it? Why had he even gone there? Had Jed . . .

  "I was going to leave my car there, in the garage—”

  "It’s safer by the zendo, believe me. Anyone can jiggle that decrepit lock and walk right in. It’s protected by its shabbiness, but only barely.”

  He unlocked the car and I had to scramble to get in before he was away from the curb. The guy’d been twitchy yesterday, but now he was like one of those particles in a science video springing all over its atom. His hands were shifting on the wheel, his knees nearly knocking. It clearly was not the moment to start in on his Varine connection, but it took a superhuman effort not to barrage him with questions about it. And, whose version of the encounter with Aaron Adamé could I trust? The main thing, though, was that I had to put the production first right now. Faster! was my ticket upward, so I resigned myself to going slower on all matters Adamé.

  How had Dale ever gotten Jed to trust him with our vehicle before the shoot? In the script sequence, the shot we were setting up didn’t directly follow the last scene with the car, so if Dale managed to scrape a fender it wouldn’t be a continuity crisis. But anything more major would. The problem with junkers—another problem—is the older the car the more individual it becomes with its fading paint, ripped seat covers, mirrors jutting at angles of their own, and of course those scrapes and dents. It’d be easier to reshoot scenes than to hunt up a duplicate and poke and scrape it till it matched.

  "Mac, how come Jed let you take this car?”

  He looked sheepish.

  Oh shit!

  All five lanes of the Bay Bridge were jammed. Mac jerked from one sluggish line of cars to another.

  I could’ve called Jed and said . . . what? I’d just assumed . . . and now here I was paying the price.

  Mac was watching me, waiting for me to say something. The man was barely even looking at the traffic on this five-lane weave of speeding vehicles!

  I had plenty of scores to settle with him, but the middle of the freeway was not the place. I waited a minute, pulled out my phone, and called my answering service.

  One message: My agent needed more résumé packets. With an updated video.

  I redialed Adamé. If I was going to die on this bridge I wanted answers from Varine about her contract with Mac.

  But they—no fools—didn’t answer.

  I called Declan Serrano’s cell. No answer.

  Next, I tried Byron’s number. Nothing there either.

  By the time we got off the bridge I was every bit as frustrated as he. Three major freeways looped around and into each other. Traffic was all but stopped. We were an inch behind the car in front, with Dale playing the clutch against the gas. All the emotion of the last two days began to pour forth as I watched the guy chance wrecking our car and screwing up the shoot.

  "This the way you handled Var—”

  "Your guru—”

  What? "My teacher? Leo?” Where’d that come from?

  "Whatever.” Now I’ve got your attention, his smug expression said.

  Had he gone to Leo to confess? Zen priests aren’t like Catholics; they don’t absolve sins. But no reason he’d know that. "Leo?”

  "He was carrying on about karma. I mean, like, mine’s bad.”

  Bad karma, the flag term of the pop Zen world! Few concepts have been as distorted as karma. Still, if bad karma existed in the way Mac thought, who could be more deserving? "Bad karma? How’d he put that?” This was going to be interesting.

  "Your teacher. He was going on about consequences.”

  "Actions have consequences?” How many times did I have to be reminded of that today? If Leo’d been talking to me he would have said that every action or inaction has consequences because all things are interconnected. Karma is the weave of life. But talking to Mac . . . ?

  "Yeah, consequences.” He was now eyeing the left lane where cars were moving.

  "We get off at University, up ahead.”

  "Right.” He shot over.

  "What consequences?”

  "He said if I’d thought before . . . But then he said before was gone. Only it’s not exactly how... ”

  "The past is gone, the future illusion.”

  "Yeah, and something about a tangled web—”

  All my ancient tangled karma from beginningless greed, hate, and delusion, I now fully avow. I knew the traditional chant of repentance, but what did that have to do with—

  "Tangled with the stuff that happened before?�
�� he demanded. "The mistakes I made?”

  "Mistakes? With Varine Adamé?” Mistakes about our funding?

  He cut right, managing to swing into the next lane and the next. Behind, brakes screeched. University Avenue exit’s tricky; there’s no easy way to get over the freeway. I could have helped him, but I didn’t.

  I said, "The contract you made—”

  "Contracts are paper.” He hung a U and headed back across the freeway. On the top of the overpass he slowed, looking ahead at the wooded roadway, the bay, San Francisco beyond. "It’s the economy,” he added, as if that explained everything. "Bad.”

  Oh shit! "How bad?”

  "Total bad. Took a beating in the market . . . serious beating. Treading water . . . maybe. You wait for the turnaround but, sometimes, dead is dead.”

  "So, just how bad?”

  He said nothing. Which said everything.

  "What about the Adamés? They guaranteed—”

  "Not going to happen.”

  "But didn’t they sign—does Jed know?”

  "Doubt it.”

  "The director, the other producers? Didn’t you tell anyone?” I couldn’t believe it! How could he—"We haven’t been shooting that long! You must’ve known things were shaky. How come—”

  "It’s not hard to convince people your money’s good.”

  I’d meant how come you didn’t warn a single person!

  We were on filled land now, here in the Berkeley Marina. The roadway was like waves. He hit every crest, nearly sending me into the roof each time.

  I’d collar Jed as soon as we got to the site. He’d be on the horn pronto. Would we even do a set-up today? Was there any point? Only if the other backers could absorb this. If we blew off this shoot, even if we got the spot again a month or two from now, how much of a continuity problem would we end up with? How many actors would have other gigs? And the director, the crews? It was a nightmare.

  "Hey,” he protested, "I haven’t done anything so terrible. What’s the worst that can happen, people don’t get to go to a big dark room, slobber down popcorn, and stare at a screen for a couple hours? It’s not like—”

  "Not like what? Not like people make movies? Not like people lose their jobs? Like vendors we contract with getting stiffed? Not like us losing cred with the city? So you were just playing us!”

  "No! I wanted to be a movie producer! I wanted things to work out for once. And I thought they would this time.” He sneaked a glance at me. "Things happen. Like upswings. Why not now?”

  "But they didn’t happen, did they? How long’ve you known?”

  "I don’t know now. Look, if I could have pulled this out of the fire, I would. If I could get out I would. You don’t know what it’s like always being the screw-up!”

  I didn’t have time for his emotional baggage. "Look, Varine Adamé gave you a guarantee—”

  "She didn’t give me anything! We had a deal and now she’s not paying. She hired me—”

  "To do what?”

  "Hassle the cop.”

  "Oh, right!” I said in full sarcasm. "Listen, I’m asking you—” But, he wasn’t listening at all.

  "She used me. Don’t you get it—no more money!”

  "There’s Jed. Pull over. We’ll talk about this on the sidewalk!”

  "Look, I—”

  "Stop the fucking car!”

  But he didn’t. He hit the gas.

  32

  "Are you out of your mind?” I screamed as he shot through the intersection. "Pull over here!” I jabbed a finger toward our lighting truck on the side of the road.

  Ignoring me, he whipped past it, past the bait and tackle shop, past the exit from the parking lot beside it. The rest of University Avenue was blocked off for our set-up. Mac shot around the detour sign pointing outsiders through the parking lot.

  "Slow down! We’ve got crew here! They’re not even thinking 'street.’ They’re thinking 'set.’”

  "Fuck ’em!”

  "Get a grip! They’re people you know!”

  He stared ahead, jaw jutting, hands clenched on the wheel. Gravel shot from beneath the tires. I eyeballed the terrain—macadam broken, tree roots erupting, underbrush composed of God knew what. Not a clear place to chance a dive.

  And there was the car. We needed the car. He was driving crazy, but he wasn’t losing control. The best thing I could do was wait him out. I braced my feet and brought my arm in close, ready to shield my head or catch the dashboard.

  Jed Elliot burst from behind the camera cart, waving his arms.

  Mac surged by him. We were next to the grassy divider. Thirty yards ahead was the other roadblock, which marked the border of our set. Beyond that was Seawall Drive.

  Beyond that, the bay.

  Either he’d have to turn right, or loop around the divider and head back to the freeway. My guess was he’d take the right, down Seawall, unaware it was a dead end. With luck someone had called the cops and he’d be stopped before he could do a three point and raise hell all the way back to the freeway. I wasn’t worried . . .

  . . . much.

  But I was checking him out. No seat belt. Of course! But also no way I could reach over, open his door, and shove him out. No, my best hope—

  "What are you doing?” I shouted.

  He’d rammed through—not around but through—the marker horse and was shooting across Seawall. Onlookers leapt back. A few screamed. On the edge of the road, the car hung for an instant, its wheels caught on the curb, then headed down the steep incline. As if exhaling out of its balk, it whipped down the walkway toward the pier.

  The pier! Not the pier! "Turn left! Now!”

  A tall man was bending over a woman. Now they were screaming; we missed them by inches. To our left people were running behind the huge sundial, scrambling up on it. I needed to grab the wheel, regardless—

  But I couldn’t, not here.

  "Don’t—”

  But he did. He skirted the sundial, seeming like he was about to do the sensible thing and veer back up onto the road. At the last moment he hung a sharp right onto the pier.

  He was headed straight toward the storage building.

  "Stop! It’s a car killer!”

  "What?”

  No need to explain, he’d already yanked the wheel and cut around the little cement structure.

  "You can’t drive on here!” I yelled. "The pier’s falling apart. The boards are rotten.”

  "Rotten, huh?”

  The pier was two cars wide—two old cars. Mac flew down the middle. Pedestrians slammed their backs into the railing. A bald guy with a pail beside him dropped his fishing rod into the water. The pier looked like it went on forever, weathered and narrowing till it disappeared into the bay. Ahead wind snapped strands of a woman’s long black hair in her open mouth—she was screaming, too.

  There was a surreal feel to the whole thing. No point in demanding, threatening, cajoling. There was nothing for me to do, but wait till Mac spotted the reinforced railing at the end, slowed to a stop, and started making the seventeen-point turn it’d take to turn around.

  Suddenly the end was in front: eight feet tall, thick cross beams, the kind of barrier meant to take on a speeding car.

  "Stop! You’re going to get us killed! Stop, now!”

  He did. He slammed down on the pedal. Brakes screeched, the car rattled, gave one bounce and stopped. Jed Elliot was fussy about the brakes on his stunt cars.

  "Get out!” he yelled.

  We’d been outdriving my fury, but now it caught up with me full force. I was so angry I couldn’t manage words. I snapped off the belt, jumped out, and slammed the door so hard it bounced back open and I had to slam it again. Then I started back toward shore at a trot. He’d nearly wrecked the car; he could handle turning it around without my help.

  One thing was for sure—if he’d been worried about Jed exploding when he told him he didn’t have the money, that wasn’t going to happen. By the time Jed finished yelling about this caper
with the car he’d be too deflated to explode. Then, the problem of finding new backing and renegotiating contracts and permits, and all the other hassles, would be worth it for the relief of never again setting eyes on Macomber Dale.

  The pier was so long I had a half mile to cover as I headed in. The wind whipped my hair around me, fueling my outrage. And it was cold, a good ten degrees colder than I was dressed for. I had more clothes, but they were in my bag in the car. That made me angrier yet. I lengthened my stride and picked up my pace.

  Behind me I heard the engine start.

  I didn’t turn around.

  Gears ground.

  No need for that. It was just going to make turning around harder. But I’d be damned if I’d point that out.

  Wheels squealed.

  He was backing up. Toward me.

  I slammed into the railing and turned.

  The car screeched to a stop five yards away.

  What the hell was he up to?

  He hit the gas; the car shot forward. For a moment I thought he’d slam into the barrier at the end of the pier.

  I was wrong. He veered left and shot through the railing into the bay.

  33

  The car shot off the pier, pancaking on the water fifteen feet beyond. Waves of mud spewed up from the bottom like brown daisy petals around it as it sank. It seemed to hover there on the water way longer than the laws of physics should have allowed.

  I ran to the broken railing, waiting, expecting, to see the driver’s door open and Macomber Dale pop up. There was time for that. The car was still sitting on the water. But the door didn’t budge. Okay, then the window would open. I waited and watched. The car was old; the windows were manual. They were big enough for him to slip through. He could push off the seat, shoot up, and . . .

  But he didn’t. The car shimmied as if it weren’t in the water at all but merely on a wet patch. It was still upright, hadn’t flipped from the trajectory and the force of impact.

  Any second the water would curl around it, suck it in, swallow it.

  But not yet.

  Time didn’t move; it spread wide like the bay water. Time with no time line. The car was suspended in the static now. Like now had frozen time and Mac and the car and me all in it.